I first met him at a party. I didn’t have much energy in my blood that night. I was happy to sit and talk about places, politics, and intellectual things. He was smart and perspicacious. We had a good conversation. When I was leaving, he made a point of letting me know that it was nice to meet me and we should hang out more.

The next time I met him, again I wasn’t feeling very exciting, but I wanted to be excited. He still wanted to talk about places and politics and intellectual things. I would have preferred jumping up and down and shouting, but I couldn’t muster up an impetus of my own, so it was fine.

The last time I saw him I was very excited. I was bubbling with nonsense and dynamism, ideas and inspiration. I didn’t want to talk about places and politics and intellectual things. I wanted to create something, be something, do something. I wanted someone to share my muse.

I’d say, "Blagga blagga plocko." He’d say, "Hmm," and continue his train of thought about this property of that phenomenon. I’d say, "Let’s record a song." He’d say, "What do you mean?"

I found myself thinking, "I’m more interested in myself than in him. I’m being interesting. He’s being dull." I wished there was a way I could take my leave gracefully, without insulting him. But, knowing him, I knew that I was trapped. So I entertained myself to myself while he talked and did my best not to seem rude or to feel bitter over the wasted evening.

I probably won’t hang out with him again, but knowing him got me thinking. There’s a very fine line between narcissism and boredom.

Then again, sometimes I’m the boring one.