Boredom Thy Name is Queenan

Alright, so I could not possibly be any more bored than I am at this moment. I have been locked inside my dull eggshell-colored office for the past 2 weeks without a soul to speak to besides the turtle, who would really rather hide beneath the cabinets than have anything to do with me. Turtles may look cute, but they make rather unaffectionate pets. And don't think that I'm so bored simply because I have nothing to do. On the contrary, there are stacks of papers to be filed, bills to be paid, shelves to be organized, almost too much excitement for one girl to handle! As you can well imagine, silence is an auditory affect with which I have little experience, having spent the majority of my life exercising my jaw muscle to whomever was within earshot, voluntarily or otherwise. Hence, my days in the solitary confines of my poorly-guarded, atrociously-carpeted, cheaply-furnished penitentiary have me on the brink of complete insanity.

And I'm not the only one. Who do you think must bear the tidal wave of talking every evening after my escape? Poor Sweetpotato. Here is a man who chats his cellphone battery into the charger at least twice a day being spoken into submission for a solid hour while I recount the mundane details of my routine, complete with lunch menu and gym schedule. To think, I could once enthrall him with novel experiences, and now I watch him zone out through yet another harrowing adventure with the copy machine.

I can only hope that some day soon, someone will take pity on me and send me a cure for this chronic boredom. Please submit all suggestions not office related to queenan@dearqueenan.com You may be my only hope for sanity and Sweetpotato's only hope for escape!