de facto Terminalization

Yes, time slips away. Through our fingers, we're caught in a perpetual state of losing time. It's probably all over the floor and we're stepping on innocent little seconds and minutes and hours and days that have seeped their way through the crevices between our fingers. I thought I was grasping so firmly. I suppose I thought incorrectly.

I was under the impression that I worked at 8am today, which essentially caused me to structure my day (in my new dayplanner! Woweeeeee) in a very precise manner:
-Work 8-5. The End.
No no, there is more...
-Go to parents house after work, get digital camera and laundry. Perhaps say a casual "hello" to my parents if time permits. Otherwise, nod as I walk out the door.
-Finally transfer the necessary funds between accounts to pay my soul-crushing (or is it soul-searching?) tuition.
-Have all this done by 9pm and then go out and do pretentious hipster things

However, today I threw all my time on the floor and stomped on it with rubber soles. Now it's warped. Not a time warp (like the song from Rocky Horror) – rather, warped time. I actually have to work from 1-10. I realized this once I was already at work. So, I left that wretched environment and its flourescent bulbs, white walls (it might as well be an asylum) and in an attempt to restructure my day, am now at my parents house. Live fast, have no regrets. Fuck off. I regret stopping off at this suburban land-mine. Yes, a suburban land-mine. I have to watch my step, for at any moment I could step upon dangerous territory and be blown to bits (verbally at least) by Walter, who's been overly touchy and overly cruel lately to compensate. Well, I didn't realize that I could step in a mine while remaining stationary in front of the coffee maker, brewing a delicious mixture of Tim Hortons fine ground and Second Cup butter pecan coffees.

As I ran to make my escape and ensure my limbs are still connected to by body, I stepped into another north of civilization (see "suburbs") land-mine. However, this one looked like a cross between a mountain lion and Robert Plant circa 1972. It was Marcy, who stumbled out of bed like a recovering anti-depressant addict (actually, it's tranquilizers) upon hearing the commotion between Walter and myself. I managed to send her back to the lion's den rather easily however and avert disaster in a shaken room....or hallway.

Now let us pray.

Rather, prey. On the innocent and naïve who actually pray. Delicious.