Boredom’s Texture

Blank page so blank. Where do ideas go? Where do they come from? How can I be brimming w/ them in one moment, and then empty in the next? What do you do when you have nothing to do? Being alone with options is quite different than the state w/o options. People are always an option. Sitting with someone is something in a way that sitting alone never can be.

There’s so much time. So much. Hilariously much. How do we ever think there isn’t enough? We schedule our lives so we don’t have to confront that truth. Be alone w/ no options and you are forced to confront it.

Whenever you feel like you have no options, there’s always a lower level to reach, but the level where you are cold, without electricity, and without the ability to anywhere to change those facts is a rather low level indeed.

Suffering is infinitely more bearable when you know the expiration date. 


Here’s an idea you get when killing time w/o traditional weapons: write whatever you think of every hour. Any demarcation of time’s passage is vital, especially if it’s even loosely tied to an activity, to something to do. Is forced writing, when tightly clenched to preserve warmth, “fun”? That’s why I said “loosely.”


Oh the places the mind goes in an hour.

Focus after wandering into an 11-minute Peloton ride.

Paranoia after commandeering the xxxxxxxxx‘s bedroom for reading and being interrupted by It sounds like someone just entered the home.

Elation after discovering there were still some bison burgers, the first real food of the day.

Disappointing after considering how much I’ve been arguing w/ idiots and feeling way too smart in those easy triumphs.

Ted Cruz’s facial hair is bad in the same way a 16-year-old who’s just entered shaving territory: it just doesn’t work on you for a reason I cant full communicate.

I want to light candles b/c that would be something novel to do, but it would also be something stupid to do in wasting a precious resource over boredom.

Birds. Birds. Birrrrrrrds.

How have I not run out of time yet? Did I accidentally pause the timer?


Writing by candlelight.

One lap. One chip. One lap. One chip.

Here’s a new diet: be less bored. I’m becoming convinced that a significant factor in overeating is having minimal opportunity costs. “I forgot to eat,” was only ever uttered by a person with stuff going on

Artificial light must murder our natural sleep cycles. Now bathed in darkness, with nothing but these aforementioned candles (a relatively modern invention in and of itself), I imagine Jesus had a bedtime we condemn rambunctious adolescents to. 


Actually lost track of time. Got into a great writing flow. Easy prompt: treat joke questions w/ the utmost seriousness. I saw a few brief texts during my last phone check of the day and was able to summon some absurdly grand responses based on that prompt concept. Maybe I’ll carry it past this catastrophe. I’m quite motivated to write given that NYTimes article from last nite. So fucking good. No more eating or phone, but I do have a shower to anticipate.


Well, the hot water ain’t pumpin’ no more. That was blow was cushioned by shower expectations with a built-in understanding that such a negative turn may occur given all the negative turns utility-related. Quickly pivoted to, “Nice that I don’t have to take off and put on these clothes again.”

Reading in bed. Unclear if I will be too hot or too cold – a less extreme outcome feels unlikely. 

Actually turned into a decent day. It was filled w/ excessive boredom, but perhaps that’s more natural than I want to believe. Furthermore, perhaps it was a necessary component in the unexpected turn into a “decent” day.


Sat and stared out the window for 30 minutes. The fun factor difference b/w that and texting with friends is Grand Canyon vast.


Josh came. Incredible.