I’m only updating because my favorite utensil (shut up, it’s a term of endearment. Really!) made me write this down:
Every spring when it’s Daylight Saving Day, I get a glimpse of the plight of the black man. Like, there’s these old dead white men who decided things were going to be a certain way and now they’re still that way and it messes with MY life and there’s just nothing I can do about it. I’m just completely screwed by The Man and that’s just the way it is.
He said it needed to be written down.
So there it is then.
I should move to Arizona. They don’t mess with the hours. They just let the hours be.
The only reason they’ve got us by the balls (yes, suddenly I have balls, imagine my surprise and delight as well) is that we are only pissed about Daylight Saving Time for about two weeks at the most. Then we forget about it. We adjust to the societally imposed semiannual jet lag. And when fall rolls around, no one really gets upset because, hey, free hour. But I always spend that entire hour stressing about how screwed up I’m going to be in April. It’s like credit card debt hanging over me for six months at 24% interest. Wait, that’s EXACTLY what it’s like, which explains why I gain an hour in autumn but somehow lose two entire days in spring. Interest compounded daily. Time’s not a bitch, it’s a guy named Vinnie in cheap suit and a late model Chrysler who’s going to break your kneecaps if you don’t pay up.
I just looked down. I’m wearing my pajamas. That’s the only clue I have that I should go to bed.
Gah. Mofo Daylight Saving Time. I think I need another massage.
What is going on with Anna Beth? Because I suspect that she’s been kidnapped. Someone in Texas find out what the hell is going on?
I worry.
That is all.
Stop looking at my pajamas.
