#Monday Morning Commute

Monday Morning Commute: crap i forgot my keys

crap i forgot my keys

School kicks off tomorrow. My anxiety kicked off today. Worrying about my clothes being ironed. Worrying about tomorrow actually being the day school starts. Anxiety is a hell of a drug. Caffeine is a hell of a drug. Caffeine is a hell of a drug for Anxiety. The two of them hanging out in the dank halls of my bathroom-brain, jacking off one another. Caffeine telling Anxiety to make me sweat, make me fart, hand on Anxiety’s slick shaft. Anxiety telling Caffeine to tell me to just have a couple more cans of Pepsi Max, make me jitter, make me palpitate, hand on Caffeine’s slick shaft.

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Monday Morning Commute: We are all Placeholders

in space- INKAXIS

in space | inkaxis

We are all placeholders, man. Temporary installments in a Temporary Universe. Brief iterations, brief organizations of atoms-molecules-matter, and we will all be gone before we know it. That’s fine, that’s cool, that’s whatever. It’s gotta be because it is. No complaints here.

While we’re here, while the Aflame Blue Globe is here, while the Universe is still hurtling towards Heat Death, why don’t we hang out, folks?

Hang out, here, in Monday Morning Commute. The weekly column where all of us Placeholders get together and share what we’re excited for during a given week.

What comic book is coming out that you’re sweating? What movie is dropping that you’re anticipating? What fetish website is getting your hard earned bucks and/or meagerly administered strokes? Sharing is caring, so show that you shant neglect me in the comments section.

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Monday Morning Commute: As lonely as you let it be

SK3RTT - slimesunday

SK3RTT | slimesunday

One of the things that has struck me, on this, my wife’s fourth day away on her current business trip, is how much time I used to spend alone. Reflecting back, graduate school was just hours upon hours of me by myself, stuck in a study. Staring at a computer screen. Reading works. Contemplating bullshit academic sophistry. And, of course, writing for Omega Level.

On this, my wife’s fourth day away on her current business trip, I think I understand why I wrote so much and so openly about my cock, balls, fluids, and all sorts of weird fetishes (I still do have, but no longer flaunt so openly).

Being alone does things to you, man.

Each of these days I’ve found myself soaked in a Diet Dew haze, my hands covered in failed-children and coconut Vaseline, a stupor of unwanted freedom for a countenance. The more I seem to caffeinate, the more trips to PornHub I make, the more concerned my dog looks as I stumble around the house with my underwear around my ankles and the paper towels eluding me, the more I understand my former-self.

My former-self is really just my current-self, but far more lonely, and with far too much time on his hands.

On this, my wife’s fourth day away on her current business trip, I think I should point out to you that she’s going to be gone for another ten out of fourteen days or so.

Buckle up, good friends, OverCaffeinatedCaffeinePowered is upon you.

This is Monday Morning Commute. This is the weekly column where I list what I’m up to during a given week. I hope you’ll share what you’re doing in the comments section below. I hope you’ll keep me company. For me. For my concerned dog. For my chaffed cock and balls and crusty t-shirts and my shattered sanity and my Diet Dew-fort and my anxiety.

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Monday Morning Commute: We Can Dance If You Want To

you can dance if you want to

untitled | christopher zelaya

We can dance if you want to!

We can leave the Material Realm behind! ‘

Cause your connection to the Linear Tangible Time-Cord is weak and if it’s weak, well, let’s leave this Plane behind!

What’s up, you fucking degenerates! Oh, don’t take offense. We’re all degenerating into worm-food, into former-human, entrapped by failing meat-cases.

So we might as well dance.

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Monday Morning Commute: Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay!

rayguns | eugenia loli

Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay! I’m here, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here! Would you believe, would you somehow believe, that I didn’t get around to this column until today, Tuesday, because my wife and I had to go out to eat with a financial advisor last night? What life am I living? Who am I? Am I child-man in semen-crusted Star Wars shirts that dreams of being a man-child, or a man-child in dress pants who dreams of being a child-man in semen-crusted Star Wars shirts? The answer, of course, is that I am both. And the cognitive dissonance that arises from containing both entities in the Multitudes that Compromises Me (and Us all) sometimes gives me a nosebleed. Well, I’m getting the nosebleed from that, or the hundreds upon hundreds of milligrams of caffeine I ingest every day. One of those. Maybe both of those.

But I’m here now. But it’s Monday Morning Commute now. So here’s the deal now, Comrades. I’m about to fire off everything I’m enjoying this week, anticipating this week, looking forward to this week. Then you’re going to do me a solid!, a fucking solid!, and share your own list in the comments section.

Let’s be man-children posing as children-men posing as man-children together.

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Monday Morning Commute: The sky above the port was the color of television

Monday Morning Commute! On a Monday Evening! Truthfully, this tardiness is, relativistically speaking, pretty good compared to my usual antics. In fact, this column would have slithered out of my mind-hole earlier had the words come to me. Sometimes the Muses toss lightning bolts up your ass, and you feel Empowered. Emboldened. Surfing The Edge. Sometimes the Muses retreat to a 7-Eleven bathroom to trib with faeries and knaves and satyrs. Coating themselves in the slickening sugary confections we pass off as food, writhing in wrappers and detritus, orgasming in supplication to the Eternal Engine which neither Cares nor Notices us.

