I will celebrate my birthday in an art museum in 39 days. I will vote in the Presidential Election in 36 days.
My iPod will crank out roughly 60 or so songs of hip-swaying, indie folk rock tunes — and the occasional Enya and Kanye song — before it gives up and dies.
My laptop can last for a little over two hours of Facebook creeping, Youtube watching, article reading, and poetry writing before the little, empty battery icon swoons red and the screen goes black as it stops trying.
The chocolate chip cookie recipe sitting in my cupboard, passed down from my crazy grandmother, to my mother, to me, requires the cookies to bake at 350 degrees for about 10 minutes. (It usually takes around 12 minutes in my apartment’s oven, and 15 minutes in the very old oven with a broken burner at my parents’ house.)
It will be approximately seven minutes after I lick away the last trace of whipped cream before my Hot Apple Cider is cool enough for me to drink it without completely scalding my tongue.
The rambling voicemail I left last night for my oldest sister will stay safely stored in her phone, most likely unnoticed, for 2-5 days before I will receive a call from her.
It will take another hour or so before I finally go to sleep, around 4:24 a.m.
I will spend approximately 1/3 of my commute sitting at red lights, stressing because I’m running late, and cursing the fact that I can’t learn to apply makeup any faster, or motivate myself to get out of bed any less than five snooze alarms later.
It will take two seconds after seeing just one green, knit cap on a person for my mind to drift back to you.