#January2018

Weekend Open Bar: Paper Boi, Paper Boi, All About That Paper, Boy

paper boi

It’s the Weekend! It’s the Weekend Open Bar!

Spend time with me this weekend!

I’m hammering out this opening salvo quickly, because, I must confess, I gotta scrub my ass. Birthday dinner is waiting! Stuff guts with Mexican food! Then, tonight, Wrestle Kingdom with Bateman is waiting! Stuff guts with pizza, with sugar, with glory, and with glee. But, friends. Don’t think I’m neglecting you! This very hammering out, this very textual blitzkrieg is evidence I care about you!

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Monday Morning Commute: Rainmaker, The One Who Makes It Rain

the one who makes it rain

Back to life, friends. Back to reality. At least, for people like me who are fortunate enough to have spent the last week wallowing in excess and friendship. So I have returned to reality, and I’m currently sitting in a very quiet Writing Center, writing very quietly.

None the less.

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Weekend Open Bar: Rocket Fuel & Rockin’ Fools

snowden

It’s the Weekend! Open Bar! Fuck, I know I’m late. Last night was a birthday dinner with family, rolled immediately into five hours of wrestling with Bateman. Oh! Lucha Underground. Oh! Wrestle Kingdom 11. Truthfully? I squeezed in a couple hours of Final Fantasy XV between the former ending and the latter beginning. Oh! No matter, no matter.

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Monday Morning Commute: the guy in the moderately tall skyscraper

the-man-in-the-moderately-high-skyscraper

Oh what a day, what a lovely day. The terrifying, inevitable transition from cultural entropy into the feigned doubling-down of effort and self-disciplined. Yes, yes, friends. Comrades. Frequenters of Space-Ship Omega. It’s the beginning of a new year, the cessation of the end-of-year celebrations. Darkness looms. Deadlines loom.

Hark, hark, may the Ennui strike you more as a honeyed blanket of anaesthetization. And not, oh dear god, and not as the sort of bowels-liquefying anxiety that plunges you through your corpus, through your bed, through your plane of existence and onto the bottom of the bottomless chasm of existential dread.

Oh, you need a lifeline? Oh, you need something to help with this transition back into the wild world of labor extraction? Well, buddy. Well, pal. Well, comrade. I got you. I got you.

See, this here jam is the Monday Morning Commute jam. And here at this here jam I list the various things I’m using to get myself through a work week. The TV I’m watching to close my third-eye, the music I’m using to block out the droning clarion call of Listlessness. The video games I’m employ for the total deinvigorating oculuar-auditory shutdown I just may need.

That uh, pal, that uh. Got a bit dark. But fuck it, fuck it with gumption and assertiveness.

We get can make it through this reentry together.

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Weekend Open Bar: The New Scum’s Old Haunts

the new scum

The Weekend Open Bar. The old haunt of the Omegaverse’s New Scum. Where every weekend we can pry off our masks, slip off our gloves, and commune for a couple of days. We gather, away from the back-breaking SpiceMines, the porcelain shit thrones that must be shined, from the glue factory and the Dagobah Diners. We gather here.

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Monday Morning Commute: Trickle Down Cybernetics

Trickle Down

How are you folks doing? Man — it’s been a minute since I sat down at my computer. Or, I suppose, sat my laptop down upon me. Spent the weekend hanging out with friends, slinging insane amounts of caffeine into my veins. Watching grown men throw balls into the air while I bark at them nonsensically. Imbuing the frivolities with so much importance, way too much importance, playing right into the distractionary hands of The Powers That Be.

But hey. It’s with friends. There are probably worse ways to spend the weekend than eating too much, farting too much, laughing too much, and the such, right? Even if the macguffin is SportEvent.

Anyways — now that I am at my computer, I shall compose this. Monday Morning Commute!

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Monday Morning Commute: Deus Ex Slopculture

slopculture

It’s another edition of Monday Morning Commute, folks. Borne up out of the primordial sludge that are my synapses. Rotted neuro-wires shooting electricity aimlessly across the hollowed-dome of my brain-piece. My poor taste strained through the rotting diaper filled with the refuse of a consumed Elder One’s husk.

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