My Remedy

I'm experiencing what can only be described as chronic boredom. Everything I do is somehow less exciting. Perhaps I should blame it on the blanket of grey that has descended upon the valley, or the ever-wavering hope for humanity I have, or even the drop in temperature, which has left my breasts on the verge of falling the fuck off. Winter in Utah has always been like an Iced Hell descent upon the land, so I honestly have no idea why Brigham Young stood on that molehill and still insisted, "No, really, this is the place, I swear," once the three feet of snow had shot out of the clouds. Did no one think to stop him?

This chronic boredom's been worming its way all about my brain. Tunnels, and tunnels even deeper, and tunnels even deeper than that, breaking the synapses that take joy in everyday things and can stay interested longer than ten minutes. I write poetry now with the intention of reading it aloud. I write revisions now with the thought that someday, they will appreciate in value. I listen to music with closed ears and I see the world through foggy eyes.

So I invent how the world looks. I imagine that the depressing nature of the trees is not due to death, or travesty, but the fact that my contact lenses have been simmering in their plastic pot now for almost three months, much longer than any contact is supposed to be worn. I imagine that the ice on the ground harbors the hit dreams of little protozoa, frozen there forever.

I don't know whether this is just Winter downs or a reformation of that old depression that used to bodyslam me nightly. Though it's been less frequent, the occurrences now strike with 100% more intensity which, honestly, leaves me a shivering mess on the bathroom floor. [Hi, Matt!] I lie in bed with such a groaning headache that I can't see past the pillows. ANd what do I do to resolve it? Nothing. Because there is nothing I can do. But, I digress. This is not a depression post, this is Sunday Bloody Sunday.

I've been imagining every person in my Mathematics class as a hideous beast. Or, sometimes, a pioneer. Sometimes, a pirate. Other times, a ghost. Mathematics is the class I stumbled in upon one day at the beginning of term. It was just my luck that the Mathematics class is a concurrent class. Just my luck that I sat where I was not, under any circumstances, supposed to sit; between Popular Loud Girl #1 and Popular Loud Girl #2. My God. I spend most of my time in Mathematics feeling alone and quiet, drawing the hideous beasts around me, writing beat poetry for the masses with my lips tapping. I'm not sure, but I may be failing Mathematics.

I may be failing at this whole Self-Confidence thing. Though I can take the shouts of, "BAD-HAIR CUNT BITCH" that The Scene Army's been throwing my way, I still take silent pictures of myself to make sure that my bad hair is just the way I want it. Though I no longer completely rely on Dobbl's presence in my classes, I spend Creative Writing wearing both my sunglasses and iPod. The solution to these problems escapes me. I feel, deep in my heart o' hearts, that no number of borrowed clothes or new shoes can help this. Is there anything that can? Is there anything that ever will?