#Monday Morning Commute

Monday Morning Commute: If It Bleeds We Can Kill It

monday morning commute if it bleeds

Sometimes, man. Sometimes, I just straight-up spend too much time thinking of a post title for a Monday Morning Commute, and then I spend too much time hunting the perfect image. “Perfect”, I know. I’m trash. Anyways, how are you fucking folks doing? You stellar Garbage Lords.

Me?

This guy?

Well, I’m currently pinched for time. Tomorrow I leave for the Great White North, meeting the rest of the family up there for a final service for my Nana. She sloughed the mortal coil last year, I think maybe I discussed it?, and now it’s time.

To throw Nana into the marsh behind the family home. Where her shamanistic tendencies can be unloosed, sent to interact with her fellow Reality Melters in the Gilded Plains of the OMNIVERSE.

Me?

This guy?

Well, I’m currently wasting time!

So here, without further adieu, is what I’m currently enjoying, currently looking forward to, currently sweating. Let me know what you’re up to this week!

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Monday Morning Commute: One More Packet

One More Packet

I only needed one more packet.

My palm couldn’t stop my nosebleed any longer. The old lady behind the counter looked at the rivulets dripping into the crook of my elbow. She shook her head. I kept pleading.

“Please, lady, y’gotta help me out! I only need one more packet!”

“Sorry, Bucko, but the policy’s to stop servin’ after seven packets!”

“C’mon, you already gave me nine!”

“That’s right, I already broke policy for your ass!” She looked at the ceiling in that way mastered only by crusty diner waitresses with stories to tell. “Now, I’ll keep slingin’ coffees your way all night, and we won’t have to have any more frustrated words with — or cross looks at — one another.”

“But, but –”

“No butts, no asses, and the only titty will be a tough-titty for you!” She slid an entire carafe of coffee in front of me. “You wanna light your brain on fire? Try doin’ it with that! But I ain’t givin’ another goddamn packet of Nestle Cocaine.”

I only needed one more packet.

—-

This is the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!

Posted above is some of my patented drivel fiction. I hope you enjoyed it, but don’t blame you if you didn’t. Posted below is a list of some of stuff I’ll be checking out this week. Y’know, things to [excite/expand/extinguish] my brain. After you check out my entertainment itinerary, hit up the comments section and share your own.

TALLY-HO!!!!

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Monday Morning Commute: A Trip Away From Oblivion

monday morning commute trip away oblivion

How are you folks, doing? Me? This human? This flesh-sack, organic-computer, consumption-bot? I’m doing fine.

It’s that weird period of the summer where I’m done teaching, but I still have to go into work.

Just enough of a busy schedule to spend an hour, hour-and-fifteen, or hour-and-a-half in my car, each way, for four days a week.

Just enough of a busy schedule to fight traffic to tutor a couple folks to sit idly waiting to see if anyone else is will need tutoring.

Invariably: they won’t.

Invariably: I’ll sit, eyes-crossed, soul-exhaling-a-continuous-malaise, browsing Tumblr, Facebook, whateverwhatever.

Invariably: then I leave, fighting traffic back to my domicile.

How are you folks, doing? Me? This human? This animated-rot, permanent-horndog, masturbation-factory? I’m doing fine.

This is Monday Morning Commute.

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Monday Morning Commute: No Skills. No Supplies. No Signals. No Worries.

No Worries

It was a brand new day on a planet as old as time itself.

Edie stumbled off the starcruiser’s ramp, footing as unsure as the color of the soil. Barely a glimpse at the atmospheric readings on her forearm-gauge and Edie was tearing off her helmet. She hadn’t travelled across the stars to gaze upon another planet through a hermetic seal.

Standing at the top of a ravine,Edie looked down at the landscape and gasped. Fields of silver wheat swayed in an electric breeze. Twin rivers of indigo fog raged into each other. A lone tree’s leaves burst into flames, shriveled, bloomed, and then ignited again.

“Fuckin’ brilliant.”

