I’m Finally making iced coffee. Ice coffee? I’m not sure how it’s written. I'm not even positive I’m making it “correctly,” per official coffee rules. No matter, it tastes delicious either way. I just brew it strong, into a pitcher, let it cool, then stick it in the fridge. An hour or so later it’s cold. Add ice, pour, iced coffee.

It’s summertime now, somehow, snuck up like a cat hunting for a mouse, or my ankle, or the catnip cigar lying on the floor. It’s uttered ad nauseum every day somewhere, sometime thousands over in every stupid town on the planet, but it rings true for me now: Time is moving quicker than it ever has before it seems. I can’t catch up, I can’t lie down and read something without looking at the clock and realizing I’m missing something or have to go to bed or need to stop because I have to do something else. I look up and the week is over, the sun is down, the snow’s long gone and the plants are growing and now I have to be outside a bit to tame the jungle. I look at my watch and it’s time for the next thing on the list. There’s never enough time for what I want I feel. But that’s just it, it’s me, not time. I probably waste a lot of it, spacing out, thinking about something, or doing something that might not mean much for anyone including me in the long run. But that’s how it’s always been, at least for a long time it has. I can’t live in the moment a lot of the time, always thinking about what’s next while never realizing the NOW is what I was thinking about two days prior.

Time is a fickle bitch.