Time lies, a dead mayfly on the windowsill

It should be very possible to get all philosophical about spring break, especially when one is at work and extremely bored. In essence, I'm getting paid to go off and write this philosophical treatise (Hey, it's St Patrick's Day, my illusions can party a little). Would that this made me a professional philosopher. And so I look around, searching for inspiration. Various parents with reluctant students in tow mill around aimlessly, except for the determined few that walk forcefully down the center aisle. At least somebody knows where they're going. Am I just jealous? Or am I simply angry that this is looking more like a journal entry than a blog post? Fresh start.

I feel as if I am in a state of constant self-betrayal. I loathe boredom, and yet I subject myself to it week after week for a few measly dollars. I soothe myself with promises that it isn't forever and I do need the money. The grey matter oozing out my ears pays no heed to the murmurings, though. What can I do, oh what can I do, oh what can I do, oh what can I do ... chantingchantingchanting, never stopping, never caring, slowly dying, without knowing. But I know everyone feels this, and for the uneducated young there are not many options more attractive than this. The pay is decent for what the work requires, and not stressful. Lovely. This has been an excellent fresh start. But who am I to question the leadings of the Muses?

The post runs short as the whine flows freely.

I will leave this as a testament to the petty trials of the not-yet-full-time philosopher.