The Barmaid at the Folies-Bergères

I've never been bored.
not ever.
At least, I've never been this bored.
I've not ever been this bored before.

What I mean to say, of course, is that I love my job.
As a child, I prided myself in the fact that I could play alone for, well, ever, with almost no stimuli but...myself. I had enough fuel (actually, fuel brings up something of a sore spot right now, as I ran out of gas on a dark rainy highway last night and the man at the gas station [that I had to walk to in the cold, rainy darkness] was so unaccommodating. bother.) in my over-active imagination to last me until bedtime. Or at least until my sister got home so I could terrorize her.
But now, between snotty comments of "I want your job!", "You get paid to surf the web all day!?" [excuse me, I am not surfing the web, thank you, I am reading the New York Times, you "I play arena football because I can't play real football" imbecile] and "working hard?" I literally have nothing to do for extended periods of time.

And... okay, I'll say it:
I'm afraid my imagination isn't what it used to be.
Eek! I said it! How can I be bored? I've made lists ["How to Improve this Desk," "10 ways to commit suicide using only office supplies," etc.]! I've played games (Granted, "guess what I'm thinking- extreme edition" isn't that fun alone). And yet I can read the symptoms. I'm classically, through-and-through, Jungle Book vultures, watch-Pete-and-Pete re-runs-all-day bored.
bored bored bored.
And so I have no choice but to eat all these blueberry, cinnamon, chocolate chip, pumpkin, and cranberry scones they keep not eating. OH, and the huckleberry cinnamon rolls.
And the cheese danishes.

whoopsies.

NOW I'M BORED AND FAT!

Anyway,

Number one on my "How to Improve This Desk" list is, of course, Manet. So, I sometimes get funny looks at the lone picture I have taped up under here at eye level:

If anyone asks about her, I tell them it's a private joke. Which is kind of thrilling, feeling like Manet and I developed some sort of running jest over coffee while we developed the impressionist movement together.

We didn't. But still.

Look at her! Her bored, lonely, stare- trapped, stifled! in alienation- while her dreamy, skewed reflection attends to the swarthy customer in the stove pipe hat. She's just like me.

So we made a deal, her and I. We're going to tough out the shady men over the counter and our lowly days in the dregs of the working class. But these days we spend at our respective "bars" will turn us into...

masterpieces.

That's the deal, anyway.

Unfortunately, it was something of a one-sided conversation. And she doesn't have texting, so...

Hurrah for the winding down of day four! Tomorrow I'm leaving on a jet plane with the girls (mama, grandmama, and aunt suzanemama) for ickle Mindy-cousin's wedding. Still trying to make something of myself. I suppose most things just work one day at a time, don't they?

meh.

Time for a scone.

Banana