that we spend so much time thinking about time: setting alarms, making dinner reservations, meeting deadlines, missing deadlines, scheduling due-dates, planning for investments and interest rates… A 30-year mortgage? Will I even be alive then? I mean, I wasted a solid ten minutes between writing the first and second sentences of this very article marvelling at what I imagine must go into the infrastructural maintenance for the Wikipedia entry for “time,” so who’s going to trust me with a mortgage? Sometimes it seems like the whole concept is one big existential prank we’ve conned ourselves into playing along with. Time, that is. Not mortgages. Hell, you know what, them too. It’s around this time that I’ll probably fix myself a drink. It’s five o’ clock somewhere, right?