Today? For me? The Muses are fucking around with the fucking faeries in the fucking bathroom.  But still, I persist. But still, I exist. Put that on a Hallmark card and staple it onto my forehead, I know it’s fucking lame.

Today? For me? I’m going to write this column anyways. Even though the Muses ain’t here. I’m going to tell you everything I’m excited about this week. Even though the Muses ain’t here. I’m going to ask you to join me, vapid, broken, banal me, in the comments section, letting me know what you are excited for this week. Even though the Muses ain’t here.

Well? Shall we?

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Monday Morning Commute: Please Stand By

white noise

Tired today, man. Currently supine. Battling fatigue and a stomach stuffed with staggering tumult. Am I a diarrhea that dreams it’s a man, or a man that dreams he’s merely a flesh-bag filled with diarrhea? I’m not sure, I’m not sure. What am I sure of? This week contains multitudes, multitudes of various arts and farts I’m looking forward to enjoying. These arts, these farts, they are an Existential Ripcord. I need merely let my excitement yank said cord, and rip me through the miasma of malaise my rolling tide of brown-churn and soul are currently sunk in.

It is my mandate as the curator of Monday Morning Commute to list these arts. To high-five these farts. It is your mandate as the consumer (be it by accident or be it by accentuated agency) to list what you are sweating this week in the comments section.

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Monday Morning Commute: week after week after week after week

week after week after week after week

Monday Morning Commute.

Sorry for radio silence over the weekend, comrades. Had a bit of a weekend, comrades. Early Friday morning, my Nana sloughed off the mortal coil, and transcended meat-space. At the same time, I was stricken with the most staggering stomach flu I’ve ever had. Violence, friends. Violence erupting out of both ends, friends. By the time early Saturday morning rolled around, I was down a final grandparent and a literal seven pounds of fluids.

Monday Morning Commute.

As I told you last week, comrades. We’re all riding shotgun with Entropy. Such it is for all of us, and neither my Nana nor my quivering flesh-bag could escape it. Can escape it. But she had a good run, 95 years-old. And I merely had the runs, 24 hours-long.

No matter. No worry. All flesh decays.

Monday Morning Commute.

The column wherein I enumerate the especially enlisted distractions designed to glaze the gears of the existential engine during a given week.

Join me in the comments, comrades. Partake in this parade of particularities with your own choice cuts.

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Monday Morning Commute: We’re all riding shotgun with Entropy

we're here until we're not

We’re all riding shotgun with Entropy.

That’s the long of it, the short of it. Celebrated the Fourth of July twice this weekend. Once at a friend’s apartment, who I consider to be family. Once at my family’s house, who I consider to be friends.

Me, my friends, my family?

We’re all riding shotgun with entropy.

The Universe wasn’t paying much attention to our celebrations. Too busy housing Everything. Too busy searching for that sweet, sugary Heat Death at the end of it all. Expanding endlessly until it won’t.

Me, my friends, my family, the Universe?

We’re all riding shotgun with entropy.

The wife I married, the dog I love, the friends I cherish, the family I belong to, the Universe that carries me.

We’re all here until we’re not.

We’re all riding shotgun with entropy.

I don’t know what to make of this, other than to appreciate my wife, walk my dog, hang out with my friends, and stare lovingly at the stars when the nights permit. This isn’t profundity and it isn’t resignation.

It’s a shrug and a smile in the face of the Absurd. What else can I do?

We’re all riding shotgun with entropy.

This is Monday Morning Commute. The column where I slather onto this particular digispace all the items, all the miscellany, all the bullshit that I’m interfacing with on a given week. You know, when I’m not staring into the raging chasm of Void and Stars, condemning the tragic mistake that is self-awareness, while simultaneously praising the Cosmic Joke for stumbling into giving us clowns self-awareness.

It is my optimistic encouragement that you’ll share what you’re up to this week in the comments section.

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Tuesday Evening Commute: The Rolling Tide of Honeyed Ennui


Salutations, comrades. This is Monday Morning Commute by way of Tuesday Late Evening. Greetings, friends. I apologize for the tardiness, I’m just. I don’t know. Busy? Tired? Tired and Busy? Busy and Tired? Sure, sure. But if I’m being doubly honest, and let’s admit that I’ve written for nearly seven years an embarrassing amount of personal information, I’ve been a bit maudlin about OL.

Pillaging the archives makes me yearn for the days of commenters gone by, of days that were grad school, filled with too much caffeine, and a head full of ideas. I miss the folks who have drifted, I miss my own initiative.

What can you do?

Sally forth, I suppose. But it’s tinged with nostalgia when I know some of the old folk ain’t gonna comment.

What can you do?

Sally forth, I suppose. But it’s tinged with melancholy when I’m penning this shortly after grading papers for three hours, and shortly before I must slumber.

What can you do?

Sally forth, I suppose.

I’m still here, dammit.

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