Edie wasn’t sure that she had the skills to repair the starcruiser herself. And she wasn’t sure how much of her supply compartment’d survived the crash. And she wasn’t sure if her distress signal’d ever be picked up.

No skills. No supplies. No signals.

And yet, having actually survived the voyage itself, Edie couldn’t worry. She couldn’t not smile. After all, there’re worse fates than dying in the midst of alien beauty.

—-

Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!

This is the regularly-scheduled feature for discussing what we’ll be checking out in the following week. After presenting some drivel-fiction (see above), I give you the prospective entertainment-highlights of the upcoming days. Then, you hit up the comments section and share what you’ll be consuming.

Yes, it’s basically digital show-and-tell.

Let’s rock!

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Monday Morning Commute: It’s been a weird summer (so far)

Monday Morning Commute: It's been a weird summer (so far)

Man, it’s been a weird summer so far. Today marked the sixth, and final week of the summer class that I teach for incoming freshmen students. There’s just been something off since the get-go, and as its conclusion nears, a sense of confusion that it’s really ending, and a sense of relief that it’s really ending are both making themselves known. But it’s the end, the conclusion, the finale this week.

And for all my whimpering, simpering, and bitching, I only have to wear dress pants three more times until September.

And for all my whimpering, simpering, and bitching, I only have to work four days a week until September.

So here we are. Frazzled, and fried, but fairly grateful, all things considered.

This is Monday Morning Commute. The wank-off section, where we wank, and oh do we stroke, and rub, and perhaps even lick ourselves to the arts&farts we’re looking forward to on a given week. I’ll go first.

Then you go. Get excited. Don’t worry. Wet naps and warm towels will be dispensed per your request.

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Tuesday Evening Commute: Let The Chemicals Whisper

same

I don’t know, what the fuck do you want from me? Just kind of in a funk, lately. Not pervasive, rather it sort of floats in and out of my day. Tired. Burnt out. Expressed the idea to my wife yesterday and her response was immediate, logical, and undeniable: I haven’t had a proper vacation in who the fuck knows how long, and I work myself to death. Always busy. Always tired. Always distracted.

Case in point, I write the above paragraph at 2pm during my lunch break. But, here I am, now! It’s 7pm. I have surfed time, space, commuter traffic, a half-assed workout, and a dog walk to rejoin this act of writing. I’m just, you know. Tired.

But! Hey! It’s Monday Morning Commute! By way of Tuesday. Despite being slathered in a melange of malaise, I’m actually looking forward to some shit this week, I’m actually consuming some pop culture I’m enjoying this week.

Join me in the comments with your own pop culture proclivities, thoughts on existence, gifs of furries farting on cakes. I don’t give a shit.

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Tuesday Evening Drive: Maui

maui

Hello, friends! Denizens of the Space-Ship Omega! This is Monday Morning Commute, by way of Tuesday Evening. Why the tardiness? Why the general silence on the blog?

I’m glad you (didn’t) ask! I just blitz’d a weekend in Maui for a best friend’s wedding, and well. Coming back to reality after two days in paradise requires efforting on several levels. Readjusting to timezones, readjusting to the perils and praxis of regular life, yadda, yadda.

But I can’t complain.

I’ve discovered the answer to a question I’ve been asking myself since last year, when I knew I would be going to Maui. Is thirty hours of travel in the span of four days, and thousands of dollars for said travel, and missing teaching two incredibly intensive summer classes, worth forty-eight hours in paradise, for a best friend’s wedding?

Unequivocally, yes. 

But this, right here! It’s the weekly column where we share what we’re up to, on a given week! I’ll share my own findings, as I rattle around in the befuddled muck of my consciousness, trying to figure out not just what I’m up to, but what day it is, what time it is, this and that, this and that.

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Monday Morning Commute: Everything good everything good gravy

everything good everything good gravy

It’s been a minute, Space-Ship OMEGA. A hot minute, since I’ve dusted off and rolled out Monday Morning Commute. For that, to the three dedicated community members we have, I prostrate (and if you’d like, prostate) myself before you and beg forgiveness.

