I was going to say something, but it was boring.
It’s more interesting if you wonder what it was.
Birds are boring, unless they’re indoors.
Paper is a little less boring when it’s folded into animals.
I bought a plant and its pot was terra cotta,
which is boring, so I painted it. This made the plant
look boring, so I painted it—you know the rest.
My old car was rusted in spots, so I added a stripe.
Is it excited that racing days lay ahead? Probably not.
My boss is boring, so when he talks
I imagine a polar bear behind him.
Steve Martin wished for a month-long orgasm,
but that would get boring after a week or so.
You should think of what you find boring.
This thing right here is boring, you were just thinking,
which is wonderful—it’s all part of the experience.
Sandwiches bore me to sleep. Sleep is never boring.
Computers are deathly boring, so I keep thinking
of painting over its plastic beige with a woodland scene
in spastic kid colors, but I haven’t found the time.
I love everything very poorly.