I am bored. An experience so utterly foreign I'm hard pressed to remember if I've felt this way since I was a teenager, when everything but beer bongs and boy parts was mind numbingly humdrum. Then again I was the kind of nerd who found Faulkner to be a suitable replacement for the MTV I was forbidden to watch.
So boredom is elusive. Especially since I've been trapped inside the merciless clutches of the pitch that never ends. The pitch that has claimed all but one of my weekends in the past six weeks. Including this weekend, where a perfectly beautiful sunny saturday was sacrificed to the evil satan of slavery for the sake of two (albeit awesome super sweet ones that if produced will be book worthy gems in the sparse treasure chest of my portfolio) scripts. Two fucking scripts i could have written today instead of sitting here rediscovering what it feels like to be trapped by limited options.
but i can't leave yet. one of my bosses is sitting in his office cutting out pictures. the other one is MIA. and the past six slam packed weeks have not rendered me willing to ask him how the meeting went and risk him finding a way to alleviate this weird tapping of the pen and foot turn of events.
and if this little ramble has successfully recreated what the inside of my head feels like, i'm assuming you're as bored as me. life can be a shitty picnic sometimes, eh? hit the lights on your way out.