Be, Be, Be (un)exciting.

Life is quite the bore sometimes.

Even now, nothing seems to be relevant enough to share; everything seems relevant enough to roll over and press between my fingers, squeezing out all the juices, studying what makes up this boring, lame, bland stuff. Anxiety's hammer has not hit me quite yet, but I know something of it or in its typical atmosphere will soon. I'm rather worried about being such a worrier. Can I spell? Is this correct? Do I bore? What else can I say?

But does that worry me, or do these questions scare the living hell out of me? (I'm sorry, I too, hate passages that ask a plethora of epiphany-esque questions [and I also hate work that is done with the intercepting paragraph--but I won't bother you with this now that I've used my personal maximum of two--all within one]). I cannot find pathways to challenge myself, as I never have, I certainly will not right now. There's nothing to impress, nothing to indulge, nothing to envelope my senses in. Maybe I'll go on a death-defying adventure and slay alleyway dragons and battle dirty haired gremlins. Or maybe I'll harness the forces of weather and embark on such adventures that books will be published on my escapades. Or maybe this will just be another sign of apathy--utter lack of motivation, shear misinterpretation of unimportant daydreams.

I hope I'm wrong. Yawn.