The moment I wake up, I put on my boredom lenses, brush my teeth with boredom, and eat boredom for breakfast. Breakfast is sprinkled with boredom, with some boredom side dish, and a glass of boredom. After breakfast, I shower with boredom, lather the foamy boredom shampoo on my hair, boredom soap on my skin, followed by boredom lotion and boredom body cologne a few minutes later. I wear boredom for a t-shirt, boredom for jeans, and boredom for shoes. I ride boredom to work and face boredom the rest of the day. Nine hours tick idly by and boredom sinks in. I'm supposed to be bored, but boredom keeps me company. Such a good friend this boredom is. After a whole day of boredom, I ride boredom home, have boredom for dinner, remove my boredom lenses, sleep on boredom, and then dream of boredom. The following day it's boredom all over again. And then a week passes by, then a month, then a year, then a decade, when lo and behold, it hits me that I have lived the full life: I have lived the life of boredom, and thus shall my life end, with boredom. From boredom I came, to boredom I shall return. In between I'd be the living proof of boredom, boredom in the flesh, boredom in thought, boredom in speech, boredom in action, boredom in the very beating depths of my bored heart. One day, someone will be inspired by boredom, and that person will exhume my body from the grave, and smell boredom and see boredom and touch boredom with his bare bored hands, and then that person will weep and understand. Thus, that's how he will be infected with boredom. Boredom will light up his heart, fire up the thousand books he will write endlessly about boredom, and then fuel the weekly masses that he will speak in the name of boredom. "Boredom is the way, the truth, and the light," he will say, and many shall be bored, and boredom shall sweep the face of the earth.