Posted on 6/21/2014 by Daddy Will

This is for those that always complain about being bored or having nothing to do. It came to mind earlier today when a friend mentioned that she was about to venture the wilds of IKEA on a Saturday. She was not complaining, but it made me think. Yes, it sounds like a rather tedious and frustrating endeavor, but, think of the possible adventure.. Do you ever listen to yourself? Or in the case of Facebook and other social media, do you ever actually read what you right? The statements that affirm your reality and thus your truth? I don't mean to be harsh here, but you've got to accept responsibility for thing if you sincerely want your situation to change.

It sounds terribly cliché, yet remains a fundamental truth that our thoughts create the words we speak,  thus the words we speak create the reality we experience.  Look, I'm a realist, a pragmatist. I sit here on this rather gloomy and chilly first day of Summer, which for San Frisco is the norm.  I can think that I'm on a  tropical beach in Bali, I can speak it aloud that I'm on a tropical Balinese beach, but alas, I remain in San Francisco.  That is not the type of truth I'm speaking of.  Our thoughts are not magic, but they do possess the power to change our attitude and thus change the way we view our reality.  Hell, San Francisco is famous for having rather gloomy summers, I'm well aware of this. But, I do know that when other parts of the nation are experience terribly foul winter weather, I'm quite likely to be wearing shorts and sunning myself in the Castro.

Positive thought will not bring a cure to every situation, but it's quite likely to afford you a view of your circumstances that makes it more acceptable, even though you're not necessarily in approval or wild about the situation.

So, what are we saying when we express our boredom?  How do we benefit from this state of seemingly terminal ennui?  I sometimes think we have this notion that by stating; "I'm bored," that the Universe will rise up and create something FABULOUS to preoccupy us.  We have this notion that proclaiming boredom somehow makes us appear urbane and discerning, as though we've exhausted the possibilities and potential that the life of a mere mortal has to offer. As always, it’s our ego at work, telling us that we are certainly deserving of more.  Not necessarily "better."    Hell no, our low self-esteem keeps us in check there, the only better we have is knowing better than to expect that we're worth any better.  No, we are ego driven, we want more.  More things, more toys, more cars, clothes, friends, vacations, closet space, counter space, muscles, tits, popularity, sex, more than our neighbors, more than our family, more than our friends, and much more than our perceived foes. All without ever acknowledging that we ourselves are our greatest foe. The ego is always hungry, an open maw,  crying out to be constantly fed.  Our self-esteem meanwhile sits by quietly and patiently, wanting no more than to be nurtured in order to avail us to the "better" that we so deserve.

We get more by appreciating what we have, and we get better when we come to realize and believe that we deserve better.  When we say; "I'm bored," what we're essentially saying is; "I'm boring." 

The universe is not going to light a fire under your ass, and if it did, you'd still be obligated for taking the steps to put it out.  Are you up to that responsibility?  Do you really think you have what it takes to extinguish a fire?

Myself, I've become too self-centered and egotistical to admit to being bored.  I would never want anybody to think that I was discontent or lacking something to do.  Au contraire, I can make a trip to the grocery store seem like an event worthy of paparazzi and press coverage.

Oh, and don't give me that; "I don’t have any money" excuse.  I'm willing to bet that you don't have any money is that you've futilely squandered it in attempts to buy yourself out of boredom.

About 30yrs ago, my best friend and I were sharing a gorgeous apartment on Miami Beach, South Beach, before it was chic and referred to as SOBE.  I don't recall either of us ever being bored in the first place. But, I think a lot of that had to do with the fact that we found most any little thing to be terribly entertaining.

We'd go out late at night and stroll along the cement concourse that ran behind a couple of blocks of oceanfront high-rise condos. Armed with nothing more than a piece of chalk, we'd take turns laying down and outlining one another's body on the cement, giving the appearance that there had been a jumper or some other casualty, we'd even assign MBPD case #'s to them in chalk. Occasionally we'd place a leg or an arm several feet from the main body, even outline a hatchet or handgun.  This allowed for a couple days of watching primarily elder people to walk down concourse, looking down and then squinting skyward to see from which floor the deceased may have emanated.  It provided these old folks with a certain degree of exercise; looking up, looking down, look up, look down.  A sort of Tai Chi for people whose opportunity to partake in an Asian tradition wouldn't normally exceed their relatively frequent visits to eat Chineeze.

Another great activity that can  be performed either alone, avec compagnon, or even en famille is a stimulating game of "What Was It?" This is quite simple, and can be played nude, in your underwear, or casually and comfortably clothed if a family affair.  All you need are as many kitchen chairs, folding chairs or stools for the number of participants, and a decent size garbage can, with liner.

You open the refrigerator door, or doors, for those of you that are more affluent. You then pull your chairs to a distance that allows you access to the fridge at arms' length, with the trash receptacle placed in the middle.  Now, there is no established rules regarding who goes first or which shelf one starts with, but feel free to add your own rules and draw straws if you wish.  Remember, it’s up to you to make these practices more interesting.

