I live in perpetual clockwork boredom.

Politics is boring, music is boring, relationships is boring, grammar is boring.

Lately I’ve been mentally mutilating myself. I tried to overwrite some of my most precious memories: where I grew up, my mothers name, that brief stint in police custody. At first it was hard, the memories would usually slither back the following day, but now I can forget the most important moments of my life with as much ease as ordering a toaster from Amazon.

Toasters are still slightly boring. I recently invented a game where I stuff dozens of £50 notes in the slots. I then try and see how much cash I can save before passing out from first degree burns.

Last week I wet the bed. I still haven’t washed the sheets. It brings me an immense flood of satisfaction to witness the fermenting stench of rancid piss increase in intensity on a daily basis. I have been told this is an ‘unusual and abnormal hobby’ by my doctor.

He is particularly concerned with my boredom. He told me that ‘bored people do bad things’ and that I would be better off ‘finding a more normal hobby’, or ‘meet someone new, find a girlfriend’. I told him to ‘go fuck himself, I’m gay and maybe liking my own damp piss is a good hobby’.


At the factory where I work, I’ve been dropping razor blades in a few of the tomato soup cans. My boss saw me do this, and she did nothing. She too is bored but she’s less bored than me because she gets paid more. She took a swim in one of the large vats of boiling soup yesterday, she told us it was the ‘best way to taste the product’.

This activity was quickly banned by her bosses boss when two guys from the fish processing department were hospitalised. Something about their lungs being filled with molten chicken stock, I’m no expert so I don’t know if that’s good or bad.

I pickled my small toe in brandy to give to my aunt for Christmas. She’s always been a heavy drinker and I think she’ll appreciate the personal touch that her second favourite grandson’s toe can bring to her second least favourite spirit.

Yesterday, I begrudgingly followed my doctors advice and I found a hobby.

I have started to write surreal stories that end up just stopping–

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.