There’s a natural pause in conversations every seven minutes. It goes back to prehistoric times when people would have to periodically stop talking to make sure there were no predators. This is unprovable and probably bullcrap, but i believed it at fifteen, so much so, whenever there was a lull in our conversation, i’d tell my girlfriend “Hey, no predators.” This sounds a lot smoother in reminiscence than it probably was. In reality, my girlfriend and i had nothing to say to each other, and boredom is a predator stalking all my relationships, one i am powerless to stop. We’ll call this girlfriend Melissa 1. Melissa 1 left me for a guy at a rival school, but then there was Melissa 2. Melissa 2 got so bored she left me and joined a cult. If not for my mates, Biff and Romulo, i would have surely drowned in depression. Romulo was said to have a brother, Remo, and they had been raised by wolves. Instead of founding a great city, however, Romulo and i drank hot damn and desired PJ Harvey with a purity that would rival the grail knights. i wonder if PJ Harvey wishes it was still 1997. Some things were better then, other things much worse. Melissa 1 teaches music at the parochial school down the street. Melissa 2 disappeared from campus, spirited away by the cult. No search engine will bring her back now. And the loneliness i felt growing up helped make me kind maybe or at least kinder. Part of being kind is developing a certain tolerance for boredom, being able to stare into your coffee while another person stares into her coffee and think this is good; i’ll stay.