What happened on Saturday? Was there a Saturday? Did I sleep through Saturday? Yesterday, I thought it was Saturday. I was happy about that because it meant I had one more whole day to finish some stuff that I was supposed to finish by Sunday (but that isn’t finished yet because today is inexplicably Monday instead of Sunday). Then Sean told me it was Sunday, like, now (meaning: then). Something is wrong. Did we skip ahead an entire day instead of an hour when we moved our clocks? Not that I bothered touching any of our clocks. Any clock that can’t keep track of what time it is on its own has no business being a clock. Sorry excuse for a time machine! And any clock that can’t keep track of what time it is on its own in my apartment has not been set correctly in over a year. I just don’t give a damn what bloody time it is. That’s one of the few luxuries of being broke. Doesn’t matter what time it is. I don’t have anywhere to be. Time is money, and I don’t have any of either of them. Well, as a matter of fact, I have a shit ton of time on my hands. Lemme go wash it off. Takes a lot of soap to stop the passage of time.
Alcohol, the fast forward time machine!
And see, I'm getting shit done. Now I can delete the email informing me of this comment from my inbox.