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You ever wonder if hourglasses are plotting against us? You know, those sand-filled timekeepers that look all innocent on your grandma's shelf. I bet when we're not looking, they speed up or slow down just to mess with our schedules. Like, "Oh, you thought you had 60 minutes? How about 57? Enjoy being fashionably late." And don't get me started on daylight saving time – that's the grandmaster move. They're probably sitting there, laughing as we reset our clocks twice a year. It's the hourglass conspiracy, I tell you.
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Traffic, the only place where an hour feels like a geological era. You're stuck there, watching the seconds tick by like they're in slow motion. And the GPS is like, "In one hour, you will arrive at your destination." Oh, fantastic! I'll just set up camp here on the highway, roast some marshmallows over my car engine. It's like time takes a detour when you're in traffic. An hour in traffic is like a black hole for minutes – they just vanish, never to be seen again. And you finally reach your destination, thinking, "I could've watched an entire movie, but no, I chose to be here, on the road to nowhere.
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We've all heard of the power hour, right? That mystical time where you can accomplish anything. It's like, "Give me an hour, and I'll change my life." But let me tell you, the power hour is a liar. It's the flakiest friend you'll ever have. You set out to conquer the world, and 15 minutes in, you're on your couch, contemplating the meaning of life. The power hour is like, "Surprise! I was actually a nap in disguise." It's that hour where you plan to be productive, but instead, you find yourself in a YouTube rabbit hole watching cat videos. So much for changing the world in 60 minutes – the only thing that changes is your screen time report.
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You ever notice how time has this attitude? Yeah, my buddy told me to meet him for lunch, and he's like, "I'll be there in an hour." An hour? What does time think it is, royalty? "Oh, excuse me, sir, I'll be arriving precisely in 60 minutes." I'm here, hungry, with a growling stomach, and time is acting like it's doing me a favor. It's like the VIP of the clock world, strutting around, demanding respect. An hour, really? I bet if I asked for 55 minutes, time would scoff and say, "I'll consider it.
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