It’s the Weekend Open Bar.

Here on the Space-Ship Omega.

Round and round and round the Sun we go. Harboring ill memories, favorable moments, abject disproofs of karma, and transformative moments of kindness. In the grand scheme of things, we, the Sun, these burps and blips don’t matter one lick. In the grand scheme of things, these random scatterings of electrical impulses, of poor choices, of wise decisions, of moments of passion and anger, they’re all we fucking got.

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We gotta get the ventilation system working here on the Space-Ship Omega. Okay. I know that. My phlegm-farts have been stinking up my cabin, floating through the grates, and now your milk steaks taste like ass soup. Apologies. In the meantime, let’s all indulge in some Monday Morning Commute. The one-stop shop for sharing all the easy, breezy, beautiful things you’re looking forward to this week. Just don’t list “my milk steak not tasting like your rectal leakage” as something to be anticipated. Please. I get it. Okay.

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