Sometimes I don’t feel either way about things. It is boring in those times. Sometimes I am content in the boringness, sometimes I fall asleep because of it.
The moral is, boring stuff is borrring.
But, to quote an imaginary friend of mine, “Boredom is a pleasing antidote to fear”, and as I gaze at the horde of flesh eating zombies crawling and limping toward me, I recognize just how valuable boredom is.
I never really valued boredom when I had it. That one evening, when my parents were watching a documentary on a cartoon rabbit traded for a sports newscaster, and I was sitting at the computer next to a steaming cup of English tea and wishing I had something to do with my life, bored out of my mind, I didn’t appreciate the fact that I wasn’t being chased by bloodthirsty monsters. You should really take the time to appreciate those things, because then the day comes where you can’t just lie on your bed and fall asleep with your ukulele in your arms, because when you wake up you might not have arms anymore, let alone a ukulele.
I appreciate things like that now. Like the short moments in the morning, right after I wake up to the post-apoctalyptic sun, in the few moments where I’m awake enough to think, but still too disoriented to make out the low grumbling sounds of the creatures of death nearby, those are the moments I treasure. I sit in the morning glow of sunlight, and I remember life like it used to be, where one had time to make and drink the perfect cup of coffee, with cream and sugar and purified water flowing from gleaming silver taps.
I miss coffee…and tea…and my ukulele. Well, actually, I don’t miss my ukulele that much because, let’s face it, when will I be in a time and place again where it is safe and sane for me to sit there and start singing “Somewhere over the rainbow” in this day and age? With the hordes of death, and the people scrounging for shelter and weapons, and the tasks of daily life, playing the ukulele would just be very…off.
Anyhow, right now I shouldn’t really be thinking about my ukulele anyway, because this nomadic tribe of monsters isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, except toward me, as I sit in this chair, with duck tape wrapped around me inhibiting my movement immensely. “Why are you taped to a chair?” You ask, well that’s a brilliant question, and I’d be happy to tell you all about it, except right now I kind of have to concentrate on how to wiggle the knife out of my right boot and into my right hand, so that I can free myself from the silver tape wrapped around my upper body. I do, and I am now trying very hard, scratching away at the tape, little shreds of it tearing away, trying to avoid stabbing myself as I wrench the tape off of me. The zombies are beginning to notice me in greater numbers. Instead of vaguely crawling toward me simply because I occupy this moment in space and time directly in front of them, they are crawling with purpose, eyes wide and jaws clacking open and shut in anticipatory delight. You don’t want to imagine what anticipatory delight looks like on the face of a zombie. Let’s just say, I begin trying even harder to escape.
Wouldn’t things be nice if they always turned out the way you wanted them too? Like if my doctor would have just signed that paper and the insurance agency would have just let me take that test so that I could start working in a special education classroom and work towards improving the young lives of children? Or if instead of falling upside down onto the floor and being destroyed for ever, that bowl of double chocolate chip ice cream and hut fudge sauce had stayed where it was, balanced precariously on the edge of the microwave, until I had the chance to pick it up and consume it?
But no…instead of escaping from the confines of the duck tape chair and escaping to continue my life of scavenging and fighting for survival, one of those zombies snuck up on me from behind, and suffice to stay, this is an account of my life post mortem.
I half freed myself from the chair before it happened and now I spend my days, wandering through the woods, attracted to the lights and sounds of the world that surrounds me, occasionally catching glimpses of beings that move just a little too fast and a little too well, and then my eyes grow wide and I begin to open and shut my mouth in anticipatory delight until…but that’s rare. Mostly it’s just me, crawling and limping, with a wooden chair half taped to my arm, dragging behind me as I drag myself along the road. Boredly going on with no purpose or reason, boredly existing…bored, but never scared.