Boredom Come

Boredom Come

I have nothing to do. After a day’s work, I have nothing to do. I want to do something but I always end up doing nothing. Procrastination is my surname.

I cook canned sardines. After sautéing three gloves of garlic and a small onion bulb, I mixed it up with sardines soaked in previously beaten eggs. After a few minutes or so, my dinner is ready, good for two, but usually I eat it alone. If it only takes a few minutes to cook it, it would take me an hour to make fire. Apparently, I am cooking old-school style, no electric power, no LPG tanks, just charcoals and an old slice of rubber slippers. If not canned sardines, I am cooking chorizo, scrambled eggs, or Yakisoba noodles, I’m giving meaning to deep fry; it actually tastes good. It’s nice cooking and preparing and stuffs like that, but I still feel bored. And eventually boring anyone who reads this kind of shit.

To continue, I walk long miles to reach the plaza near the Cathedral just to buy two scoops of Cookies & Cream and Double Dutch or Very Rocky Road and Ube Macapuno or Vanilla and Coffee Crumble. It depends on what is available. Then I trudge back the aisles and pavements of Boredom Come. If I pass by a convenient store, I might get myself yesterday’s issue of Philippine Daily Inquirer, it costs cheaper, or buy Nova or Piattos Sour Cream & Onion or that costly Lay’s Sour Cream & Onion (I guess you already know my favorite, not the newspaper, idiot). I will eat them while watching a tennis match with Maria Sharapova, Roger Federer, or Rafael Nadal in it. Otherwise, I will attempt to write on my all-purpose blue notebook and end up drawing caricatures (inclining more on the pornographic side, oh shit, I’m screwed) of people in my mind. Then, everyone who still has the patience to read up to this point dies in boredom.

To those who still survived the grueling and treacherous test of how much can you not persist to keep on comprehending this kind of crap, I eventually dose off or contemplate before eventually dosing off. See, there is no more to read than yet another crap. And I will wake up late then do nothing before realizing that I am already late. I am essentially testing how much adrenaline will my adrenal gland pump if I have realized that I will be eventually missing, uhmmm, nothing if I became late, other than of course the cash deducted on my salary. This is kind of a lame excuse of my tardiness. I impugn (thanks to shift+F7) it back to my adrenal gland. I think everyone who has reached this stage of reading through the words of boredom is eventually dead or dying by now.

For the dying, this is my caveat (word for the day, pronounced as kavyat, for the meaning search the web or use that red pocket edition dictionary that you have that you can’t even put in your pocket because of its thickness), if you’re still interested you’ll eventually die. A friend told me that I sort of have this inkling towards the dead and called me morbid, I loved it, albeit I usually wear white, this is to prove that stereotypes on the relationship between death and the color black is so 20th century. Silver was the new black in the year 2000. Pink was the new black last year. I say white is the new black this century. You see I am making no point here but to lengthen this kind of trash. This Boredom Come I have made out of troubled youth memories and frustrations towards fantasy and afterlife (where I am going with this, this is too philosophical and it reminds me of my lame Philo I professor back in college, so lame that Shift+F7 a.k.a. English Thesaurus won’t suggest any words for it. Still senseless) sometimes gets people engrossed or worse flabbergasted or even worse finds it funny because of my face while retelling it. After I have written this, I will do nothing, may be cook, but generally will do nothing. This is such a waste of your time, I will now stop, I promise. I lied.

And if you’re still alive, marry me or comment at the end of the blog? I guess you’d rather comment.