Boring

John Hughes once said, “When you grow up, your heart dies.” I was about 15 when I first heard that, and in my eager know-it-all teenage certainty, I laughed out loud. What is he on? I thought. I’ll only start living once I escape the annoying parental unit blocking my global awesomeness, I told myself.

Don’t get me wrong, those thirty seconds between the parental blockage and officially being a grown-up were fucking awesome.

Everything after that is just boring.

Are you bored, people? I don’t mean bored in a physical way — I work too damn hard to ever have the luxury of being bored — I mean bored in a deeper sense. Why is everything we do as grown-ups so bland? So uninteresting? We do things, we go out, we meet people, we buy stuff, we talk, we love, we exist — but most of the time it all feels like a chore instead of something thrilling.

Maybe I’m in a phase.

Why don’t we feel the way we felt as teens, waiting for all those things to happen to us, when we couldn’t contain the excitement just imagining doing them?

My friends tell me it’s just me — that I can’t stand anything less than high intensity. The people around me, relationships, outings, art — my entire existence has to run at full speed, heart beating out of my chest. Otherwise, it’s boring to me.

No one can even annoy me properly anymore, that’s how un-thrilling it is. I can’t even get mad at people. Nothing anyone does touches me, good or bad.

Nothing is too amazing. Nothing is too terrible. Everything is just medium.

Mediocre.

What is happening to me? Do you feel it too? Was John right? Do our hearts really just die as we grow up?

We do, we are, we live — but it feels more like a chore than excitement.

I felt it so strongly the other day. I was driving around Los Angeles in my car, a so-called paradise, everyone says — I have just finished work I love, I bought stuff, met friends, thought about my birthday I celebrated a few days ago; everything a person could want for — I’m lucky — and I’m chronically bored.

Maybe I ask too much of life.

I’ve always wanted everything to be too much — excessive, full-on, pumping with the highest energy. Anything less than that, anyone less than that, just wouldn’t be enough for me. So okay, maybe it is me. And nothing I’ve seen recently is doing it for me.

Fuck you, John Hughes.

I picked up my friend on my drive around the paradise I don’t feel anything towards — I call it my LA Boring Day Drive — and he suggested we buy some cupcakes. Cupcakes always make me feel good — there’s something so childish, fluffy, pink, and comforting about cupcakes. And he also said, “I have the perfect song for you, for the state you’re in!”

I thought, yeah right, you optimist. No way you’re hitting me with anything right now. I’m like an iron casket — completely impenetrable at the moment.

We get to the car.

He plays the song.

I have never laughed so hard, and I have never heard anything truer — or more to the point — of what I was feeling in that moment.

I wanted to pee my pants.

From excitement. Excitement! At last.

This is my new anthem.

Finally, someone who understands me.

‘Boring’

Saturday Night, we look alright, we're going out.

Boring. 

Paris, France, Londontown, NYC. 

Boring.

Nothing thrills us anymore, no one kills us anymore, life is such a chore. 

When it's...Boring.

Sexy boy, girl on girl, manage trois.

Boring.

Marijuana, cocaine, heroin. 

Boring.

Nothing thrills us anymore, no one kills us anymore, life is such a chore.

When it's….Boring.

Galliano, Donatella, Dolce & Gabbana.

Boring.

Caviar, Escargot, Dom Pérignon. 

Boring.

Love of my life, bear your child, everything I've ever wanted.

Boring.

Nothing thrills us anymore. No one kills us anymore, life is such a chore.

When it's….Boring.