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Till It's Boring

Someone once told me, "Write about yourself until you find yourself boring."

Well, someone more famous said, "I contain multitudes."

Which is not really necessarily a way of saying that I'll be interesting forever. I just think that more research is necessary. I have to dig through all this trash. Give me a minute at least.

Maybe we don't contain multitudes. Maybe we just contain one thing, repeated infinitely in different ways. Maybe we're just repeating ourselves.

But then what are we supposed to do? Write about other people? Ha! Ha!

Anyway. Who knows?

Maybe we're just repeating ourselves.

All nightmares are recurring. All dreams are nightmares wrapped in fuzzier costumes. They're all terrifying because of how boring they are. Does the boringness make it terrifying?

I had a dream the other night. You wouldn't find it interesting.

Shall I tell you about it anyway?


I had a dream about brunch.

Wait. No. I'm wrong already. That was an actual brunch that I ate with cousins visiting from out of town. Successful ones with broad smiles and tall friends. We went out together to eat. I took a picture of my eggs when the food arrived and put the picture on the internet somewhere. I can't remember where.

But I was positive that one day my son would find that picture and say, "Man, what a brunch that was. Just look at those eggs! He must have enjoyed those eggs, poor old Dad. He sure loved his eggs. Too bad he died so tragically. He slipped on a banana peel and then fell on the third rail of the maglev train to Paris but survived the fall and got back up onto the platform only to be shot by that crazy guy with a laser shouting liberté! But still: what a brunch!"

Wait. No I'm wrong again. That was years ago. Decades even.

Anyway, enough about me and my laser death, I think. What about you, mon semblable, mon frère? What are you up to these days? Have you been brunching well?

Ah. I can see that you are occupied by a selfie stick. Well let me take that picture for you! What's that? You think that I'll get the lighting wrong? That I will create an un-interesting portrait of you? Well okay, then I'll just stand here and watch you take that picture yourself. I can wait. I'm not doing anything anyway. Looks like a fine pose. Good luck.

A girl over on the opposite side of the platform is crying. She's wearing a hat with a pompom on it and is very cute. A woman is carrying her. Disaster takes another little comrade, ushering her into the world. Welcome! It's about time you joined our ranks. Don't worry a bit. It doesn't hurt except all the time. At least for now you still find your pain interesting and novel. I can see you've discovered how to let out the pain through the biggest hole in your face. It's amazing that we all know how to do these things without anyone telling us, isn't it.

Then again, maybe it's not us doing anything. Maybe it's just the pain coming out on its own, following the path of least resistance.

There's a book called I Contain Multitudes about how we're all actually made of trillions of bacteria. I think I can feel them squirming around sometimes. Maybe they're what the pain is made out of.

Ah! You are done with your interesting selfie. Maybe now you will converse. But wait. Ha! Why are you throwing a banana at me? And what are you doing with that laser, dear friend? You can't have that down here in the train, after all.

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