Boredom and Fun

Written on March 21, 2026

I kinda really put my brain through the gauntlet, and for what? Just to end it with a simple, obvious realization. I guess it does show how I think and write and work my way through issues I myself discover, identify, and raise. But yeah.

I don't even know what I proved. I guess that I will write and try to address something that I've never addressed before, which is a good thing. Ha.

But all that effort, for something that's so crucial yet so simple and seemingly barely anything. I wonder what it is that has driven me so far to this point. It's almost comical.

Man, things are really going to be improve only from here on out.

But hot damn. It's funny. Not just funny in a ha way. But in a guffaw, the kind that gets you howling through the night. It's fucked how simple and obvious that was and yet how much effort I spent. I laugh inwardly and smile sardonically at my own expense.

Shit. If there was something I wanted right now, right after writing all that, right after coming to such a successful point, right after realizing how simple it was, right after acknowledging just how awesome and self-satisfying it was to have went through all that effort... it would probably be, "I kinda wish I caught some crazy spell that felt like an unstoppable confident, arrogance even. The kind that gets you so excited and moving. But I guess that's just plain reality, and there's nothing unsatisfying about that. I feel quietly inwardly satisfied and settled, and there's nothing wrong with that. Whatever happens next, it will only happen awesomely. But yeah... it's almost funny that I think things like 'what if I could just be arrogant and crazy, damn it!' as if what I have right now isn't the positive equivalent of that? In the end, here am I, here am I."

Right now, I just want to dance. That's the kind of self-satisfaction I have. I'd be dancing if I was at home. I'm smiling to myself right now. It's funny. It's real funny.

And here I am. I'm at the cafe right now actually. I almost hate how awesome my life is. Like, some crazy hype edgy music driving me and getting me writing some crazy angsty shit. But nah. I'm not really in that state of mind. So yeah.

"I am content." And I almost want to detach from the reality that statement is gesturing at. Like, come on, man.

Imagine how cool it'd be though! Imagine if I was brooding right now! If I was a broken, angry man! That'd be so... Well, that'd suck actually. But yeah... I don't know. Maybe, in another world... I mean, it's not like I wasn't that guy before. Things changed. I changed. I'm happier now. I've done things, and those things really did help me get over things and get better. And I should be happy, and I am. But hot damn!

Imagine how cool! Imagine how fun it'd be if I was so terribly insecure and incapable of just taking my time and having fun in my own private projects and life? I mean, that isn't fun at all! But yeah... Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know...

I can make whatever I want, and I don't make. I just take my time and make whenever and whatever I want, if I feel like it. It's funny. Sooo funny. Come on man!

Was I born to be happy? Is that it? Is that all? Damn... I don't know. And not just happy in the empty sense. I really am satisfied. Being outside is just being unable to burst into dancing like a crazy man in the middle of the cafe when I would do that at home in my own private quarters. Damn it! If I was only fucked up!

I'm just making shit up at this point. Trying to make up angry or frustration. Like being happy sucks. It doesn't. But I want to say it does because it makes it easier. Make what easier? The settled unsettlement of contentment.

I mean, I don't want to self-sabotage. I'm not going to wish this laptop gets broken or my life gets so hard I start bawling. I'm not... interested in that kind of thing. I don't want to lose a loved one just 'cause I'm bored. Nah. No. That's not what I mean.

But yeah... there's something funny about being content, about having your needs met, about having your own private projects the same way I did when I was younger with Roblox games I made, about having closure with childhood friends, parents, and church, about just being where and who I am now. All of it kinda speaks for itself. Ha...ha...ha...ha... I try.

There was a weird time of my life when I would get so, so, so caught up in shit. And it would really get me, but now, I stare, and there is barely anything but the sweetness of taking my time and enjoying whatever this is and myself. And it's just so... what it is... It's not weird. It's not strange. It's.. what it is. It is. It's mundane morning, mundane afternoon, mundane evening. It's a day in a life. And it's not unfun. It's actually very cool.

At this point, going outside, going to new cafes. I do that because I want something to make me feel... different. Lost maybe. Just something that makes me feel out of my element without literally breaking me. You know, it's enough to get you feeling different, but not to the point of actually crushing your capacity to just take your time, which is why it's cafe and I still have my laptop here and not something crazier. So yeah...

