Insta-bored.

August 29, 2013

Yo, so– I haven’t forgotten about doing the 30 day meme I started in June, it’s just that the next question is about describing your best friend; and I just never feel like I have the energy required to complete such a post. I have so many people I consider my best friends, and doing them each justice is a gargantuan task. They’re all so lovely and wonderful in a variety of ways which is why I keep them in my life, & close to my heart.

With that said, I’ve been having a strange issue lately. Aside from accidentally erasing my big girl blog (oops!) and all of its content (double oops!) I’ve been finding myself increasingly bored with a lot of normal media consumption lately. (Maybe “art”? I’m not sure.) Nothing’s been holding my focus in terms of storytelling (TV, movies, or books) and it’s really starting to get me irritated. I want to read all of a fic, for example– but as soon as something asinine happens that I disagree with (whether it’s a minor spelling error or a major mischaracterization) I can’t keep reading.

I haven’t read a good fic in SO GODDAMN LONG.

Favorite episodes of my favorite TV shows even sound boring to me these days. Christine Cagney getting shot? Snooze. Group of ER docs getting sent to sexual harassment class? Double snooze. Captain and CMO of a federation starship finally realizing that they’re deeply in love with each other but too embarrassed to say so without mind implants? BOH-RINGAH.

Is nothing good anymore?

I don’t know what it is!

I’m thinking it may be partially due to the fact that I want stories to go other places than they actually do; and knowing where I want them vs. where they end up makes me sad. (Unfulfilled is probably a better word for what I feel. Sad isn’t really it. It seems to immature and vague.)

I keep waiting for my imagination to fill in the gaps of desire that I’m searching for, and some sleepless nights, I’m mildly successful. Dreaming droopy eyed about Alex and Olivia finally getting their shit together, or how Dr. Crusher would handle Jack’s absence during their marriage, or how Cagney would have dealt with actually¬†being¬†pregnant instead of thinking about it. I like gripping my arms around my pillows and pretending I’ll actually be able to sleep that way comfortably. (This never works.)

I’m not sure why everything is actually boring me senseless, yet I have no desire to see a story of my own through to fruition. Even the original things I’ve been working on haven’t had any flair to them recently. (Though I’m almost done with a second draft of my pilot, and I’m actually mildly pleased with it– which is good.)

Maybe I’ll imagine something worth writing down one of these days?

Until then, I guess I’ll have to ride this wave of consumable media malaise.