RoCkInG The Boat!

		Wednesday, August 11, 2004
		It's Einstein's Universe, I Just Live In It Time seems to be in flux today. I think it started sometime in the middle of the night during a dream the details of which are hazy, except that it seemed to involve watching an episode of the Original Star Trek TV series that I had never seen before. But when the alarm went off this morning, as it is wont to do every day at exactly 6:30 a.m. Pacific Time, my body felt like it had just lain down to sleep only a few minutes before. Normally, the process of getting my proverbial s**t together, toting bags of clothing, toiletries and work-related things to the shower, doing the morning ablutions and heading up to the parking lot takes a prescribed amount of time, usually, 40 - 45 minutes all told from alarm-to-car. Today, it was a mere 35 minutes, a bit foreshortened, but not enough to arouse suspicion. Still, it was time enough to stop by my favorite greasy-spoon place (which is really not greasy at all) for breakfast on my way in to work. Again, this is a process that over the course of several years has proven to require a relatively set amount of time to complete. This morning however, the cafe was unusually busy, and I barely made it in to the office by the stroke of 8. My boss has been on vacation for the past two weeks, which normally means that upon his return my working day is relatively busy, but not today. Frankly, it's been a little boring, and the morning seemed to drag on-and-on, the hands on the clock behind my head moving at a snail's pace around the dial. Finally, Noon. Yet, upon returning from "lunch" (since I didn't actually eat anything, having had a sufficiently sized morning repast to last through the workday), time seems to have inexplicably speeded up, to the point where in the blink of an eye, it's suddenly 3:30 p.m. And I have no idea how these last 2 1/2 hours sped by so quickly. Of course, now that I'm conscious of this varying passage of time, the rest of the afternoon will probably creep along at an excruciatingly petty pace (as The Melancholy Dane would soliloquize), until that final tick of the clock clicks over to the five, and it's time to go home again. Time will tell. Posted byCOMTE on 3:19 PM

0 Scurvy Dogs Have Gathered 'Round The Scuttle Butt