branch

Here I go! More thoughts! Three posts before 3:00! Let's make it 30 posts before 2300 hours! 2300 hours = 11pm. That's doable.

What else is doable? Well, figuring out what I want in life and going after it. It's doable, but it won't be easy. So far it has actually been one of the hardest things in my life, second only to learning how to properly skip. Yes, skip. Like, what small elfish children do in fields of daffodils.

Okay, so now it is almost 4. I guess the whole "three posts before 3" did not come true. There's still hope for the 30 posts before 11pm. Sometimes all we have is hope, though, and not 27 more posts.

But yeah. 4:00. Where in the world does the day go? What a boring rhetorical question. Still, I want to grasp the day with my sandpaper hands and make it stay stay stay. I have so many things I need to do! I need to, I don't know, vacuum! And organize my bookshelves and put on some pants and research penguins and think about applying for jobs I'll never get. I was even considering shaving my legs, but why? And for whom? And with what time? Time escapes. It does not wish the be held. I either make myself miserable wishing time wished to be held or else I drop that wish and release myself from my self-imposed prison. (That sentence could have been less messy, but life is just messy sometimes. Drop it.)

Chapped lips, hairy legs, sandpaper hands, bloodshot eyes. Who will love this beast? When will Monday leave? But wait -- I thought I wanted time to stop. To stay or to leave, to invite or turn away. Make up your mind, sweet beast.

Turns out my posts get progressively weirder throughout the day.

Turns out I might want to get married after all. Just for a decade or so. But what a decade it'll be! We can go to Spain and for some reason Yugoslavia and we can fight in hot hostels with hot Europeans eavesdropping. We can order meals in restaurants and ask the waiter for water or better yet wine or better yet water which has been miraculously turned into wine. We can look for miracles in our marriage in order to save it, in order to stop time, in order to freeze love at its height, at its most deceptive and blind. We can find nothing but pockets of regret and photos of us from when we looked really good with our tans from Spain. Maybe we should get takeout tonight. Maybe we should stay inside and not let the world out there decide our fate. Maybe our fate has already been decided, but my does the orange chicken taste good with white wine. It shouldn't, but it does. We shouldn't, but we do. We haven't enough time, so let's stop looking at the clock. Let's be fools for miracles instead of slaves to seconds.

Again, progressively weirder posts as time goes on.

And on.

And on.

And on.

And prepare yourself for 27 more branches emerging from my brain.