I know I will want so badly to return to this, where I am, how I am, who I am, here at this seat, if I do self-sabotage and put myself somewhere fucking horrible just to feel something really crazy. And I know that fucked-up person I will be in that self-sabotaging will have done it for that craziness and desire to return here, because he feels that life gets fun when you have to go through the gauntlet just to get to where I am. And the funniest thing is that I did go through the gauntlet to where I am now. Self-sabotaging myself as a "moving forward" plan in the form of a to-do list isn't really going to do anything but do what self-sabotage does. I really went through the shit. Own it!

I'm saying that. Ha-ha.

But yeah.

I know it feels shitty to feel shitty. So why not embrace non-shittiness! Ha-ha!

But yeah, it was fun to problematize what ended up just being something so simple after all. Ha-ha.(!)(?)(^-^)(-_-)(:O)(:])(:|)

Man, fucking hell. I wrote all this, but fuck, just a number of pages of Ann-Marie Macdonald's Fall on Your Knees is enough to scare me back into contentment. Fucking hell. That shit's fucked up. Like, if he was written in a "log of events" kind of day, yeah, sure. But the author really makes you complicit in the fucked-upness. It makes you wince. It's disgusting. It was when Materia let Katherine die while the latter was giving birth to the boy and girl. Disgusting af. I mean it went into why Materia did that. Her reasons and all. The whole story is just fucked up. I mean, James was fucked up, and yeah, all of it was fucked up. I kinda just never wrote anything about it, because I mean, you just watch it, or read it. It's a whole thing that just unfolds in a way that you just feel entranced by. It's crazy. I don't even know. I don't even know. I can't even.

But yeah, I said all that, but if it was going to be like that like FoYK or whatever the acronym is, then fucking hell. Nah. Hell nah.

But yeah, am I seriously just going to be a fucking spectator? It almost scares me. The idea of it. Is that what contentment does to a person? You get caught up in reading spectacles? Fucked-up shit? I don't know. I don't know. I want to believe there must be a reason for all this. I mean, where I am. And there is. It's great. It's genuinely amazing. But yeah. A lot of shit. On one hand, yeah, it's great, but there's that desire for complication. But at the same time, I don't mean complication in that way. I don't mean literally go crazy and shit and do fucked-up stuff. I don't want self-sabotage, and I don't want insanity. If it's going to be like that, hell nah... But yeah, something unreasonable is churning within me, and it wants to get real fucked-up and not necessarily because I wnat , but because maybe there's this urge that just wants to ruin shit for no fucking good reason! Ha-ha-ha-ha. Sometimes, even if I know it's all alright and fine and good and dandy and, rationally and healthily, it's alright! But yeah, sometimes, I let myself bleed. I let myself remember shit in a way that makes me feel very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very horrible. I get real riled up, and that was my doing. I let myself get fucked up. I don't know if it's because I want to feel something, but yeah, you know, things happen, and I guess when things happen, it affects me and gets me and it moves me and treats me and makes me feel things that I feel but shouldn't not because it's not real but because I make it so and I do it and I make it and I fuck it and then myself. It's what it is, and not in any kind of "what it is" good way. I get real fucked up out of my own hand. My gauntleted hand. I run myself through it.

But yeah, I mean, let's be happy, satisfied, and content? I mean, I already am. It's just a matter of coming to terms with it. There's a whole world out there. Yeah, I'm the one saying that. I want the whole world to run through me and get me fucked up in ways that make me feel alive. Damn, I hate that. Alive? I don't want to feel alive if it means exposure in that form of self-sabotage? Fucking hell nah. But still... Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Fucking hell nah! But still. This fucking sound byte called "but still" needs to go to hell right now!

But here I am. Here I fucking am.

Like, there must be something wrong, and yet there isn't. This entire passage is literal proof of why I'm totally alright! And that's the problem! (Not!)

At this point, performing craziness is the only semblance I got of a time when life felt crazier. The only link I have still. I still have the writing skills I gained from writing all that craziness out. And now that the craziness is gone, it's performative. I know that. But yeah, I mean, what else can a person do? Write people dying. Write people getting fucked up. Read about people getting real fucked up. I mean, fuck, that shit was disturbing. But yeah. That's the only thing I got left. I mean, maybe, you think that all the time I spend working through "intellectual" problems is somehow a semblance of that craziness, but in a "translated," "sublimated," "good" form. And yeah, maybe you're right. It's the capacity to express so whatever-ly, yet it comes out of a very settled place and a very "working with it" mindset, not anything crazy or disrupted or out of whatever shit... whack? Yeah. That's where I am. I just got to take it, right? Just take it by the masthead or whatever the term is? It's fun. Fun. Fun. Fun. Fun. Fun. Fun. That word is starting to sound weird, like I'm trying to get myself to feel it. And the thing is: I do feel it. But yeah, there's almost this thirst for endless craziness. I mean, endless fun = endless craziness(?) I don't know. Just slap my ass and call me Sally atp.

