If I weren't so tired or bored or angry or disappointed so much of the time, I might venture outside of the small bubble that surrounds my immediate self.
I might take up drinking with the homeless-Americans in Boston's quaint public alleys.
I might hang glide or balloon or join the North Shore kite-flying society and spend time complaining with my fellow upper middle class dribs about those eye-sore homeless-Americans littered about the streets and abandoned buildings.
I might take long road trips along the coast and land at the breakers in Rockport and eat steaming bowls of New England clam chowder with bikers and tourists.
I might buy or even make some form of art.
I might Ralph Waldo Emerson and walk into the woods, searching for a strong, old tree to stop at and sit to read labels on old wine bottles.
I might do nothing.
I might commute to work every day and sit in my dull cubicle*, staring out the window, wondering what it would be like to venture outside the bubble that surrounds my immediate self.
*Typos corrected, thanks for noticing, I'll remember you when I'm dead.