I’m typing on my phone. Forgive my errors or fuck off.
Bored. I am so bored suicide seems like a legitimate way to cure myself. My boredom is a terminal illness, brought on by the fact that I am not stupid enough to be content with the every day, yet am not brilliant enough to rise above it. In many ways I am above average and above average gets you absolutely nothing these days. Why should it? Everyone gets a consolation prize, after all…
You may think everything I say is some affectation or another and you wouldn’t be wrong. With the number of books I read, a lack of affectation would show a criminal lack of self-awareness. It would be positively scandalous. Here in my little corner I ought to stamp around while Zverkov and the jerkoffs toast one another. Of course I will be sorry after writing all this, but never sorry enough to repent or change because, like the man Underground, I suspect there may be nothing to change into. My conscience will hit me like the vapors, then the wind will blow it away. So what, then? Are you laughing yet? Everyone always laughs.
My problem right now, I think, is that I grew up on a fattening diet of books. Interesting things, by definition, always happen in books. So I developed, isolated by bullying, depression, and for ten years, an unwarranted sense of superiority. I grew expecting an adventure. I grew with Dumas, Hugo, Nabokov, Dostoevsky, Shakespeare, Jacques, Dick, Bradbury, King. My mother never allowed me to read books she considered childish after I reached ten. At ten she took Goosebumps out of my hands and placed in them the Man in the Iron Mask and King Lear. They were entrancing, a unique, special world in which I could rescue myself just a little longer.
Oh, how I wanted to join my luminaries! How I dreamed of finding some adventure in life or mind to commit to paper, something that would show everyone I’m worth something after all, so let’s find some other idiot to torment. I have always wanted to be heard, but have discovered that not all of us are destined to stand out against the wallpaper. I am a disgusting old woman before even reaching old age. We do not heed our elders. Why would I expect you to hear me?
Just an Underground Man, hiding from the whore I lied to. Just an Underground Man, forty years old with a yellow stain on my trousers. . . .Anyway, I grew fat with imagination. For years I waited, then looked, for my grand, literary adventure. Some kind of romance, a tear in the space-time continuum, a fire-breathing dragon, a scandal, anything. This is real life, of course; I’m silly for still looking for adventure to relieve the suffocating silence of boredom. I am sick, dissipated. An adventure would be offensive to my nervous constitution. (I am so, so nervous, every nerve frayed to alost nothing. Someday I am sure to snap.) Not only that, what would I even do with an adventure? Gawk at it, I suppose. Take a few pictures. Journal about it. Leash it and turn it in to the municipal shelter.
“I found this adventure wandering around lost. Surely someone is looking for the poor idiot. Otherwise some other person would be interested in adoption.”
Just now I wrote adoption as exhaustion. A Freudian slip, I suppose, for I am, indeed, exhausted. There is no support or pleasure in my life. Food has no taste. Nature is foreboding rather than soothing. My books are distractions, as much a pain as a pleasure. My sleep is caught in snatches, often jarred to pieces by night terrors where I wake up screaming for help that will never come. My collie has passed away. My future is a garbage freight on the ocean. Every day I watch my chances for happiness slip away.
At my age I should be dating, settling down, even. There should be talks of marriages, children, a life built together. There should be get-togethers with friends. There should be pleasant vacations. There should be years of photographs, but there are virtually no photos of me after 2006. I do not live in people’s hearts or their scrapbooks.
You may ignore me, or blame me, or turn up your nose at my affectations. My affectations are all I have. You will never extend your hand, not truly. Out of pity or martyrdom perhaps. I see right through you. You are all utterly predictable. You do not fool me.
Bored. . .
My most fervent prayer is this: after we all–human, animal, plant, mineral, liquid, spirit, god–have spent our allotted years on this sickening rock, may there be nothing else afterward. Then we can all sleep and no one will be better than anyone else.