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.
For example:
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.
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10 comments:
I tell time the way our ancestors did: by asking someone else, preferably some fat cat with a pocket watch attached to his vest with a jaunty watch fob.
Time is a man made thing. A twenty four hour day is something my body has never been able to sync up with (it should last about 27 hours.
But I'm cool with that.
My husband is a machine making freak. He can make anything and it works.
Heh. You said units.
I just want horology to be the study of whores. No matter what time it is. And yes, I laughed.
Clocks are your issue. These old-fashioned pieces of office equipment called fax machines are mine. Can't use 'em. Can't send. Can't receive. Can't even walk by one without it jamming. And now we have a fax/printer/MRI/scanner/espresso maker in a room I'm not allowed in. Find with me.
Pistols: Firstly, what kind of a person knows about fobs? Secondly, in regards to jaunty dangley things, I would choose one shaped like either (a) a train, or (b) a watch.
Kitty: Twenty-seven hours would be way better. And just because I make things does not mean they work. Usually they just sit there and gather dust and conversation.
Derf: Did you ever notice that units must nearly always have an explanatory preface or conclusion? Otherwise we're just talking about dick.
Mongo: Ah, but the proper term for one who studies whores? "FBI Special Agent." The original whorebusters.
Franklin: I never have problems with the fax machine, because I flat out refuse to use it. Will not.
...Later on in the day, I recieved the following text message from Schmee: Hah. "stop laughing schmee"...was totally laughing. You really are psychic.
Are you sure you've not been dripping red Bull n vodka into that clock?
For the longest time I never wore a watch because I thought it was gonna make me obsess with time. Then I got one for some reason, and I started showing up places when I was supposed to be there. Which I guess means that time started to control my fucking life.
Is there a study of whores? Because somehow I think I'd sign up for that.
Crow: Highly unlikely. I refuse to keep red bull in the house. Automatic gag.
Blues: Get out while you can. Fuck time.
Gypsy: I demand and ethnographic study of whoriculture by Friday.
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