Rendar was doing them, and then he was maybe doing then, and then it seems life sped up and he simply wasn’t doing them, and I should have intervened. But, you know how it goes. Life speeds up, the mind slows down. It’s Monday evening at 10pm and I could idly blink at the TeleVisor, or I could activate the neurons. Lethargy always, entropy claims, I choose not to fight the great unwinding.

Anyways, hey! I hope you’re still here. Anyways, hey! I hope you’re still down to play the old game of Monday Morning Commute — where we share the various distractions, dalliances, and distillations that are helping us combat the weekly drudgery.

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Monday Morning Commute: A Best Friend’s Boy

a best friend's boy

I wasn’t supposed to be upset that Russell was dead.

Pops and Mahma explained to me when we first got him, years back, that he was mine to look after. After all, they reasoned, it was because of my begging and pleading that they agreed to go to a breeder in the first place. While it was true, Pops admitted, that we all fell in love with Russell’s soft whimpering and pouty eyes, he was mine to look after.

And that meant, in their parental estimation, not only enjoying the benefits but also dealing with the baggage. And to do so with the grace and poise for which our family — the Eldertons — was known.

So, needless to say, Pops and Mahma were none too thrilled when they found me cradling Russell’s body on the morning that I found him, gently and peacefully, dead in the backyard. I was crying, and they were disgusted, but I told them that Russell was my best friend and they should honor my feelings even if they didn’t agree with them.

I wasn’t supposed to be upset that Russell was dead, they told me. I was supposed to know that Russell’s lifespan, given his breed, was going to be short, they told me. I was supposed to stop crying, and when I collected myself I could go back to the breeder and get a new Russell, they told me.

But they’d never told me that it was risky for me to get Russell in the first place. They’d never told me that something’d gone awry when I was programmed. They’d never told me that I’d been glitch-maxxed for empathy.

I wasn’t supposed to be upset that Russell was dead, but he was more than just a human being to me.

He was my best friend.

—-

Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!

Now that you’ve survived another one of my brain-damaged attempts at drivel fiction, it’s time to discuss the upcoming week’s activities.

What’re you going to do to curb the blow of another workweek? What’re you looking forward to? What’s getting you jacked up and ready to embrace existence?

I’ll start.

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Monday Morning Commute: Unholy Water

Unholy Water

The well had dried.

Just to be sure, Louise through dropped a stone and listened eagerly, waiting for a PLOP! and a renewed hope. All she got was a THUNK! and a reaffirmed desperation. It wasn’t looking good.

Louise turned the pail upside to triple-check for any signs of water, and when gravity told her that she was shit out of luck she almost cried. She would’ve, too, if she wasn’t’ already so dehydrated. At this point, she was sure her blood was turning into dust and that her next period would look more like Lawrence of Arabia than Dracula.

“Fuck it,” Louise muttered, dropping the pail and looking to the sky. Not. A. Cloud. In. Sight. Her only hope – the only hope – of getting water would be to march down to Padre Sausalita’s house and knock on the door. Diligent as ever, the good Padre’d anticipated the drought and had pre-ordered countless gallons so that the congregation’d never run out of holy water.

The only problem? Louise had promised herself that if she ever saw him again, she’d kill Padre Sausalita. In fact, she’d promised herself that she’d drag his scab-ass to a big `ole mirror and slit his throat in front of it so that he’d be able to watch himself bleed out.

And Louise never broke a promise.

—-

This right here? This is the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!

First, I caffeinate myself into enough of a frenzy to offer a bit of prose — call it microfiction or short narrative or drivel-fiction — for your reading pleasure! Then, I present the various means I’ll be using in the upcoming Monday-through-Friday to cope with the workweek. Finally, you hop into the comments section and offer your own anti-ennui elixirs.

It’s not much more than show-and-tell, but it’s a fairly well-attended event aboard SPACESHIP OL!

Okay, let’s rock!

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