A listless dragging on of the summer has revealed something to me: I don’t care for the summer. I mean, theoretically when I’m not a bum and I have an actual job teaching, it shall be my reprieve. Theoretically. But once I get into July, all I’m doing is sitting around, hating the heat, hating the fact that I get pit stains within moments of getting dressed, and waiting for crisp air. I love the Fall. I sort of like the Winter. But once you get past 75 degrees (I don’t know what that translates to in the measurement system outside the Empire), I’m a sweaty groaning mess.

Monday Morning Commute. Every Monday I’m going to detail the various things I’m either currently or will be watching, reading, playing, and listening to in the next seven days. It’s Monday. You’ve got a long week of school, work, or compulsive masturbation to get through. Tell me what you’re diggin’ on to get through the drudgery.

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Behold the Wundercrotch! Wrap it in tinfoil, stick it in front of erotic materials, and within forty-minutes, you’ll have yourself a sticky mess of tinfoil! You say that’s useless?! I say to thee, surely you jest! Why, if it wasn’t for the Wundercrotch, I wouldn’t have been able to wallpaper my dungeon walls with aluminum foil! Such ingenious craftsmanship and plaster holds forever! F-o-r-e-v-e-r.

Monday Morning Commute. Every Monday I’m going to detail the various things I’m either currently or will be watching, reading, playing, and listening to in the next seven days. It’s Monday. You’ve got a long week of school, work, or compulsive masturbation to get through. Tell me the arts that you’re indulging in, to stave off suicide.

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My final project for my summer course is finished. It’s been attached to an email. It’s been fired, an electronic missive, scattering across the digi-webs towards my professor’s inbox. And as soon it is received, it shall begin crushing the university’s bandwidth, daring to be downloaded. Enormous. Blathering. Finished.

A week’s worth of work. Thousands of words, a couple dozen pages. Diet Mountain Dew cans consumed into the infinity-range. Spent veins, spent cells, smiles abound.

Hey, it’s like, summer or something?

I’ll be bored and ready for class in two weeks.

Monday Morning Commute. Every Monday I’m going to detail the various things I’m either currently or will be watching, reading, playing, and listening to in the next seven days. It’s Monday. You’ve got a long week of school, work, or compulsive masturbation to get through. Tell me the arts that you’re indulging in, to stave off suicide.

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Monday Morning Commute. Every Monday I’m going to detail the various things I’m either currently or will be watching, reading, playing, and listening to in the next seven days. It’s Monday. You’ve got a long week of school, work, or compulsive masturbation to get through. Tell me the arts that you’re indulging in, to stave off suicide.

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Yes, hi, hello, how are you? The scent of rot you’re picking up is a prescient notion of your future-rot, a fate guaranteed by your entrance into Flagship Humanity. I apologize on behalf of Whatever Is Up There for our inevitably decline into stuffing for an overpriced casket.

But!, lament not. It’s the Fourth of July weekend! At least, here in the Empire. I don’t know what the rest of the world is going, and as I have been trained by a stringent regiment of indoctrination throughout the US school system – I don’t care! Are you all still watching the footy-ball? I have my money on the team of polar bears from Antarctica. Those cats (bears) can ball. Like woah.

So slough off those momentary premonitions of your inevitable demise, and gather those fucking rosebuds while you may. And by rosebuds, this weekend, I meant some chemical-soaked beef, and your light beer of choice. Let’s all party on the Titanic together.

Monday Morning Commute. Every Monday I’m going to detail the various things I’m either currently or will be watching, reading, playing, and listening to in the next seven days. It’s Monday. You’ve got a long week of school, work, or compulsive masturbation to get through. Tell me the arts that you’re indulging in, to stave off suicide.

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Welcome to the dance. In the corner you’ll find the teenage boys and girls awkwardly writhing against one another while their genitals engorge. Two teachers married to spouses they can’t stand are echoing the teenagers’ awkward behavior. modified slightly by decades of distaste and ennui. Don’t pay the $2 for the lukewarm cans of Coca Cola, okay? We’ll walk down to the local gas station and buy ourselves some for cheaper and cut in around the back. The police officer can be sort of a hard ass, but if we swear, pledge, take an oath, to never leave in the middle of the dance again, he’ll let us in.

He’s a sucker. But he’s sort of a nice guy.

Monday Morning Commute. Every Monday I’m going to detail the various things I’m either currently or will be watching, reading, playing, and listening to in the next seven days. It’s Monday. You’ve got a long week of school, work, or compulsive masturbation to get through. Tell me the arts that you’re indulging in, to stave off suicide.

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The wonderful thing about having to write a weekly column where I tell you everything I’m doing is that I’m terribly boring, and typically doing nothing. I pretend that I’m up to something fantastic, when in general it’s just the usual. Too much late-night eating, happy days with the girlfriend, homework and caffeine. That’s about it, yo. But naw, I’m seriously super exciting. I scale mountains of amazement, and look down upon you peons and just chuckle. Deep belly laughs of condescension. I have a kind of sick desperation in my laugh.

Monday Morning Commute. Every Monday I’m going to detail the various things I’m either currently or will be watching, reading, playing, and listening to in the next seven days. It’s Monday. You’ve got a long week of school, work, or compulsive masturbation to get through. Tell me the arts that you’re indulging in, to stave off suicide.

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And the seven thunders uttered! How the fuck is it going? Are you happily ensconced in your cubicle? Are you like me, with a pile of short stories to read, and a paper to write? Are you a single mother at home, on your ninth bag of Doritos and early awaiting today’s episode of Oprah? Are you stoked? Pumped? Ready to feel the burn? What are you looking forward to this week? This month! Tell me. I yearn to know. And for your underpants. Just saying.

Monday Morning Commute. Every Monday I’m going to detail the various things I’m either currently or will be watching, reading, playing, and listening to in the next seven days. It’s Monday. You’ve got a long week of school, work, or compulsive masturbation to get through. Tell me the arts that you’re indulging in, to stave off suicide.

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[via only the young die young]

The idea of her touching me around that region actually makes the threat seem a-okay. Where’s Monday Morning Commute? In your ass! Shit is on hiatus this week. Pepsibones is in Vermont, I’m sitting in the sun, and the rest of the Empire is celebrating Memorial Day. If it’s nice in your neck of the woods, go grab some toxic rays and drink your alcoholic or caffeinated (or both) beverage of your choice.

Regular banality resumes tomorrow.

And then it was over. I almost forgot that I had to write Monday Morning Commute. I was on my way to go to the gym when I it struck me. I’ve been so wrapped up in LOST, and thinking about LOST, and churning out a 2,000+ word recap about the final episode that writing this son of a bitch slipped my mind. I’m going to level with you: I have no desire to be writing this. And I apologize to you if you’ve caught yourself reading this. My apologies. Mea culpa!

Monday Morning Commute. Every Monday I’m going to detail the various things I’m either currently or will be watching, reading, playing, and listening to in the next seven days. It’s Monday. You’ve got a long week of school, work, or compulsive masturbation to get through. Tell me the arts that you’re indulging in, to stave off suicide.

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