We tried to define bore, and found out how relative and personal the term was. For instance Magee, our African boarder, thinks the Gulf of Mexico out there is boring, and said he went across the highway to the beach in the dark of night just to piss in it. He thinks of the sea as a boring efficient sewage system. Bob Hill came in with a point that the sky was boring, often. Bryant made a bid that, among the arts, only literature was boring. Know what I did then? I had my pistol and I discharged it twice at the ceiling of the TV room, where we were. “But nobody that knows Didi can say she is boring!” I shouted. A dust of plaster was raining down on us. Everybody agreed that you weren’t boring. Trove, our young landlord, came in looking at the two craters in the ceiling. They looked like a brassiere seen from the angle of a woman about to put it on. Trove as much as told me I was boring, getting drunk and having a pistol and so on, and I’d have to quit these habits or room elsewhere. After the commotion was over, Weymouth, our British friend, asked us, “Do you know what is really boring, but I’ll kiss its soil and miss it so much I can’t sleep at night unless I’ve had a six-pack of what you call beer?” Nobody could guess. “England,” he said. “Merry old bloody boring England.” It brought tears to my eyes….And Didi, you bring tears to my eyes.