But yeah, look at that. A bunch of words on a page. At least my craziness about my lack of craziness is on full display. Hopefully, I feel embarrassed enough about it, but I don't! At least in any precarious way. It's just a person going out and about and taking their sweet friction-filled time! And not in any endangering degree. It's very "rich acting poor," you know?

Ha-ha. I can't help it, you know?

Maybe, this passage will be its own masterpiece or whatever people call a successful expression. Ha-ha. Ha-ha.

At this point, if I write, you know it's made-up. Performative. Whatever. Made-up. Just someone faking lameness. Yeah, at this point, it is. That ain't even a concession in the sense of a half-lie. I really am just saying shit. I used the terms "problematizing" and "breadcrumbing myself," but "just saying shit" works too.

I may not have been acquainted with it before. But yeah, boredom. Fun.

Those are the two words that best characterize or describe or define my life right now.

Anything that I've been doing has been all about dealing with boredom and injecting my life with fun. Yeah, I admit that. All my "crazy" ideas recently have just been me trying to find some new trippy thing to get myself riled up over. Yeah...

I should be happy that the only time I feel shitty is when I lack sleep, and even when I lack sleep, it's fake. I mean, all the craziness even there isn't even craziness. It's just someone wanting to lie down or getting easily annoyed. And annoyance? Seriously? That's barely craziness. Craziness is traumatic triggers and such! Like, where's the shit!? Nah. It's gone. It's done. It's come and gone. Whatever's here now is just pretend wildness. I'm just playing games with myself.

I don't want someone who'll make me happy. You know. It's almost funny I say that. Isn't that the point of life? But to want someone who will actively make you feel like there's something fucked up that you can't fully resolve. I guess for me, it sounds fun. I mean, Of course, I hate toxicity, and it would suck to suck. Suck to be somewhere that sucks. Sucks to feel shitty. Feels shitty to feel it. That way. I don't want to ruin myself or my life over something so... I don't know. Is stupid close? Yeah, maybe that's it.

Break me. That thought. The idea. It's almost hilarious. I've already broken and fractured so many times I don't know... To reach a point where that's even mouthed, muttered, whispered, said, spoken out loud. Shit! That's... I don't know. What to do with myself.

I've seen and made so many things. I've done a little bit with myself, and I've gone and went and said shit that didn't really make any ma-fucking sense, but here I am. I make shit up.

If there's a second What Do I Want (a stream-of-consciousness novel I wrote back in 2019 that revealed how I saw the world and thought), it'd probably be this passage. I mean, it's really revealing, and it settles, sits down with the thoughts that come, the concerns (or non-concerns, take your pick). It's hilarious.

There's something fucked up about where, how, and who I am right now. The way that I am. The way I carry myself. It's fucked. Fucked. Fucked. Fucked.

No one should feel okay. I mean, sure, okay after a long day. But to feel okay. To this degree. I mean... how can anyone...?

Sure, everyone eventually comes to terms with shit, maybe not everything, but a relative amount of everything, and we ultimately come to our end. But yeah, to have that end come so soon, and not an actual physical death, but an end of a past that tortured me so badly. Fuck! I don't know. I simply have no idea, have no clue. I've been born, I've lived in this world, and I made shit. And I did things I did. Whether I should or shouldn't have done it, I don't know. But yeah, there's always that undercurrent in everything that I do. But yeah. There's always that energy. Always.

Whatever I do next will have to be that everything that I've always desired. And the thing is I already have it. I just want to say that it's not yet here, because it feels funner that way. As if setting myself up for some clamation, some reclamation or whatever mation this is. I don't know. I just have a knack for knacks, for things that barely matter and those that I make matter through sheer craziness determination, in the way that only someone making shit up only could.

......making shit.

......up.

Whatever...

I have zero clue.

I've been spent a large portion of my time dawdling. And I mean dawdling as in addressing a lot of shit. And yeah, to have that be a no-longer thing? Shit. Shit balls. Whatever swear word makes me feel like something crazy's going on. Ha.... ha...

