Talking Trash

One swift glance over my flat and anyone can safely assume it is an incubator of the most virulent health hazard known to mankind.

I am not sure I caught a certain lethargy bug but nothing seems to motivate me to actually pick up a rug and start dusting off. I feel so lazy in a chronic way and I can’t muster the courage to drag my sluggish ass and chuck a week worth of garbage into the building’s trash chute.

My energy level is on an all-time low, my other blogs remain abandoned, prompting certain fretful friends to fire me frantic text messages demanding to know if their suspicions are right that I stepped on a bar of soap in the shower and is currently on a very rapid state of decomposition.

Thrice last week, one of my best buddies dragged me out for a couple of drinks and though that amused me for a bit, it didn’t zap out the general feeling of ennui. I find myself yawning over conversations that would normally induce hysterical chuckles among us. We bar-hopped, and that didn’t perk me up, too.

Hopefully the alignments of dead rocks floating in space are going to shift very soon and exhume me from this rut.

Industrial design god Ron Arad once said that boredom is the mother of all creativity.

I’m waiting for it to hit me.

Meanwhile I have an abundance of boredom, a mutinous blank mind, and a pungent trashcan that may very well be the reason of my sudden and justifiable eviction.