stenchblossom

boredom is a strange thing, i've hit such a hight of it that i'm writing in this journal, despite the fact that noone is going to read it, and if they are, they have grown bored now, too, and will not finish it. so who am i writing for, this isn't helping me escape my bland and mediocre day, nor is it helping anyone else, it can only spread my boredom to others, so maybe i am fulfilling some sadistic urge, deriving some sort of sexual pleasure by boring you, you non-existant entity, but, alas, my limpness proves that this is not the case. what more can i say, nothing aparantly, seems i am as boring as i am bored. farewell figment of my drab imagination.