The End of Time

Do you believe in Santa? I do. Once upon a time he gave me a beautiful watch. It was a Fossil and everything. It was both utilitarian and pretty, unlike myself. If I had a real boyfriend, he would probably have left me for my superior Fossil watch. But, since all of my boyfriends have been imaginary, I had no reason not to love this watch like a good friend.

But alas, now my watch is not nearly the specimen it once was. Perhaps in a subconscious passive aggressive attempt to bring the watch's iflated ego down a notch or two, I dropped it in the shower. Now, it's quite broken. The glass is intact, but all the numbers came off the face. The only thing left clinging to its rightful place in time is a lone one. It used to be part of the twelve, but now it's not even a whole number. It stands lost and alone in a terrifying world of chaos. All the other numbers rattle around in between the face and the glass like that silver confetti you toss on New Years Eve. It doesn't keep time anymore because the minute hand doesn't move, and the second hand gets caught on the loose numbers and just sort of twitches pathetically. Even so, I decided that I will keep wearing my confettified watch so that, whenever anyone asks me what time it is, I can look at my wrist and say, "Well, my watch says it's party time."

Oh watch. Your death will not be in vein. Light a candle and think of me and my loss today.