More Please

There has got to be more to this summer than sitting at home doing nothing. I could write, I could read, but what does that get me in the end? Not much. I get the satisfaction of writing a story and finishing a few dozen copies of the New Yorker (none of which are relevant anymore, since they're so old at this point), and then maybe I can tear a few up and make something out of the pages. But what does that get me? Nothing. Nada nada limonada, and let me tell you, this is some sour lemonade.

There has to be something I can do with myself. Right now, it looks like I'll be spending my time in the ivory tower, staring out the window at the sidewalk I'd love to be walking on. I'm no better than a baby, or my 97 year old great-grandma; I can't go out without someone holding my hand.

Living dangerously at this point would be to just go outside and sit on the porch. Seriously. I know, I know, this isn't a big problem. In less than three months I'll have so much independence I won't know what to do with it all. But I want it now. I know I don't have it as bad as some people do--I know kids who are much worse off, in terms of what they can and can't do. But that doesn't mean that this isn't frustrating. If I wasn't so scared of getting in trouble, I'd grab my bike out from the garage where it's been waiting all year and take it for a spin around the block, just once, or down to Vons to get some ice cream. Never mind the fact that I have plenty of it in the freezer already-- I want to buy it myself.

I'm tired of not doing anything. Summer has hardly even started, and I'm already bored with it. I read somewhere that someone said being bored was an insult to yourself, but at this point, I don't think myself cares very much. I want to do something more productive and interesting than read another book or an article about some obscure artist. I want to achieve something. This is what I get for being such a goody two-shoes.

I don't like it anymore.