Shower shoes on. Grab keys, soap, and shampoo. On the way to the bathroom, lock the door. Double check (we have a burgeoning collection of homies; losing them would be heart-breaking). In the bathroom: keys next to sink, hang towel, soap and shampoo on the shower-side counter, turn the knob 315 degrees counter-clockwise, use the toilet while the water gets hot. Enter shower. Black out for twenty minutes. Emerge, clean.
Dry off. In the room: undies, socks, pants, shoes, belt, shirt. I've got Time to kill. I don my dynamic-titanium super suit, custom designed by a freshman wizkid in the engineering school. Hop out the window, activate thrusters and take off. Coast.
Scanning the campus below, I see students rushing to class, some walking, others power walking, still more trotting, and the rest in full sprint. No Time in sight. I land by an old oak where a family of chipmunks scurries, collecting acorns for the coming cold. No Time at all. I notice an impatient classroom of students, packed up to go and anxiously waiting for their professor to finish her last thought. Where did Time go? I take off again, this time thrusting from rooftop to rooftop, noticing the effortless lifestyles of the pigeons eating yesterday's cornbread from a dumpster, pecking their lives away, when I see him.
I quickly change course, increasing my altitude dramatically. I calculate a strategic trajectory and adjust my body into a dive. The wind bites my face as I approach terminal velocity. I point my toes and prepare to land. I roll, springboarding my body into a flying kick. I land Time square in the 12 on his forehead. Taking advantage of the element of surprise, I follow up with an uppercut. But Time slows down. I can't reach him in time. He catches my fist with his seconds hand and in seconds (I know because I kept an eye on that hand) I find my body shattering through a brick wall. As I recover, Time flies.
I get to my feet, punch my thruster, but all I get is smoke and empty whirring sounds. I check my watch. Late for class. I race back to my room. Grab my books, throw them in my knapsack, zip up and hotfoot it to Barnum hall. Only five minutes late. What a routine.
P.S. Isn't it refreshing to read something that isn't a haiku?
P.P.S. The moral? Time flies when you're having fun.
*Pics from D'Arcy Norman and zappowbang
