#Monday Morning Commute
It’s Monday. And the work week is beginning for the majority of this. The work weeks will begin for the majority of us, forever, until death or retirement. Which given the state of the Rotting Empire may or may not be available for all of us. In front of us: a wasteland. Or an oasis. Depending on how you approach the rolling of your rock. Do you embrace it? Modify it with personal creation, acts of enjoyment, and a collage of distractions? Or do you pound your fists futilely, condemning the Gods That Don’t Care for y/our fate?
Greetings, friends. Nihilism is exhausting. But so is commuting an hour-and-a-half every day, both ways. Just sitting in my goddamn car, staring at the brake lights of the Fellow Fools in front of me. I dream of many things, during those hours upon hours of weekly gridlock. Of video games I am looking forward to playing, of movies I am looking forward to seeing. Comics, books, and other distractions.
The yank my corporeal form through the thresher, these distractions. They shove my reluctant soul through the Monday Morning Commute. One week at a time.
I fucking hate February. I hate its ashen skies. I hate its frigid air. I particularly hate this February. Record setting amounts of snow. Unfathomable cold. And I guess I’m just not coping with it well. The Better Half is away and instead of being a productive, healthy member of It All, I’m ordering Domino’s Pizza and wondering if I can hack elastic bands into my overpriced Name Brand, Fancy Pants leg-warmers.
The February Funk must be conquered, though. Rode out to its logical conclusion, the hopefully more endurable Ides of March. And this is a list of the stuff I’m begging to help carry me through this week. The Monday Morning Commute, as they say.
Another Monday. Another snow day. The Frost God gives no fuck about the Northeast Corridor of the Empire. Week after week The Frostbitten-Fuck Deity has pummeled us, twisting our psychic-nipples and daring us to concede. There sure ain’t no fucking commuting going on for this guy. There sure ain’t no fucking classes being taught. But at least if the heat goes out, I can use all the syllabi I’ve printed out as fucking kindling. ‘Cause they sure aren’t representative of our semester progression any longer. Alas! Alack! And while there isn’t any shuffling to work today, there is the Abyss that is yet another day or two of Cabin Fever.
Here’s what I’m looking forward to and digging this week. Should I be able to leave the house. Should the power remain on.
What are you sweating over the next seven?
It is officially the fucking doldrums, yo. The Prole Bowl has come and gone (The Lords of Kobol are kind to me), and now darkness descends upon my sad, empty life. Oh sure I could stare even further into the Abyss what, with the White Noise of sports-based distraction shuffling back into the Miasma. But who wants that? Not this bro.
As you may or may not know, it’s the fucking Snowpocalypse here on the Northeastern Seaboard of the Empire. We ain’t fucking Commuting Anywhere! It’s the End Times! That’s what the media says! No worries. No sweat. I have serious provisions: four twelve-packs of Diet Dews. Five pounds of Laffy Taffy. A family-sized box of Chez-Its. And I have serious amounts of time on my hands, too. Multiple feet of snow coming in. Multiple miles-per-hour of serious wind. Probably ain’t going to teach again until Friday. So this is what I’m filling my week with. Both during the Snowpocalypse and after we dig out.
No one reads this, so why bother? No one posts here, so why both? No one lives forever, so why bother? And I sat in bed with a tirade stuck in my head that not even the medication could medicate out. “How can I UnBe? How can I Not? How can this loosely tethered string of characteristics that is Me stop? Where will I go? What will it feel like?” This is Tuesday afternoon’s edition of what is supposed to be Monday morning’s commute. A column that used to be a place where lovely folk would gather and share their existential happenings. But now it’s a place primarily vacant. Primarily perpetuated by habit. A fading dissociation, the entropic nature of this formerly lively website-blog-collection of-Depraves mimicking the entropic nature of it All. Nothing stays, everything ends, energy can be neither created nor destroyed but it certainly fucking disperse. This is what this anxious, rotting, jittery Meat-Bag is up to this week. Feel free to ignore me, said the Lonely Man to the Empty Hallway.
Monday, motherfuckers. Another day at the beginning of another week. For those of us on the M-F Grind, Monday heralds yet another blitz through the whirling blades of the Existential Gauntlet. But fear not, friends. The Man has peppered our lives with another Meaningless Morsels to keep us just Fat, Happy, and Distracted Enough from pulling plugs and diving into stark abysses.
These are the Meaningless Morsels I’m enjoying this week. Please share your own.
Watch your fucking step. It’s a goddamn cold one out there. At least if you’re like yours truly, living in the Northeast Quadrant of the Empire Proper. But should not grouse too loudly, for I am lucky enough to be able to ignite the heating-systems on my room in the Space-Ship. Huddle up underneath blankets of Local Sporting Team, plug into the OMNI-NETS, and converse with you folk. The specific topic of our conversation? Well seeing that this is Monday Morning Commute, let us discus what we are stoked for this week. What are the TV shows, sporting events, philosophical treatises, and tumblr accounts getting you through this latest installment of grind?
Holy Tits on a Sacred Idol, I haven’t issued forth a meaningless communique in six days? ‘Tis the season for negligence or something. Is this inter-microphone on? Is anyone hearing this? Or am I, as always, a captive spectator in the Theater of My Own Mind? None the less. Here I am. Over-caffeinated, under-medicated, and ready to dive headfirst into Monday Morning Commute. The column where we share what we’re excited for during a given week. Maybe it’s a movie. Maybe it’s a meal. Maybe it’s a secret rendezvous in a Burger King bathroom with an omni-gendered, multiverse alien with all the holes, phalanges, phalluses, and proclivities to finally sate a very (very) nuanced sexual appetite.