Amidst all the supposed sunniness that is flashing before my head, somewhere in the foggy corner of my noggin, boredom settles down like sugar in a glass of bad, cold milk.


Thy boredom come. Thy will be done.

So I resorted to searching sources on the net that will provide the recipe to a mean homemade pepper spray.

Yes. That is boredom.


I resolved to play Henry Krinkle provided my school schedule will allow me to stay outdoors till a quarter before midnight, standing in some stinking pavement somewhere in Taft, waiting for a packed ride.

Then, under the soft pool of lamp post illumination, the 'taxi driver pimp' counterpart would show up, this time minus the moronic top hat and thrift store sports coat but a pair of overused imitation Birkenstocks and hopeless body odor. His Visayan accent is bloody sharp. 'Izzy' would be standing next to a filthy garbage can, not blonde but a fake red head with bad teeth and diseased olive skin.

And then...

"'You talkin' to me?..."

Pepper spray, this time, will knock off the scum.


and boredom kisses me insane.