It's fun to sit in a place where you're just saying shit, and yeah, I guess a lot of what I'm saying reveals so much, things I'd never find myself just as a per thing. It's very much its own novelty. And that's fun, I guess...?

Yeah.

What am I...?

I am not the arrogance of someone who's going through shittery and trying to clench onto something firm.

I am not grief and loss.

I am not that fractured agony.

I am not that person trying to get it all back.

I am just me, with everything that I am.

And that... I wish it scared me. But it doesn't. It doesn't. It makes me feel good. Not better. Good. Plain good. In the way that life feels when everything's been done, been made up with, done, gone, whatever. Made what it is, what they are. It's a very mundane thing, almost customary, like that's just the way the cookie crumbles. And in any fucked-up way. It's very much routine, like the way the sun arcs across the sky. It's fucked-up-ly normal and easy.

I can't believe I have to go looking for shit to get angry about. And it just feels arbitrary. So arbitrary. It's just someone tripping on their own feet for no good reason. I'm not saying there's nothing to get angry about. But if we're just speaking in terms of one's personal life, there really is a point where you're just throwing yourself somewhere just to feel something, and that's not really compelling any more than it is just someone who can't bear with the drudgery of their own life. And maybe, that's me. No, the worst part is that this is not drudgery in that sense. It is calm. Not the normal kind. The kind you get once you've gone through the gauntlet of putting yourself back together, and you can only imagine just how calm that is. It's calm + resilience. That's more than double the calm, and when you have that, it's like trying to escape the back of your hand. You can't escape it. It's inescapable. A horrendous reality of being utterly fine!

Time is passing and will pass, for no other reason than... someone... who is... looking to stave off boredom and make life feel more fun in the way only someone who's fucked up can. It's its own circus of fuckeduppery.

I'm happy. That's... the worst part.

I can't hate anymore. i can't. At least, not the way I used to. Whatever hate I have now is almost made-up. It's closer to annoyance than it is to anything projecting out of trauma. If I do project, it's projection in the way only a person so arbitrary can, and not in any way so as to deny that mundanity, because mundane's mundane, and the world in that life can only be so much before it falls back on something that sounds like a stream trickling. It's fuckeduppery all the same. What has happened to me?

What has happened to me?

The rain is falling again. I mean, not literally. But when I was a child, when the rain fell, it really did fall, and there was nothing else but that, and now, it's just the same. Not that there's rain falling, but it's as if there's nothing but rain. It's just another world. All the same; all the same. I wonder... Why. It's not really a why that can be answered except in accepting that whatever is, is the way it is and in no other way except in the way that rain does: it rains.

A time when there was no hate, no grief, no loss. To reach that point again.

And to have the rain be the only thing there is in all the sounds it makes. I hate it. I love it. I need it. I don't. It's just another day.

All the excessive emotions, all the intensities that would have made it either an object of hate, love, or some other crazy neediness or detachment. It's all gone.

What I have now is peace, contentment, not craziness, not escapism. And that... sucks! (Does not!) Man, it's just an endless intermittent series of me laughing privately at myself in snorts. What a life I've lived. What a life I live now. Whatever this is, I have nothing any more to add than what these words provide me with in the sense of entertainment, in the sense of something to do, to pass the time, to time-pass. To dance, to move, to curate, to whatever-shit-this-is-called. I'm trying to make up new ways of describing something that is both ineffable and utterly simple. Just another...

Day? Morning? It's 8:46 PM right now. And it's really not that complicated. Whether I say morning or evening. The essence, or spirit of whatever's going on, remains intact. You get the point. I get the point. Whatever's expressing here, whatever the words are, is getting the point. It's really not all that, except in small doses, a bunch of pitter-patter, it's called rain.

whatever i end up becoming. by the end of it, i will have just taken my time. whatever it is. in whatever form. whatever avatar i take. form. thing. something. box. it's all a bunch of boxes. berm, berm, berm.

whatever else I'll write will come out of someone... who has written... 5 million words in 3 years.

