On Being "Boring"
Updated: Jan 10
"On Being 'Boring'"
You once described yourself as boring to me. I wanted to match you with a Taylor Swift song, and the three words you gave me, preceded by a reluctant “sure” after I insisted you actually feign an interest in my activity, were “tall, dark, and boring.” I remember initially laughing because I didn’t want to believe it; I thought you were just showcasing humility or being sarcastic as a flirtatious tactic. I didn’t think it could actually be true. It couldn’t be, I attempted to convince myself rather frequently, because I had already spent so much time on you, and what a waste of time that would be if you were, in fact, just boring.
You speak in uncapitalized letters and infrequent exclamation, and I thought that was just your texting method, that I was the outlier in my excessively expressive language. Never once did I get more than two messages in a row and only in the form of replies, you just waiting for me to speak and start something.
But the more and more I talk to you, I start to wonder if that’s just who you are—the lack of severe romantic messages because there are no extremities at your core. The lack of any true care because your emotions oscillate on a scale so thin that there is nothing in this world that can make you exceptionally jubilant or depressed. No matter how dramatic, my threats to never talk to you again garnered one sentence replies of “it’s okay,” and no picture I ever sent made you look at me in any different way. Instead of staying up to talk all night, with phones pressed close to our ears so that no one else in the family could hear, you actually not only care but look forward to getting a good sleep at night.
There were so many signs, but I just didn’t want to believe that you could be completely mediocre and still somehow draw this kind of attention from me. What would it say about my worth and my standards if you turned out to be someone with whom one should have no reason to be obsessed, no reason for energy to be expended on blocking you on all forms of media, not enough for someone to feel validated from you because you aren’t the poster child of anything? How pathetic would I find myself if I finally, after all this time, accepted your ordinariness?
I wonder if this is just all because of our connection through screens, but I’m honestly starting to think you might just be boring.
Never really caring about what I have to say, only wanting specific things. Always turning the conversation shallow when it could have gone deep. Even people who don’t fit the stereotype can be superficial, that’s what I’ve learned from you.
I’m so ready to finally meet you so that I can decide for myself if it’s all just a pretense or if this is who you are. I’m so excited to feel deeply if I do, but I’m also so ready to realize all that you aren’t and to finally get over you. I’m so ready to read a message and to not purposefully leave you on “seen.” I’m so ready to respond to you first because I don’t care what word I use to describe how I feel today. I’m so ready to give you general answers and to use “good” and “thank you,” like I do to everyone else.
I’m just so excited to be released from you. I’m so excited to finally live my life because I found out that you’re nothing that I desire or need.
I’m so ready to have no one I’m obsessed over so that I can finally focus on actual love.
And we’ve finally done it; we’ve met. And my suspicious were right; you are just that way you admitted. You never had those loving eyes I so wanted from you; you never did anything spontaneous with me, instead ending our date early with the excuse of all the things in the morning we both had to do.
However, despite this affirmation of all that I had dreaded, still, my feelings have not changed. Instead, my obsession with making you obsessed with me is now further heightened because your lack of emotions delivers such a harsh blow, especially now that, in the same room, all our attention has to be on one another; how do you maintain such indifference when I am right here? How do maintain disinterest when my open-book, talkative self is here and so ready to be vulnerable with you?
I’m not into you, and yet, I have become even more drawn to you, an invisible string forever linking us as my insecure self obsesses over your shocking apathy towards me, one with a disposition epitomizing the opposite of boring.
You once described yourself as insane to me. No, it was many times, somehow always finding its way into our conversations randomly. Crazy, psychotic, you’d further explain. Initially, I thought it was just a flirtatious tactic, trying to associate yourself with some flattering, exciting personality.
You spoke in so many exclamation and question marks. You spoke in five messages at a time, never waiting for my answer or listening to what I’ve said; it was often rather hard to keep up with your changing of topics and sudden anecdotes, this free-flow of personal information that just came rushing out whenever we were both online, and your bipolar demeanor that would ask me to leave you alone only to reach out to me a week later as if you had never implored your need of space.
And I thought it was just who you were in the context of your screen, a performance of extreme excitement to counteract the boring and impersonal situation of social media. But, more and more, I’m starting to think it’s just who you are—the words that mean nothing, the empty stares and looks you were trained to assume as an actor on stage.
I was so ready to finally meet you so that I could finally see how you didn’t, in fact, do this to every guy, how there was something particularly special about me. I was so ready to see how you could turn the façade off, how we could just stare at each other without your needing to shout or exclaim anything.
I was just so excited to be released from your caricature and to finally get to know you.
I was so ready to no longer obsess over wanting you to be different because that new version of you would just be there when we met.
And we’ve finally done it—we met in real life for the first time. And my much-dreaded suspicions turned out to be true. Throughout our date, you hardly even looked at me, instead opting to stare straight ahead at the pathway and, self-absorbedly, dance around embarrassingly to try to make me fall for you. You took my hand but never walked by my side, instead pulling me along to fit your dream of adventuring with some boy, me being exploited for your selfish wishes to come true. You talked about the other dates you’d had, belittling our own time. I stole a look at your notes app and saw a checked-mark list of all those you had to meet before you left to see that I was just one of the many.
I tried to search for truth in your eyes, but your judgmental attitude completely turned me off, your need to talk and talk without ever once just looking at me and shutting up.
My suspicious were right and so my feelings towards you changed. I no longer held on to the sliver of hope that there was some authentic human being buried under the materialistic, arrogant person you were, or, at least, it was hidden so deep it would be almost masochistic to try to break her free.