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I couldn't hardly describe this feeling. It was boredom, but then as soon as you found something to do, you couldn't even get up the energy to do it. Even though you'd done nothing all day long. And I need something to do and I need someplace to go and I need something to make me happy and--

And I would love to have a cup of coffee. I remembered the last time I had some coffee.

We celebrated Bastille Day in high style and in full regalia, even though neither of us were French, nor did we speak French, or know anyone French, or did we have any particular interest in France. We were just looking for something to do.

I drank my coffee with lots of milk and you had yours black, because you thought that made you awesome.

(It did.)



When you left I thought I might cry, because I could feel the boredom, the smothering boredom, coming back, even though it was almost midnight and I ought to be asleep, anyway.

But then there was the insomnia.

I had no reason to sleep each night, no reason to get up each morning, nothing to do in between these events. I had no reason to get dressed or to put on makeup, or do really try for anything at all. I was hideously, horribly, and heinously bored.

This was the summer we were unemployed. It nearly ruined everything we had and didn't have, that summer. But that's a story for another day.