I need to finish up my final term paper. Quickly. The amount of procrasturbating I’m doing is going to be the undoing of my genitals. Stuck on a particular paragraph? Dinky time. Don’t want to find that quote? Dinky time. Yeah man, dinky time!

It’s gorgeous out, I think spring may finally have woken up fully. I don’t want to be down in my Man Cave, churning out epic tomes of stupidity and vapidity and bile-suffuse academic ramblings. It’s all bullshit. I promise you. Seriously? You know what academic papers are about? They’re about taking a woefully simple idea, mining it for minutiae, and then creating a phrase around that morsel of minutiae. Academic revels in obscurity.

I think it’s probably just the five Diet Mountain Dews and the Energy Drink talking. I think I’m seeing vapors. I literally can’t think straight. I closed my Microsoft Word, and I opened up WordPress, and here you go, pointless babbling across thousands of other words.

Jesus! Allah! Someone! Help!

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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Thunder and lightning and god seeks revenge! I have no idea what that means, in relation to this post. But let’s be clear about some things. Despite the fact that I have a swamp in my pants from the gym, outside is absolutely delightful. There’s none of the precipitation out in the trees that I can feel fermenting in the crevices of my thunder thighs. What a wonderful to time exist, no?

You’re just trudging through the woeful winter and all of a sudden you look up from your self-pitying and you catch blue skies and the rustling of leaves. There’s something to be said of the necessary evil of the winter for you to appreciate the spring. But eh, who fucking cares. I’m pretty sure I could enjoy the beautiful weather of say, San Diego, without having to live through snow and hail and cleaning out cars.

I pinky swear.

I’ll just come home for Christmas, that’d be enough to remind me, right?

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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Boston has been struck with some sort of water crisis. I’m not really sure what the crisis is; I just know that I can’t drink the water. Which naturally, makes me want to drink the water even more. Something about a water main breaking, and something, something, and then my eyes glaze over and I stop paying attention.

It’s all horse radish anyways. Apparently the worst thing it can do is give you diarrhea or something in a week. And let me tell you something, the shits and me are like peas and carrots. I actually prefer a nice liquid blast to some sort of sludgy hate crime. It makes clean-up so much easier.

Just sayin’.

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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I absconded to New York this past weekend for the second time in three weeks or so. This is me yawning with a greatness. ‘Twas a good time. My Significant Other and I were fitted into a hotel room suite replete with a kitchen, refridgerator and other fancy stuff. It was fantastic, even if I felt bad at living in such luxury. I’m the guy who feels bad when someone calls him “sir” or carries his bags for him. I want to be like, “Dude, no seriously. I’m a 27 year-old schmuck who lives with his parents and you probably are busting your ass for ungrateful people. Let me carry my own bag.”

As I said though, it was enjoyable. My girlfriend, being infinitely more successful than myself despite being 4.5 years my younger, is a tough one to corral for a day alone. Her schedule is voluminous and her drive remarkable, and I’m just a guy reading books. So being able to get away with her, even to the noise and din of New York City was great.

I tried my best to not hyperventilate over all the school work I wasn’t getting done while I was there. When I closed my eyes I saw syllabuses not being completed. I could hear the crackle of pages not being turned. Grad school. It’s turning out to be a real son of a bitch.

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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…If you get the title, and you know what a cream pie is, you’re my target audience. Welcome to the Cult. My raging juvenility knows no bounds. It’s a gorgeous day out, the sun is shining, the window to My Dungeon is cracked open. Life is swell.

It’s probably going to rain tomorrow.

I’ve spent all weekend holed up in the cave, reading shitty Villette. I’m so fucking sick of British Women’s Literature, I could spit! Spit! Fuck.

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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Oh, you know I’m totally up against it here. I have like eight minutes to tell you what I’m up to, before I have to head into school before class to work on a paper. Let me show you what my life currently looks like:

Awake, read, read, write, eat, spend time with friends/lady, sleep, awake, read, read, write, awake, read, read, write, spend time with friends/lady, awake, read, read, write, eat, sleep.

I haven’t been doing much of anything, aside from sweating final papers and wading through scholarly articles. It isn’t that such an existence makes me miserable. Instead, it just leaves very little time for leisurely reading, video game playing, or watching dope ass shit. My DVR barks hate at me, my gaming backlog continues to increase, and will multiply tomorrow. And music is relegated to background noise.

Anyways.

Today you get my interests in pictures. Which seems like a novel way to save time, but will probably end up taking me more time.

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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Spring has sprung! Or something. It’s always weird when the days are nice, but life hasn’t returned to the barren shitland of New England. There’s something odd about walking around and loving the blue skies and warm weather and seeing no leaf or greenery within my purview. Whatever, I’ll take the sunlight, man. Nothing perks up my spirits (and all of humanity’s) like a nice beautiful day outside. It’s almost enough to make me forget the ashen butthole that is winter time.

Can you notice I’m falling less and less in love with snow and frost? It never used to bother me when I was young. Now I hate it with a ferocity usually reserved for dying on boss fights, or the prequels.

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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Hello everyone! How was your weekend? Oh, it was splendid? I’m glad to hear it! Oh, you spent all weekend at PAXEAST while I started jealously at all the coverage from Kotaku and shit? Yeah, I’m going to shin you, boy! Or girl! Boygirl! Your shins are mine for the taking. I’m about to rock your shins with the fury of a man possessed with jealousy and contempt! But mostly jealously.

I spent my weekend watching sports and eating crappy food. It was actually a great way to spend a weekend. The Ms. Caffeine Powered and myself sat around in our pajamas all day on Saturday, watching something like six hours of sports. We feasted on bacon and chocolate chip cookies, and while she still remains beautiful, I’m going to hate the fuck out of myself today if I’m daring enough to look in the mirror. Then a cadre of friends came over, and we watched GSP look sexy. Or maybe fight. But mostly we were staring at his thighs.

Sunday was Sunday. Accentuated by waking up way the fuck late, and then not really doing much.

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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Let me tell you something, I ain’t no spring chicken anymore. I spent Saturday evening at Foxwoods casino, and Sunday morning sleeping on a hotel floor for three and a half shitty hours. By the end of the day I was in such an stupendous state of exhaustion I think I was drooling on myself staring at my monitor. While I don’t imagine I ever would have felt one-hundred percent after such an adventure, I can’t help imagine I used to be more resilient after such an evening.

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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I’ve never been a big fan of Spring. I don’t know why. While everyone is rejoicing at the return of blue skies and fresh air, I’m miserable. I think it has to do with several things. Firstly, the moment life returns to the plains of despair that are New England winters, my sinuses fill with enough muck to cement a wall with. And secondly, I find the air to be harsh at night, and cold in the morning. It’s a cock-tease. It’s like halfway decent out there. At least with the winter, you know what you’re getting: misery.

During the Spring, I don’t know what the fuck to wear, I don’t know what it’s going to be like out. Either I’m freezing, or I’m wearing too much and I’m sweating through my fucking clothing again. Pit stains need to come into fashion, or I’m going to live a very unfashionable life. It doesn’t seem that implausible, I mean, these days assholes are shelling out legitimate amounts of cash for pants that look like a painter fucked his co-worker in the middle of a job, and then got into a knife fight. Maybe some day there will be pseudo-pit stains, already burned into the shirts you buy.

A man can dream.

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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