Half hour murder

Guess my typing skills will get better -- it's the truth for things done over and over and over. Improvement will come with quantity, or some such shit I probably should've paid better attention to that one semester of business-oriented courses many, many years ago. But that's the thing with me. I don't pay attention so well, specially if it's right in front of me and yelling. Liken me to a dog. A big dumb dog that operates on half-hour increments and whose sole purpose during the thirty is murdering them away. The minutes, tiny victims I'll never get back and I know it. Thirty minutes till my final action at work for the day comes clean. Two hours till we dine for my baby brother's birthday. Cash gifts good for a nineteen year old? It'll do. There's an ATM on the way -- crisp bills in lieu of something else. I've only killed five minutes so far and Ely's called and I'd hate to make her wait on account of me typing myself better into this vacuum of the web that nobody's seen yet and will probably clog the future's fiber optic piping till e-plumbers come through with their wrenches and snakes. Blood, pavement; keep it out of my mouth.