Dayplanners and Daytrippers, and I never, ever did it again.

Changing the month on your calender is a suspiciously dangerous act.

Cut, Print, Rip. Month is over.

But where did the month go?

When did the subtle ghost's lantern go out forever?

What did I do with my Time?

Have I achieved anything worthwhile?
Who knows, perhaps somewhere freedom exists. Freedom past the IRS hovering over you, telling you to change your calenders, because perhaps its tax season. Ready, Set, Change. Its tax Season. Freedom is Taxes and Calenders.

My calender is telling me it needs money. My calender is telling me to go to work. My calender is telling me I am getting older.
My calender controls me.

I can hear my day planner screaming from within my laptop bag, the piles of sticky notes calling to me : “ Paper Due 2/16!” “Read Pg 89909890!”
I'm afraid they've taken over.

They all merged together tonight. A calender for the Brain, a Planner for the body, and Sticky Notes for sustenance. Freedom had come to get me. It started as a low hum, pulsating, the kind of blank noise you hear in a room with a bad speaker playing nothing. It started to creep into my sheets, and grab at my legs.

It pulled me into my Google Calender, it made me run from play-dates and work-dates and dates with dates. It tortured me to death's door and brought me back to my bed.

I never, ever missed a homework assignment again.