So, TCG’s cell phone rang at 3:18 this morning. The wee hours of the night don’t get much weeer. It was DOB, and to make the experience all that much more alarming, her ringtone is a klaxon sounding fast and very loud, and it’s immediately overhead on a shelf above the headboard.
TCG: Hello? Hello?
(Pause to listen to the caller)
TCG: It’s three in the morning. We were sound asleep.
(Pause to let that sink in?)
TCG: OK. Goodnight.
UCC: What the fuck?
TCG: Everything’s fine. She was bored. Turns out, she’d “lost track of the time”.
WISIMH: Think of a pilgrim crawling across desert dunes in circles searching for a fading oasis, wearing handcuffs and a blindfold, and dragging a team of wild horses, and being already mad with thirst, and then add some LSD, some hallucinations of angels dancing on pinheads, and throw in less cognitive function than mold spores, and you begin to get the picture of just how challenging it is to keep fucking track of the time by glancing at a bedside digital clock with enlarged face and “AM” following the time.