Today is an utterly boring day. I can’t believe it’s already 4.30pm and I still haven’t done anything that made me a little less bored. My father is painting the walls down in our basement, and my mother is down with a cold – well, she says she is; I think she’s actually hungover because she and my dad were out on a neighbourhood party last night. I always thought that only old boring people live in our street, but these old boring people sure do love their neighbourhood parties. And their beer.
As for me, I decided today that I wouldn’t torture myself any more with Jane Eyre and instead look for something else to read. I don’t know what it is about that book, but it completely failed to draw me in or make me interested in what was going to happen next, and everytime I read a few lines I just wanted to slap Jane Eyre in the face for some reason. Now I’m either going to start the last Shakespeare play I own and haven’t read yet, or read The Trial by Franz Kafka which we have to read for next school year. But unfortunately I don’t feel like either…so that makes me even more bored.
In a desperate attempt to find something to do, I partially re-read my NaNoWriMo novel from last year earlier today, which at least was a little bit of fun. I fixed some typos, redundancies and awkward formulations, but I don’t have the courage or the motivation to edit it properly. I don’t know if I’m ever going to, to be honest. But I’m still completely gobsmacked that I even finished something like a novel. That thing contains some of the worst, but surprisingly also some of the best stuff I’ve ever written. Some parts were really quite funny (sometimes even intentionally), others sadder than I had remembered. And once I apparently used the word “tympanon”, because at some point last November I apparently knew what that word meant. Or it was just really late at night.
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