Idle hands make the devil’s work.

January 16, 2005

There are a lot of people on this earth who shouldn’t have any extra time to just sit and think. To contemplate. I am one of them.

Keeping busy is a necessity for someone like me. That’s what jobs are for, I guess. I suppose I can thank Uncle Herschel for that much. If there weren’t jobs we’d lie around drunk all day watching pirate movies like I do on my days off. Our minds would wander and jump from thought to useless-thought so quickly and so needlessly they’d get tangled up in their own shoelaces and fall face first onto the ground. We’d murder and rape and steal and then cry ourselves to sleep. Idle hands make the devil’s work.

Boredom means you have to think. You have time to think about your current emotional state, your place in life, the universe, what you’re doing at this moment and how it is unimportant in the great expanse that is time, so on, so forth. It’s painful. I’m sure the hatred of boredom was imprinted into us like all of the other instincts. Man sat in a cave somewhere listening to the cavewoman make incredibly whiney noises and he stared at his cave walls. He stared and he listened until he could no more. He started jerking off and drinking fermented grapes and scrawling horrible stick figure horses on his walls and then, then he went out to collect rocks and dirt. He piled them into mounds until it was dark and he went home to pass out. A good days work and he was ready to sleep. That was it. It was enough.

That was probably the start of statues as well.

Good night.

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