I saw this really funny Onion article the other day. Its headline was something like, “Blogger apologies to fan base for not posting in a while.” You know, making fun of the self-importance dongs like me can feel. But, I promise you I don’t feel anything like that. However, I’m still not going to apologize to you fuckers. Instead, I’m just going to hit you with the first Desktop Thursday in like, a month! I hope your summer is going well. Mine has been fantastic. The precise sort of recuperative effort I needed, following a rather trying Spring semester. That said, it’s about to fucking end soon, and I don’t know how I’m going to handle it. Well, I hope! Fantastic, I plead!

Anyways, none the less. Check out some images from my life. Share your own in the comments.

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And a pleasant Weekend Open Bar to you all, as well! How’s it going, anyways? Hope you’re as lucky as me, to have the next couple of days to convalesce. And if you don’t? May you find the strength to punch the fucking weekend work day squarely in the throat! Indeed, indeed! Maybe you find the strength to axe-kick its compromised organs, and drink from its futility! Fuck, fuck. I was trying to come in here floaty, relaxed from yoga. That’s a thing I’m doing now, I guess.

Yoga.

Going to my wife’s class on Friday evenings.

I’m as basic and as privileged as they come, but, what do you want from me? I hope some sort of meta, tactic acknowledgement of this can salve my weeping wound which has burst open from leaning into Generica.

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There’s a stunning, albeit welcomed, banality to my life. To skip two weeks of Desktop Thursdays, the column where I share with you both my virtual and tangible worlds, and look back and find emptiness. Placidity. Nothing much to report, over and out. Nothing much to comment upon, over and out.

I’m here this week, though, with said column. And I’ll share, with you said worlds.

I hope you’ll do the same in the comments.

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There can be something exhilarating and freeing about a condemned, Post-Hope existence.

Sure. I utter this from a plateau. From a monument of privilege.

My wife makes good money, I got a dick, can pass for straight, and sport a blanche complexion.

With those caveats in tow, I mean, this rotting obelisk doesn’t seem so intimidating. It may be a survival technique, these gallantly leapt hoops I am gallantly leaping through. But what else would you ask of me?

The seas rise, the Earth heats, the resources dwindle, the population increases. Those in charge predicate power and greed over empathy and charity.

It’s done. It. Capital “I”, if you will. Shot through the heart. To carry on itself seems a tip of the cap to existential absurdism.

What else to do, what else would you have me do? A little mild resistance during the day. But the heart weakens, the mind fatigues, respite is earned and welcome.

So I fuck, and I smoke a little weed. I laugh with friends, go out to dinner with my wife. Enjoy movies, condemn liberal sophistic think pieces and conservative hate screeds alike. Play some video games, walk my dog. Marvel at the night sky and feel peace in the recognition that We Don’t Matter, We Never Mattered, And It will be fine when we’re gone. It. Capital “I”, if you will.

Every once in a while, I contemplate carrying on my lineage, am reminded that if anyone is getting off this melting marble it certainly won’t be an ancestor of my class and caste. I pass off that condemnation for another week, month, year, maybe forever. Can you imagine that? Willfully procreating at the end of civilization? Sometimes I can. Sometimes I can’t.

I have no words of encouragement other than we’re all down in the bottom decks of this wonderful, wicked, pointless sinking ship together. So fuck it, and fuck it together.

Let’s spend some time chatting. There’s nothing really else to do.

[This is Monday Morning Commute]

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Hey! Desktop Thursdays! Where I show you my goddamn worlds — populated by goddamn madness, beauty, reluctance, pensiveness, and really just a panoply of garbage!

Yeah yeah yeah yeah, I skipped last week. Sue me! I have a very good attorney, and though he specializes in Bird Law, I think he can probably do me right.

Yeah yeah yeah yeah, I’m over-caffeinated and ready. Oh, so ready. To rock! Here are views from across my existence the past two weeks. My worlds done tangible, done intangible, done textual. All of them, for your pleasure. I hope. Oh, I hope. You’ll share your own world(s) in the comments section!

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Desktop Thursdays! My thinly veiled excuse to post pictures of my dog, my cat, and me! Yeah, man. I don’t know. Every Thursday comes, and I’m like. How is it already Thursday? Apparently I don’t take any pictures. Eh! Eh. Ehhh.

Whatever. This is my world across the past week. Desktop Thursdays! My thinly veiled excuse for me to ask you to show me your world! What does your look like? Hit the comments section!

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Fear and Loathing is getting itself a graphic novel adaptation from Top Shelf, and the mofuckah is arriving in October. I’m down for supporting anything F&L, so put me down for a purchase. Who? You. Right here. Behind the keyboard.

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[This! Is! Mad Men! recaps the newest developments of Don Draper and his ragtag group of cohorts. In the spirit of the show, it will often be sexist and drunk. Apologies ahead of time.]

I’m worried about Don Draper. He’s always bent the elbow liberally, but never before has alcohol been such a destructive force in his life. Sure, there’ve been plenty of drunks in Mad Men — Freddy Rumsen and Duck Philips spring to mind — but Don’s supposed to be the exception to the rule!

Isn’t he?

When we first learnt of Don’s exploits in season one, there was a certain charm to them. He drinks? He philanders? He steals identities? All right…That’s not too cool but I guess I can see where he’s coming from. He was sympathetic – coming from nothing, he sought solace in the pursuit of the American dream. And just like Gatsby and Willy Loman and Hunter S. Thompson, Don Draper found out the hard way that the dream is dead.

How do know that that Don Draper has hit rock bottom? He gave away his secret identity.

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