I’m not sure when this happened but I’ve begun realizing that I think I’m a boring person now. This is kind of amusing to me because high-school Colin thought that being called boring was the biggest insult imaginable. I’d tell myself that sometimes I might be an asshole, but at least I’m not boring. Or that only boring people get bored. Things like that.
But here I am now, in mid-twenties, alone (music lyrics of the week: “I don’t want to be alone, it’s boring), and I’m deciding if I should completely upend my life, move to New York, and get a PhD so I can help save the world in the second half of the 21st century. That doesn’t sound boring to me; it sounds really scary, actually. But I’ve already begun to start talking my way out of it: for instance, I realized I like my job and there’s a lot more to learn here, and that maybe I can defer for a year if this Russia–Ukraine thing gets hairy. Plus it would be nice to live my life in little four-year increments: high school, college, first job, PhD since that’ll probably be close to 5% chunks of my life. And it also gets cold in New York, so I’d get to wear some of my winter fragrances (e.g. Spicebomb Extreme and Tobacco Vanille) without making everyone gag as will soon happen here in LA as temperatures rise from 60 to 70 to 80 to 90 to 100 to 110°F. But those seem like dumb reasons.