How do you write about boredom, real soul-deadening boredom, the kind of boredom brought on by browsing the front tables at a big chain bookstore, for example, where every title on display is like every other title on display, books for men, because, you see, Father's Day is coming up and that's such an important retail opportunity, so you have these boring books neatly arranged by subject, those subjects appealing to men, of course, science for instance, or history, or micro-science and micro-history, or economics, or sports, or grilling, apparently grilling is what men do when they're not reading or playing golf, or testosterone-fueled thrillers, (an especially boring phrase that, don't you think?) as opposed to the softer feminine thrillers, books with covers stamped out of that Big Book Cover Machine all publishers use when they want to bore potential readers out of their gourds, mostly hardcovers, but with a few paperbacks stacked nearby, titles allegedly humorous in nature, books by comics, for instance, or actual comic books, the kind with crude drawings in them, or lots of dirty words, meant to be ha-ha-ha raunchy but just plain stupid, books acquired by editors who wouldn't think of buying them as customers, but just to make their bosses happy, and their bosses' accountants happy, the books that will supposedly help their readers cope with boring days and boring nights, or to help them cope with boring relationships or boring jobs, or, maybe most poignantly, if you happen to be a sensitive soul, boring blogs, how do you write about this boredom that begins insinuating itself into your consciousness about fifteen feet into the big chain superstore, and slowly creeps into all of its crevices, spreading across thousands of square feet, like a cloud, a big black cloud, a boring big black cloud, which surrounds you and begins to suffocate you?
You get your arse out of that store pronto and you write about the rain instead, the way the incessant downpours have brought everything to a New Low. Yes. The rain instead.