#Monday Morning Commute

Monday Morning Commute: I Eat Teeth

iet

I Eat Teeth.

You could say it’s an idiosyncrasy. Some people need to pull their socks up after they sit down. Some folks need to turn the faucet three times to the right before they can leave the bathroom. Others shine their shoes so they can look up them skirts on the subway train.

I Eat Teeth.

Big whup. Mom didn’t like it when she was around. But now she ain’t around. She’s behind the shed. And yet. Still.

I Eat Teeth.

Dad didn’t let me visit the nursing home no more after that one time. Didn’t think I should eat teeth. But now he ain’t around no more neither.

I Eat Teeth.

Mom, Dad, the Neighbors, the Teachers. I’m sure they had their own thing. Dad’s tissues next to the nightstand told me was up to somethin’. Mom’s perpetual change of clothes in her car. The Neighbors’ pool parties with their friends, the teacher’s eyes and the cheerleaders’ skirts. Don’t matter. We all got our thing.

I Eat Teeth.

Mom’s teeth, Dad’s teeth, Ted’s teeth, your teeth. But no worry. You live in me and I live in the Center and together we live forever.

I Eat Teeth.

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Monday Morning Commute: nanobot-induced autoerotics

nanbots

If there was one thing Grandpa was good for at Thanksgiving, it was sniffing a legion of nanobots before sitting down at the dinner table. There was an inevitable moment during the passing of the animal-flesh and the smashed-starches where his slackened, tired jaw would clench-up. Science retrieving something scattered decades ago by the natural progression of his Meat Case. Somewhere between that third fucking scoop of potatoes his eyes would dilate. His neck would kink. And as he tried to keep his hands from jittering upon the wooden offering-plank, a barely audible moan would escape them cracked lips.

“Oooh, the potatoes” he would murmur. False teeth clacking. “Ohhh, this turkey. Th-the gravy” he would gasp. We tried not to stare. When you’re one-hundred and thirty-four you write your own rules. None of us said a word, but we all knew the goddamn truth. That withered one man’s dick was titillated. An orgy of chemicals in his veins, an orgy of nanobots in his balls prodding his phallus into a seemingly-impossible climax.

Goddamn Grandpa and his goddamn nanobot-induced autoerotics.

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This is Monday Morning Commute. Share what you’re up to this week.

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Monday Morning Commute: Oblivion Ain’t Bad With A Loved One

Hand in Hand | Heart to Heart

Hello friends. Humanoids. Martians. Sentient cups of coffee. Pythons with overdeveloped cerebral systems courtesy of Nazi experiments still being conducted on the Far Side of the Dark Side of the Forgotten Moon of Jupiter, Rapture. If you’re reading this, I implore you to join in this wonderful column-based activity. Monday Morning Commute. The place where us Conscious Piles of Organic, Inorganic, and Unidentifiable Matter gather and share what we’re digging on during a given week.

I’ll go first, then you share your weekly beloveds.

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Monday Morning Commute: A Boner Made From Love

bonerbonerboner

Monday. Morning. Commute. Welcome to its Insides. The Place where we share what we’re up to during the current work week. It’s rife with strife, gloom, and malaise. JUST KIDDING. Let’s party! Fuck the Frowns, Embrace the Clowns?! Do I mean this?! I don’t know! Am I pumped up on Diet Dew and a False Sense of Excitement?! You fucking bet!

This is what I’m up to this week. Happily.

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Monday Morning Commute: Your Favorite Fake Memory

FFM

And on the 22 of September 2014, I am writing this column. Monday Morning Commute. High on cough syrup, low on existence, I’m coming to you live from the Space-Ship Omega. Per par for the perpetual course, these are the niceties that are capturing my attention, imagination, and speculation during this week. Serving as a ship to hopefully sail me across the tempestuous work week waves.

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Monday Morning Commute: Repossess Your Mind

FUCK IT

Monday! Monday! Monday! Here in the Armpit of the Internet. The Space-Ship Omega. Air recyclers busted. Stuck in a orbit around Io, praying for the tug-ship to come in with replacement thrusters. Ain’t got nothing to do but fuck one another, wax poetic about existence, and drink whatever stock of cheap synthetic whiskey we can find. Empty your pockets and pull down your trousers, we’re going to make the best of it.

Oh. Oh Yeah. And in case you didn’t know, this is MondayMorningCommute, the column where we share what we’re up to this week.

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Monday Morning Commute: Murder Walk With Me

murder-walk

In short, because I’m fucking busy! This is Monday Morning Commute. The cavernous post at the end of the Internet where we all share what we’re up to during a given week. The arts and distractions that are helping us Mind The Grind. Spittin’ about our anxiety-laden lives because of Said Grind. Maybe a random anecdote about the time your donger got caught in that chalupa (is this a euphemism? I don’t know!) in the Taco Bell bathroom.

I’ll go first.

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Monday Morning Commute: This Is All A Rental

this is all a rental

This is all a rental.

From the computer you’re typing on to the meat-sack you’re inhabiting. All will be recycled, reused, converted into a variety of different forms. In my case, very much upcycled. Rejoice for as long as the collection of atoms, elements, and moments that is You can successfully stave off Entropy.

This is all a rental.

You’re slowing down. Dissolving. Inching closer to the Bin where your reconstitution shall take place.

But while we’re here, while This Matter still makes You, let’s have some fun. This is Monday Morning Commute. The column where You share what you’re intending to do during the week. So long as your dissolving, perpetually-ending, decaying meat-sack allows you.

This is all a rental.

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Monday Morning Commute: Nature Doesn’t Care

nature~

It’s true. Nature doesn’t fucking care. About you. About me. About the flitting, infinitesimal blip on the Cosmic Radar that is Humanity. And man, that’s fine. That’s cool. We’re all going to be dead. Dead for a lot longer than we’re alive. Nature’s just going to carry on. We won’t register. It doesn’t matter. What to do in the face of such Truth? Keep rollin’ that rock. Have a wonderful time while you’re here. Make your own meaning.

Here’s a quiet Monday Morning Commute, as I’m surrounded by the Indifferent but Beautiful Nature here in Nova Scotia.

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Monday Morning Commute: reality lies

realitylies

Reality is, at best, a tenuous set of consensual hallucinations that we share with one another. Our greasy faces, our fat, gibbering jowls, our swollen, offensive ocular meat-balls all nodding in agreement at the barest, most pathetic concept of reality we hew together as Man. But hey. What the fuck do you want out of me? I can’t do shit about it. #YOLO So I’m going to live my life, dimly aware that my beliefs are conjured by a primitive brain-steak based on embarrassingly limited means of perception, and also play some video games. Love my fellow man. Hold doors, say please and thank you. Read some books. And watch Brock Lesnar give people the F5. ‘Cause really there’s no reason to do otherwise.

This is Monday Morning Commute – the column where we list the various ways we’re staving off staring into the Abyss and realizing how fucking Dumb It All Is. Generally these ways take the form of arts, farts, cheap beers, and ideally – Skittles.

I’ll go first.

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