Aw man I am so bored. So fricking bored I'd nearly do anything to alleviate it. Five finger fillet maybe, like Bishop in Aliens? Maybe a midnight swim in the freezing English Channel, with bricks in my pockets? Turn on the telly, catch some Children in Need, watch Tess Daly and Alesha Dixon until my eyeballs bleed and my brain gloops out of my nostrils in total submission? In fact, let's up the anté here, I'd nearly smear myself in Rohypnol and throw myself naked down the darkest alley in Worthing, and as I'm about to pass out from the date rape fumes I'll wedge a "No Parking" sign and a tube of lube into my butt crack to see if anyone gets the joke as they brutalise my bored, disinterested and ungrateful asshole.
So bored.
I tried playing the Xbox, but after 20 minutes of walking round as Batman, trying to find a fucking robot that I needed to examine the head of to open a fucking door (really?) I for some reason grew sick of the sight of his stupid flapping cape and the back of his stupid fucking cowl, listening to his stupid hoofs clodding along the stupid floor and turned it off. I've looked around the otherwise uninhabited flat for some source of ribaldry, but all I've got is a pile of DVD's I've seen before, a rapidly dwindling stash of booze, and a pile of dishes that'll never get touched no matter how bored I am.
Bored.
When I got in from work I powered up the laptop, and opened Facebook, and expecting the wave of Bore even opened the chat thing on it to see if anyone would open a communicae. More fool me. The most boring of all boring things, dressed as 'social' networking, I spent a half hour or so casually glancing at it between the ad breaks of the white-noise I call TV to see if anything would happen. 'Anything' did happen. Maybe it was everything. Or maybe it was just something. Maybe just something of the most benign, tedious and ball-aching shit I've encountered in a while. People sharing photos of their friend's make-up doing thing (whatever that's called, Salon Stuff?), and it's meant to be boutique fashion or something, but looks like a weekend of slappers caked in war paint. Then there's your one who's sharing their photos of that gig they went to, which wouldn't be so bad but they're using that same camera effect that's standard on all smart phones now, the one that gives the picture a vintage, worn look. It's also the same effect they use in all of their fucking photos. Jesus, if you're twenty-odd but want everyone to think you're from the 70's, smoke some crack and find yourself a good old fashioned wife-beater, that'll get you all authentic 'era' looking. Don't even get me started on the whole "If you know someone who's been date-raped down an alley with a road sign in their ass and wouldn't have liked it if they weren't so drugged up, please re-post this" type of chain-letter posts I see all the time. Nothing reeks of individuality more than rehashing a blatantly obvious statement so everyone can see that you agree with the basic principles of civilisation.
I'm not not guilty of my Facebook bore-radge either though, I'm not going all holier-than or anything. I'm bored of seeing my own stupid, boring face on there too. Each photo I get tagged in, I see a further decaying husk of a man, shit photo after shit photo. No, check that, I'm not denigrating the camera work. Shit face after shit face. An old, hairy potato. To some extent I used to be alright looking, apparently, in that I've managed to get laid at some point of my life, but I'm not even 30 and can't be bothered any more. My status updates are getting even worse. Dancing with the malaise of my boredom on the whole matter, I recognise that all I do is post a link to a tune that I've been listening to, and hope that someone in the whole world reacts. A boring, decaying leathery shoe, muttering incoherrent rambles is what I am, but at least I've stopped posting the whines on Facebook, and keep it to this exclusive little piss-post I call a blog.
I think my sphincter just twitched there, so I better let the Facebook rant go, or else there'll be another sympathy chain-mail about my poor, battered, signposted, bored asshole.
Bored.
I suppose I'll wash those dishes then.
