Why does a day seem longer during the week than one on the weekend? Why does time seem to pass slowly when you look at a clock? These things bug me, much like the fact that as one ages, a year becomes shorter. When one is five, a year is a whole fifth of his life, whereas when he is twenty, a year is only a twentieth of his life. This being said, I suppose months, weeks, days, hours, and so on would become shorter as one ages as well, however, to me it only seems that years get shorter. When I'm at work watching the clock, each minute gets shorter in comparison with my life, but I can't feel it so it does me no good. When we're all sixty-five and retired, a year will be a measly sixty-fifth of our lives, and we'll have no time to speak of to enjoy that for which we tax-payers have worked so hard.
All of the clocks in my house are set seven minutes ahead. My best friend once told me that coming to my house was like stepping into the future. One of the clocks in my room is set twenty minutes ahead of the rest of the clocks in the house, therefore it is twenty-seven minutes ahead of the actual time, so if coming into my house is like stepping into the future, then coming into my room must be like stepping so far in the future that you actually wind up in the past, which is much as it should be.
I've always wondered why I wasn't born in the '20s or '30s. The men were charming and chivalrous, even if they were criminals, the women were classy and still knew their role, the clothes were awesome, no one was fat, the children were polite, people only bought what they could afford, the cars were oh so cool, people actually knew how to dance and made use of their knowledge quite frequently, jazz was everywhere, and there was no John Kerry. I bet the convogination was even great, not to mention the booze that old, rich ladies made in Virginia. Maybe I should set my clock ahead even more...
seashell
