And I’m already bored.
Apparently there are a bunch of eggheads somewhere who have nothing better to do with their time than think too much. They’re a bunch of mush-mugged, spider-plant over-watering, glasses-losing limp-wrists, whose aggregate contribution to the survival of the species could be summarized in the same dull sentence as the invention of the end note.
Can you tell I’m jealous of them? These fiendishly clever people who have somehow tricked the rest of us into supporting them while they spend their energy, for all intents and purposes, squinting and whiting things out. That’s all it would seem that they do, anyway, unless I’m missing something and there’s something incredibly significant about that piece of what appears to me to be supplies for starting a fire.
Now these eggheads, it would seem, set their minds to diagnosing the purpose of boredom. Much to the surprise of nobody. What else could they possibly have to do with their time?
We’re talking about a kind of person who thinks that a large evening isn’t complete without an argument about which is the most controversial gender-bending occurrence in the long tradition of remaking 1970s science fiction.
These are the same people who will become furious with you if you say, “I like classical music. I listen to Bach around Christmas,” and you will never know why.
They are the same people who can tell you the origin of the term “cougar,” but have no idea how to chat up a woman at a bar.
No wonder they’ve tried to figure out boredom. Look at what they spend their minds on? These are the lullabies of adult life, written by people with such an intimate relationship to boredom that the only way they can talk about “excitement” is in terms of the molecular activity involved in converting solids to liquids.
My friends, in other words.
And me, when it gets to it. But don’t let anyone know. If it gets out then my life as an international “personality” is pretty much over. And since Zsa Zsa Gábor just died, I had an eye on her spot, so don’t ruin it for me now.
Really, though, deep in my bones I’m an egghead. Except that I don’t get paid for it. I’m still sore about that.
Just don’t tell anyone.
These eggheads, who I love and admire, have diagnosed something about boredom.
What they have seen is that boredom is a survival mechanism. After a careful scientific study, they determined something that‘s a little surprising, because it is counter-intuitive if viewed from the perspective of consumerist culture — of modern culture.
You see, what the eggheads determined was…if a human being remains stagnant for too long, then — and here’s the clever bit — that person will die. And not only will they die, but they will contribute to the death of their whole species.
Strange thought, right? I mean, how could I possibly binge through Duck Dynasty, and then keep up with the Kardashians, and then make an Instagram story about the meme I found on Tumblr that’s so much I can’t even…
How can I do all that if I’m, you know, wasting energy on stupid things like moving around and having thoughts? That’s an important question to answer, if you’re trying to survive in Western culture. I may as well remove myself from the species if I can’t quote the most recent candid footage from YouTube of someone losing their mind at Target. Why would my friends and family even admit to my existence?
They wouldn’t! That’s the simple answer. I may as well turn in my “human” card right now.
That level of devotion to what is real takes a lot of stagnate devotion to a cause. And it’s necessary, as we all know, for being human.
The eggheads would disagree.
They say that boredom is a trick that our brains play on us to get us to start doing something if it’s been too long since the last time we’ve done something. They say that boredom is a way for our psyches to tell us that if we don’t do something — anything — soon then our species may become extinct.
I can’t be having with that. I, like all of my peers, simply do not have the time.