My clock is broken. The hands keep whirring and whirring, round and round, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. Ok...that's not true. That's not true for two reasons 1.) I don't own a clock with hands. I have this crochet one, but other than that I'm all digital. 2.) I'll be the first one to admit that my skills of reading a clock quickly are not up to snuff. Give me ten minutes and I'll give you the time. ;-)
Apparently my time spent studying in college has been somewhat of a waste. As much as I would like to slow down time before graduation and the big, scary future that lies beyond May 12, my studies of Charlotte Bronte and Jane Austen have been little help in the time machine invention department. Ah well. I guess all I can do now is attempt to capture the moments I have left. The little moments between the stress, like my socks on sick days, books, notes, and sleepy eyes. The day I wore my typewriter shirt and how I like to doodle what's on my shirt during class. This is sometimes awkward as I look down and pull at my shirt to get a better look at the design while my classmates stare at me sideways and wonder if I'm trying to swat at a bug or if I'm just that strange.