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I sip my coffee, hoping for a different day. But, that’s not what I get. I get this Tuesday and an another day of nagging work to come. I adjust my tie and wipe at the toothpaste I’ve smudged on it. My clock is mocking me as the ticking grows louder and louder until I’m pretty sure I can hear nothing else.
When you’re alone, nothing seems as meaningful as the sound of a clock. Rather incessantly it drones on and on begging for more of your attention. Today, I’m not having it. I’m going to break that clock. I reach up and grab the circular, metallic time piece and aggressively pull it down. A nail lingers. It’s a reminder and it has to go too. It doesn’t come out so easily, especially with these 21st Century hands. After the struggle, the nail and the clock both stare at me from my ottomon where I’ve placed them both.
I swallow the last drop of my coffee and feel my heart pumping faster. My eyes dart back to the wall and I realize there is now a small, yet noticeable sized hole, where I removed the time tracker. It demands to be seen. It will tell a story. A story I’m not prepared to explain.
Overwhelmed with anxiety and adrenaline, I impulsively head into my garage and pick through my small assortment of tools I’ve gathered over the last few years of my deplorable adulthood. My hands tremble as I clench a small sledgehammer my father handed down to me. A rusty old thing, but sturdy and experienced.
Before I know it I’ve smashed time and my innocent wall. The nail is nowhere to be found.
Bits of drywall, dust and debris cling to my hair, face and clothes.
I feel relieved but horrified, knowing these two emotions can not coexist.

I call in to work and request FMLA forms.

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