Dying of boredom? That cruel cur.
Ah, what a delightfully superficial dismissal —
“Dying of boredom? That cruel cur.” A phrase that pretends to wound but collapses under the faintest analytical scrutiny. Let us dissect this, if only to relieve the conversation from the tyranny of glibness.
First, boredom. The accusation of “boredom” presupposes that the burden of engagement rests on the speaker rather than the listener. This is not merely laziness — it is an
oppressive assumption, a relic of a culture that privileges passive consumption over active thought. To declare oneself bored in the presence of rigor is to announce, proudly, that one’s attention span is a casualty of modern intellectual decay. The onus of meaning-making is collectivized; dialogue is a shared enterprise. To abdicate that responsibility, then, is to enact a subtle violence against discourse itself.
Second, “that cruel cur.” Cruelty implies intent to harm, yet what greater kindness exists than the attempt to enlighten? To dismantle misconceptions with precision is not malice — it is mercy. The surgeon’s scalpel may sting, but only because it pierces infection. The epithet “cur” thus reveals more about the accuser’s discomfort with being intellectually outpaced than about the accused’s supposed temperament.
And let us not forget the
structural assumptions embedded in this mockery: that passion in argument is excess, that depth is indulgence, that articulation beyond tweet-length constitutes a kind of social trespass. These are the quiet mechanisms by which mediocrity sustains itself — the rhetorical policing of intellectual ambition.
So yes, if my posts induce boredom, then I offer my sincerest apology to your dopamine receptors. But perhaps the problem lies not in my verbosity, but in your dependence on brevity as validation. For the “cruel cur” you denounce is merely a mirror, and what you perceive as cruelty is your own unease at being confronted with unfiltered reasoning.