I'm bored.
Truly madly deeply bored. The kind of boredom wherein you spend most of your time, with things you're interested in, wondering how on Earth you could ever have been interested in them. And frankly I do not see the situation improving any time soon.
This is bad. This is very bad, not least because this particular level of boredom is one in which I have a tendency to snack, randomly but quite steadily, just for the excitement value. Which is ably assisted by the futility value. "C'mon," I coax myself, in this mood, "not much going on anyway, who'd even notice if you had that extra Twinkie?"
This is exactly what got me into the situation where I had to spend most of last summer losing the twenty-five pounds I'd put on that winter. And I am not going to be one of these yo-yos who just put the weight right back on again. I am not.
But, honestly, I can't think of much else to do at the moment. Besides maybe work up a rage against ex-Green Bay, now whoever'll-give-him-the-time-of-day QB Brett Favre for what the hell do you think you're doing, boy, leading the Minnesota Vikings into the town where there's still a Brett Favre Steakhouse? Sheez.
...OK, that was kind of fun. But doing it properly would mean going back onto the ESPN boards at gametime, and nahhhh. You want boredom, spend time watching grown men try and come up with new ways to call each other homosexual. Hint: they don't often succeed.
In other news, I have been paging through the back numbers of I Can Haz Cheezburger lately. Thus discovering that there's a low boredom threshold on cute (excuse me, 'kyoot'), too. But I keep on keepin' on, because this is about the only bookmark I haven't reread six times. Even my dead-tree reading is a recap of the Elizabeth I-Mary Queen of Scots rivalry (the admittedly excellent Elizabeth and Mary by Jane Dunn), and not that we haven't covered that material at Shoe Central more than, oh, eighteen times now.
Clearly, drastic measures are required here.
Uh... anybody got any they can spare?
This is bad. This is very bad, not least because this particular level of boredom is one in which I have a tendency to snack, randomly but quite steadily, just for the excitement value. Which is ably assisted by the futility value. "C'mon," I coax myself, in this mood, "not much going on anyway, who'd even notice if you had that extra Twinkie?"
This is exactly what got me into the situation where I had to spend most of last summer losing the twenty-five pounds I'd put on that winter. And I am not going to be one of these yo-yos who just put the weight right back on again. I am not.
But, honestly, I can't think of much else to do at the moment. Besides maybe work up a rage against ex-Green Bay, now whoever'll-give-him-the-time-of-day QB Brett Favre for what the hell do you think you're doing, boy, leading the Minnesota Vikings into the town where there's still a Brett Favre Steakhouse? Sheez.
...OK, that was kind of fun. But doing it properly would mean going back onto the ESPN boards at gametime, and nahhhh. You want boredom, spend time watching grown men try and come up with new ways to call each other homosexual. Hint: they don't often succeed.
In other news, I have been paging through the back numbers of I Can Haz Cheezburger lately. Thus discovering that there's a low boredom threshold on cute (excuse me, 'kyoot'), too. But I keep on keepin' on, because this is about the only bookmark I haven't reread six times. Even my dead-tree reading is a recap of the Elizabeth I-Mary Queen of Scots rivalry (the admittedly excellent Elizabeth and Mary by Jane Dunn), and not that we haven't covered that material at Shoe Central more than, oh, eighteen times now.
Clearly, drastic measures are required here.
Uh... anybody got any they can spare?