It's not as depressing as it sounds, merely tedious. I turn the same issues over and over in my head. Issues like, is marriage a good idea? what happened to my sister to make her so disagreeable and is future interaction with her preventable; if so, how? Is it better to turn the other cheek or devise devious revenge against the few enemies that are a constant thorn in my side? Is the view from the moral high ground really so enjoyable that it beats the heady pleasure of revenge? Should I go back to college? Does my cat seem depressed or is he just being a cat? Is it worth it to walk all the way to the library?
If you think you're bored now, try reading the last paragraph repeatedly until you fall asleep. For the next twenty-two years. I honestly believed that by this point in my life, I'd have more interesting things to think about. I really want to train myself to turn my brain off the way you would a televsision. But then I wonder, what would I become? An animal? A yogi? A saint? A Pretty Girl? Perhaps it would be more worthwhile to attempt to train myself to think more interesting things. Is it in bad taste to scratch under your bra strap in the back where the itchy flap is, in public? Probably. This here is exactly why I'm a bookworm. It does, somehow, still seem more worthwhile than video games. More prestigious and intellectual. Even though all I read is beach fiction. Insubstantial television-style fiction that entertains me while I try not to listen to myself chatter. I swear I'm getting more and more stuppid with each passing day.