I have to wake up in four hours to go to work. I admit it: my inability to manage time is one of my weakest qualities. I’m late everywhere. All of the time. To the point where I managed to develop my own personal time frame over the course of a few months. “Mike-time,” my friends would call it.
The root of the problem isn’t complicated, really: I hate to be early. There is no bigger waste of time in my mind than waiting. Waiting to punch in at work. Or for a show to start. The way I see it, every second is another opportunity to enrich and/or better yourself. There aren’t enough hours in the day to make waste, and if looking up the timeline of Zen Buddhism or the MLB’s 1925 season standings on wikipedia means being five minutes late to work every day for a week…so be it.
In other news, yesterday was Thanksgiving. I went to Mom’s house after work and she had prepared enough food for about twelve starving men. We both tapped out in about fifteen minutes and I passed out on the sofa waiting for Greg to call me. He’s home from school until Sunday so I shot him a text on my break at work. We traversed all the old, classic spots around our parent’s homes in his dinky Oldsmobile and talked about life (what else?).
Greg is one of those friends that really shines when you’re one-on-one. The phrase “real talk” sums it up nicely. We can tell each exactly what we think about something (believe me, Greg is good at this) and neither of us will take anything personally. Our relationship is nothing hundreds of thousands of people don’t have. It’s just something that I value and hope continues.
…aaaaand now I have work in three hours. There’s one more thing I was meaning to post.
I found this and four other similar photos on Mom’s laptop earlier. There are a tragically small number of pictures of her in existence and I never, ever want to forget that I found these.
I think that’s everything. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to wake up early to be late to work.
