rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


How time flies, or flees, or fleas and makes you itch for more time, or for the lost time that has flown, or fled, or become a flea in your ear, or your bonnet. What it is is there is too much stuff on the Internet, and I can't leave it alone. I wish I could quit you, Internet. I'm going to end up dead from exhaustion and you'll be pawing my old shirt and mourning me. You'll miss me when I'm gone, Internet.

Well, probably not. I myself am like one flea on one wildebeest lost in an entire herd of wildebeests, and you, Internet, are like the enormous veldt on which that flea counts for nothing. You will never miss me when I fall from my wildebeest and get trampled into the dirt. Which is pretty much what happened today. Pretty much what happens every day anymore. I haven't even had my dinner yet.

And I have to gather the last of the trash and put it in the wheelie bin and take it out to the street, because so much time has flown/fled that it's Monday night again, and Tuesday is rushing on like a lion about to catch and devour the wildebeest I just escaped. Well, that was a stroke up luck. No credit to you, Internet. You couldn't care less.

Lions and fleas and wildebeests are just more fodder for your endless stream of videos no one person will ever see all of, because there is no time. I'm late, and now that I have added my contribution for the day to your burgeoning heap, I must go. Farewell, Internet. You will devour me again tomorrow, I suppose, and again not even know it.

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