The Art of Wasting Time

The Art of Wasting Time

The light came on, but no one was home when I was in Algebra class back in 1943. When something doesn't make sense it probably isn't very important anyway I rationalized; so I flunked it. Why should one cram something so abstract into the brain of a 15-year-old, and require them to take it a second year, which I barely passed? Wouldn't my time have been better spent learning something I had more of a flair for?

Oh well. It's all history now. Speaking of that, I didn't score very well in History either.

I sit here day after day looking at my four walls. Better than a prison cell. At least I can go some place if I want to. Most of the places I go to, I don't really want to. Such as the physical Therapy place.

Such a waste of my time. It's supposed to be for my own good, but it's really for their own good. They get a paycheck to tell me to swing my right leg to the right to the count of 15 and then they ask questions of how your day is and what do I do for fun. I can't multitask that well.

The first thing I do is sit on a huge machine and push the pedals to the medal for 20 minutes. They add more minutes every time I go. Enough is enough! These machines face huge windows and we face the bright sun. They have no shades for the windows. They thought I was brilliant when I whipped out a pair of those little shades the eye doctor gives you to slide behind your glasses. I had it stored in my bra. They thought that was brilliant too.

I also waste time going to the mailbox which is located in front of my house. All I ever find in that box is a useless piece of paper which goes directly in my trash can, but the postal service is required to deliver it.




This is the way I see it.