Bored to Death

We all have our own cures for irksomeness, this happens to be mine. No flies were harmed in the creation of this piece.

I'm at work and bored, so I:



Rub my eyes.

Bite my nails.

Bite other people's nails.

See how loudly I can sneeze.

Plot to destroy the inventor of horrid radio commercials.

Create my own horrid radio commercials.

Stare at the cute guy across the street.

Fiddle with my hair.

Stare at the cute guy across the street.

Wonder how many heliums balloons it would take to float to Africa.

Calculate how many pairs of shoes I could buy with a million dollars.

Stare at the spot where the cute guy used to be.

Contemplate the fact that I might be a creeper and therefore a frightener of cute guys.

Contemplate the fact that I have nothing to do with my time.

Contemplate the amount of calories in a purple crayon.

Befriend the fly buzzing against the window.

Offer the fly psycho therapy to teach it that a window is not the same as air.

Ponder the flavour of a purple crayon.

Ponder the amount of effort it takes to brush my teeth.

Eat the crayon.

Spit it out.

In a moment of paranoia, decide the fly is not listening to me but mocking me, and savagely slay it by spraying it with windex.

Clean the windows while I'm at it, and then realize I'm doing something productive.

Stop immediately.

Take deep, meditative breaths.

Have deep, meditative conversations with the photocopiers.

Drum my fingers.

Drum other people's fingers.

See how many bones in my body I can crack.

Have a solo dance party to the horrid radio commercial.

Explain to the cute guy from across the street who just walked in that no, I do not have epilepsy, the fly cast a spell on me.

Offer to bite his nails.

When all else fails, shed all clothing and run away.

Boredom vanquished.

Great success.

The End

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