I was just wondering if procrastinating is a weird form of being late to the party. Given my psychotic compulsion with time, I am never physically late to anything, but, metaphorically, it's another story. My birthday doesn't arrive for another three weeks (or rather, seventeen days, three hours and twenty-six minutes), so, as the November baby, I had the baked in pleasure of being the last to qualify for my driver's license. And then I failed my road test. Twice. Other late-comings didn't leave quite the same mark. I waited until I was a 20-something to allow peanut butter into my world and that took very nicely. The hot dog I tried back then? Not so much. And there's a party to which I was already very late. It's the tale of the Guess jeans, the ones I was sure my mom bought me for Chanukah circa 1983. So sure I saved the unopened box until night eight, the grand finale, when I confidently ripped off the blue and silver paper to find, wait, a dictionary. A dictionary, I should say, that I still own and use. So I'm laughing as I type this post while stationed at my favorite post. It's a place with one very small and unabiding lamp, but tonight I'm using this contraption called, um, a booklight? Zoe has one in hot pink. Late as always, but tomorrow for the doctor I will be right on time.
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