I do not know what time it is, and I don’t appreciate you asking. There are a thousand things in the world more intimidating than clocks, but not for me. I suffer from chronomentrophobia, the fear of clocks. A clock gives me the heebie jeebies with its ticking, the incessant moving of the second hands, the blinking of digital numbers, the abrasive ringing of alarms and the deep clang of chimes. I break into a sweat when I see a clock, I begin to itch when a watch gets too near, and if I ever get too near to a grandfather clock, I will surely not live long enough to be a grandfather.

How did I get into such a state, you might ask.

Well it’s very simple. I am a time traveler. My job takes me across millennia, to every nook and cranny of history. My life depends on precision chronography but the mere mention of hours, minutes or seconds makes me nauseas.

Dialing into a date, in my line of work, is imprecise at best but it has become horrifying.

What do you think, Doc?

I can’t lose this job. I just can’t.

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