And this I swear

boredom tastes like grits, bland and slow to swallow. boredom is dry as chapped lips, or overcooked turkey. boredom is the low, subtle snore of the refrigerator. boredom is the monotonous tone of airplanes droning in the distance. boredom is the song of faraway trains. boredom is the mindless whistling. boredom is the wining of that fly, circumnavigating your head. boredom is the crunch of animal crackers. boredom is a shroud of drowsiness, stalking you from behind, and the deep, satisfying yawns. boredom is the scrunching of the Times Online a million times. boredom is the smell of old books. boredom is dangling back and forth, on a swing like the predictable path of a pendulum. boredom is the patience of a coffee machine. boredom is the rhythmic murmur, of the laundry machine. boredom is low tide, the perpetual sound of silver needles, splattering against the glass, as you stare out the window with an apathetic focus, and the lethargic clouds, light like low fat butter. boredom is a back-seat car ride, boredom is the idle, sticky air, that clings to you like plastic wrap. boredom is a viscous fog, soaking up the day. boredom is filling a sieve with sand, boredom is the reluctant ticking of the clock, each tick hesitating longer than the one before. tick by tick, grit by grit. each grit of time, crawling down one's throat.

I am sick of Reading. I want to get out of Reading. But, I am fuck broke, in its most literal sense. I need someone to set up the "Theatre Funds" for me. Or rather, I need to date a rich guy.

I want to watch a play with some dramatic capacity. Not a musical. A PLAY. Woman.In.Black.

And my Notes From The Underground hasn't arrived.