You simple reach in, extract an item, examine it, try to establish how long it has been there, what it is, or what it was when it was first granted hallowed refrigerator space in the first place.  A sense of adventure and a smattering or bravery can really put you at an advantage  here.   While it would be foolhardy to actually taste some of these items, the courage to take a fork and part the layer of fur that obscures the truth can be most rewarding.  My friend and I once found a peculiar item that looked like a rather small walnut, or a very large raisin. We were quite stymied.  We chose to set it aside for further examination.  When we later performed a proper autopsy on the object,  we came to the conclusion, given the structure of its inner organs, that it had at one time been a common lime.  We did send specimens out for carbon dating and further confirmation,  but have yet to hear back from our esteemed fellows at the Smithsonian.  One would imagine that they must perhaps be terribly busy. 

In fact, there was a time when I was living alone and my devotion to domestic chores took a distant back seat to my going drinking and daahncing.  I had evidently endured a moment of desire for healthier living and purchased a cantaloupe.   I allowed this lovely melon to sit on my counter until it became ripe and seemed to developed its own respiratory system, in fact, given its rather furtive fragrance, flatulence seemed quite fathomable.

So as to deter any further decay, I granted it privileged space inside the fridge, on the top shelf, between the empty carton of half & half and a quart of mayonnaise, Hellman's of course.  Hey, I was an alcoholic that would drink anything and have sex with anybody,  but I did have standards when it came to condiments.

So, my refrigerator  was to serve as a sort of mausoleum to my melon until I could muster up the time and energy to take it to the trash chute, which was coincidentally right outside my back door, only about four steps from the refrigerator itself..  I said "coincidentally" that does not mean that it seemed "convenient" in my state at the time.

I guess I just thought it would keep for perpetuity, I deemed her the Eva Peron of my refrigerator kingdom, even after death reigning over her minions of lesser but hopeful fruits and vegetable.

One day, I opened the fridge, and Eva was gone.. Vanished! I searched frantically, had she been kidnapped?  At last I found her, She had moved.  The stress of being on that top shelf was more than she could tolerate in her frail state, she had  collapsed and slipped through the wire rack. There she lay, on the bottom of my frost-free Frigidaire, sliced, into half-inch rounds, in a puddle of her own awful and seeds.

Now, if you are fortunate enough to live in an area where you have relatively close proximity to an IKEA store, say by car or public transportation, then you have access to an activity that not only is immensely entertaining, cost effective, but also allows you to exercise that cynical and judgmental side of your nature which is generally at the very root of your boredom in the first place.  This activity is best enjoyed on a Saturday, with a friend, someone sweet and optimistic, or a person that is even more miserable, cynical, and unkind than yourself.  As far as honing your Gaydar skills, you get no points, keep in mind, we're at IKEA, on a Saturday.

You pick out the relatively newly formed gay couples, shopping for the first jointly purchased piece of furniture. (I am not ignoring the Lesbians here, they'll be dispatched later with their pick-up trucks to haul this shit home and then assemble it for Bruce and Todd.)  They shop with such hope and determination.  Now, they're shopping at IKEA so we know that they're of modest to moderate means, or they may be filthy rich but have just grown aware of the limited length of past relationships and see no point in going to Roche Bobois at this point.  In fact, if they make it to the two year mark, they may go so far as to upgrade that chair with a piece from Baker, Knapp & Tubbs, but they're not going to rush off to Sotheby's just yet.

It's fun to watch them, walking hand in hand, conferring, comparing, agreeing, disagreeing. Still flirting with one another, devilish whisper about the fact that some gay Swede was aware that by pitching the seat of that chair in such a manner, or that by making that sturdy end table that exact height, he was applying  not only discriminating aesthetics, but the practicality of yet one more place to partake of carnal bliss.   But, even more fun is watching the heterosexuals witnessing this exchange.   You, the observer are left to conjecture how they met, from which phone app or hookup site did they first lay eyes upon one another's pic?  You may want to speculate as to who's the bottom and who's the top, given that a slut like yourself has already had sex with one if not both of them.

You can devise a point system, where you score points for determining whether to go for the MALM bed with under bed storage drawers, or the inexpensive but versatile FJELLSE bedframe that sits up off the floor, just waiting to adorned with a box-pleated skirt.  You can place wagers on their selections  Swedish Meatballs as currency. You may question the ages of our lovers, or even the stage of their romance.   Is this their first biracial relationship?   Will the Caucasian guy think the Latino guy's accent is so Terribly endearing when he catches Carlos in bed with a mutual friend? In fact, whoever is first to spot a biracial Caucasian/Asian couple where the Asian is the older of the two is the overall winner and eats for free.

How can you possibly be bored?

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