The name's Spring. Spring Forward.

Some say I'm even more nefarious than my brother, Fall Back, but they are mistaken. Me? I'm an angel. I come in the shadows and simply borrow a measly hour of your z's, a commodity of which you are already deprived due to the unfortunate high-cortisol state of your daily travails.

I like to think I'm a bit of a magician, all razzle-dazzle, silk scarves up the sleeve, pigeon in the hat. I relish leaving you disoriented, like, "How did he do that? How did he erase time? Isn't time just a, what's it called, a construct?" And then you lie prone in bed pondering my particular brand of diabolism so long that you're late for your job and/or 7 a.m. youth soccer. That's on you, peanut.

It's delicious, my line of work. Not everyone understands it, but some do, including my very close Florida ally, Marco Rubio. Unfortunately, he is busy lately with, you know, other things.

(Lights cigarette)

What do I do with those hours I acquire? Plenty, sweetheart. I throw your lost hour on the back of a truck with the rest of the lost hours for, let's call it "wider distribution." Your personal hour, the one you say could have gone toward finding the cure for ankle cancer or training to become an Olympic medalist in the sport of skeleton? That's trundling away on the warm bed of a Penske.

Anyway, I know the truth. You weren't doing anything with that hour. You were drooling on your pillow or scrolling on your greasy handheld device, reading the news out of Washington filtered through your preferred brand of ideological cheesecloth. You were playing those little word games, the ones that scratch the dark, compulsive itch you have never addressed in therapy. You were carefully clicking around the Instagram page of a former love interest who, I must level with you, has moved on.

(Stubs out cigarette)

You weren't going to solve any quadratic equations with that hour. You weren't going to bake a loaf of rye. You weren't even going to go to the gym and pick up a 5-pound dumbbell. So that's where I come in. I do what I have to do. I take the extra hours and repurpose them for a price. It's not hurting anyone, not really.

Don't cry, babyface. I know, you're tired. I can see the bags under your eyes. You didn't even let me tell you what I'm going to do for you in return.

Light, snookums. I, Spring Forward, give you light. In my generous and conciliatory nature, I bestow on you an extra sunlit hour to stroll our glorious beaches and parklands with, I don't know, a picnic basket of baguettes or whatnot. I offer a bit of bonus sunshine in which to bathe your addled brain. I have made it so your commute home across bridges and highways does not occur in a darkness last seen by Dracula himself. I am actually helping. You just can't see it yet. But you will.

Now, here. Give us a kiss. Can I interest you in a plasma TV?

Stephanie Hayes is a columnist at the Tampa Bay Times in Florida. Follow her at @stephrhayes on Instagram.

Photo credit: Sebastien Gabriel at Unsplash