Dear daylight saving time,
I didn’t want to do this through a letter, but honestly, I wasn’t sure how else to get in touch with you, and, well, it’s probably better that we aren’t face-to-face. I’m not sure I could rein in my emotions right now.
D, you know I love you. But I also hate you, and I just can’t go on like this anymore. We’re done.
Look, how many times have we repeated this same cycle of abuse? You disappear every winter to Hawaii or Arizona, and then show up with little to no warning in March. Then its weeks of discombobulation with absolutely zero communication from you. I can’t sleep, I wake too early, I forget the clock in my car and then panic that I’m an hour late. And sure, I eventually adjust and tell myself you didn’t mean it, only to go through the whole awful thing again six months later. Isn’t that the very definition of insanity? Repeatedly duplicating a process and expecting a different result?
And for what? A few extra minutes of summer sun? Come on! After 15 years of us, how can you still not understand my geriatric schedule? I can’t stay awake until 10 p.m., even if it’s bright as day outside. If watching “The Handmaid’s Tale” has taught me anything about resisting an oppressive social regime, it’s that I can fight back. I have the power to start an anti-chronokinetic movement that declares “No more!” and make it look cinematically fabulous along the way.
Bottom line? I can’t be the 20th-century farmer that you deserve. So, you and me? We’re done.
P.S., peace out.