You know...

at a certain point, it's really just words. now, fun for fun. sake for sake. bore for bore. dom for dom.

i wish i cared about trying to settle the score or set things straight, but i've kinda done that so many times and so precisely and elaborately that at a certain point, the words become just something i do just because it's fun to do. thinking, writing, whatever. the feeling of genuinely engaging in something that feels fresh, novel, fun. i think there's something in that. i mean, yeah, it's fun, but you get the point. i need to make it sound like it's so much more. but yeah: fun. fun. funny right.

whatever i do now, it will just be me really. all that complication. that craziness. if i self-sabotage, if things go wrong, if things get fucked up, if friction happens, if embarrassment happens, yeah it will. i hope i'm okay at the end of it. or just okay through it. I mean, it sucks to suck, or i mean, feel shitty. i just want to be alright, and i am... right now.

by the way all of this is done—and it is done—i will just sit down—and I am! I am. I am. I am...

did i ruin myself without noticing? yeah, maybe i did. i ruined myself with kindness, with love, with happiness, with genuine friendship, with the world so full of wonder and amazingness. yeah, thats what i did. fuck.

if i wrote this at home, maybe it'd make sense. but i'm outside, and i've been here for more than 8 hours. you'd think at a certain point that i should feel bad about myself. i mean, not necessarily. I know that. things have changed. i've gotten used. it's grown. i mean, me.

when?

where?

how?

not even why makes sense to say here.

i hate soft piano music. i love soft piano music. the truth is that im really just settled.

imagine if my life sucked. it would suck. so badly.

writing this was genuinely entertaining, fun. I got to see to explore new ways of expressing myself because i really am expressing new things about myself. these feelings are relatively new. i mean, theyve been kinda there for the last three months, but yeah, three months is too short a time still relative to just how long my life sucked for so long.

so yeah, every time i write, i know im always referring to something new. there's always something new. life didn't stop getting exciting or fun. it's just that, yeah, peace is its own strange predicament even as it is a new source of writerly self-expression.

I can only imagine how fun my next writings will be. stories, or just passages like this. i mean, it's not "just," but you know, you get it. stories do require a bit more investment in the way of a puzzle, since you really do get out of yourself, but yes, both are forms of self-expression. in the end, it doesn't really matter how i frame it here. as long as i am honest with the little that all of this is anyway. its so very tiny. all of it. and not in any deficient way. but acceptance is par for the course. we all eventually go back to whatever shit we were just doing, and writing is just an intermittent 8-hour thing that goes by and along and then on it goes and then, in return, again. a-la-la-la-la-la-la.

i might hold off on posting this. it could be a genuine novel, well, i guess probably not valid for fiction, but something. i don't know what. it's not exactly the kind of post i'd blog or blog i'd post. but there's something in it in the way of someone going out and about and in and within, taking one's little time-ies. yahoo.

imagine if my life was more than me being either sleepy or well-rested?

things have warped beyond my control and into my control simultaneously. stability is a strange place. you wake up in the morn, and you feel fine, but also the urge, whatever it is, it's weird. it's a weird settled place that always thirsts and gets real hungry for friction, but also struggling to handle non-friction at the same time? friction of non-friction. i had a whole series of writings about that, ha-ha, good times. that was just a short while ago lol. but yeah, thanks i guess. as to the target of that gratitude, i dnt know. i wake up and do stuff and by the time im done, i could have done anything else and i did what i did, and then when i do something else, i did that and could have done something else, and then i did whatever i decided to do anyway. (im trying to set up something using sophistry to make up some deficiency only to come up empty).

ive gone to such lengths to get here and then to feel that i want to get out there and again and experience controlled friction. makes sense! i just didn't expect it, but i meet it now as it has come to me in the last 3 months or so especially. i just do whatever. i thought it was done, only to see that doneness means a desire to get things moving and crazy in a way that isn't a return to actual insanity. so here i am, still in the cafe, not in the way that "still in the cafe" might indicate something crazy, but in the way that it has been to me for a long while now. just here. ive gone to a total of 50 unique cafes in the last 10 months. 100 total visits in those 10 months. 10 hours each. ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. each has gradually changed me, not because of the cafe itself per se, but because of the fact that it's controlled friction, in the sense that i am there but also absorbing through writing on my laptop, and all that time led to this, and then to that, and then to this and that, and then to where I am now. I have lived and gone and done and did stuff. where i am now is a matter of where im going next, and thats to a car once my father arrives to fetch me. i am waiting right now as of writing. i dnt think ive ever written in a journal entry that im actively waiting to get fetched. but yeah, when you reach a certain point, you start talking about the containers rather than just the content and experience. you start looking at the textures of the tables around you, at the way the lights bounce against the walls many, many times, no longer just as ways to see what the hell you're writing.