“Time is a real cunt, to be honest,” he said.

My life is measured in tenths of an hour. When I started working at a law firm, I was given hours of training on how to bill for my time. 6 minutes equals .1 hour, 60 minutes equals 1.0 hours. After seven years of practicing, I’ve come to segment my time in blocks by second nature. I am always aware of how many hours are left in the day, how many hours I must bill in order to meet my hours requirements, and how much money the firm is making off my rate—and how much it is losing when my time is wasted.

This has carried over into the non-fiscal aspects of my life. I abhor wasting time. I believe in advanced planning, the divinity of punctuality, agendas to discuss agendas, as well as tireless communications and confirmations and re-confirmations to facilitate the utmost maximization of every .1 hour of my day-to-day.

It’s strange how Time is always at odds with my design. Before, Time moved at a glacial pace, each tick and tock scoring my brain with a butter knife, until the days leading up to our reunion wound down both the calendar and my sanity. And then, the minute I saw his blue car roll up the long driveway of ILM to pick me up, she implemented the old “bait and switch.” All of the sudden, I wanted to break her legs to keep her from ticking and tocking. Every .1 hour was immediately rendered a commodity of the rarest kind, because I knew that every 6 minutes was more valuable to me than the highest hourly rate for the most expensive lawyer ever. The final hours of our last morning together were particularly bittersweet. Time seemed to laugh at our folly as his car ate the long pavement leading us back to ILM, the sliding doors to which would close this second chapter of our Fall while shuttling me back to the unforgiving flagellation of digital timepieces.

And here I am, sitting on my table. Work shifts forward in the background and my eyes train on the clock because I have a conference call in 2.6 hours. My dogs will need to be walked in 3.2 hours for .2 hours. My husband will be home in approximately 3.6 hours, at which point, we will likely expend/waste .7 hours debating what to eat for dinner. I have 10.6 hours left before midnight, during which time I hope to be finished with the work I need to bring with me to the client tomorrow. My flight leaves in 17.0 hours.

And all this time, all I can really think about is how many .1 hours it will take before I see his blue car rolling up the driveway of ILM again. How many .1 hours of ease and love before we begin to ask tough questions. How many .1 hours of being grateful for what we have before we become greedy for what we cannot have. How many .1 hours of heart palpitations and hidden tears before decisions are made. How many .1 hours of my past disrupted and washed out with the rain because of all the .1 hours I’ve spent in his strong arms. How many .1 hours will it take for me to realize that though Time can be a cunt indeed, she can also be my greatest advocate, my best friend, the sole voice of reason. Time is ever there to remind me that we all die. Life is short. Much too short to waste by measuring it in .1 hour segments.

Love dies too, you know. Sometimes before our hearts do. I intend to invest as many .1 hours as I can into ensuring that it lasts as long as I do.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1806971&forum_id=2#19359736)

HTH whiteknighting faggot

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1806971&forum_id=2#19360050)