There are certain fundamental units that I naturally take issue with, because although they're supposed to be natural physical constants, I can't seem to adhere to their rules. I know they're there, always. I pay attention. But for some reason, these quantifiable physical laws just crumble when I'm around, despite how much I pay attention.
I mean, Time? Energy? Fuck that. And don't even get me started on torque and momentum, because sometimes I have this like, crazy super strength, and sometimes I can't lift my coffee without help. They change around me, they don't work congruently with their natural affairs, because I'm there. It would be way cooler if they could be manipulated, like with my hands or my brain, but that's just not happening.
It's because I'm not good at things.
I've never had many clocks. This is odd, because one of my goals in life is to make a clock. From scratch. Not that I want to you know, mold my own rack and pinion. I just want to put it together. Chances are I'll wind it to suit whatever measurement of time I see fit. Fuck minutes and seconds.
But I don't think I've ever purchased a timepiece in my entire life. All of the clocks in my apartment are on gadgets which require some form of space measurement to function: my phone, the DVD player. Cable. I don't have a microwave, so no clock there, and the old balls oven is timerless.
But MoLinder's got some clocks, so I don't always have to look out the window and guess if the Daily Show is about to start by stargazing. And Xtine left one clock after she moved out. That works for me.
But Xtine, your old clock, you know the one above the entryway? That one? I've ruined it. Officially.
That clock transcends the space-time continuum.
On Black Wednesday, it was 9:14 all day long. By Friday it was 9:17, and then on Saturday it jumped ahead to ten-ish.
But this past Tuesday, the damn thing accelerated to impossible speeds, doubling the velocity of how we, as humans, measure the quantity of fourth-dimensional space between occurrences. During the span of one hour of human time, that clock said, fuck it. Two hours. Take that, Time. It's 11:07 when I say it is.
I will never change the batteries on that thing. Studying it has to be the first step towards my future as a horologist.
And that's not the study of whores.
Stop laughing, Schmee.