Welcome to Doldrums City, comrades. Population: Me (at the very least). I’m sick. I’m tired. The Earth is melting, our government is run by lily livered cretins and monsters. Football is over. The sky is ash. I’m stick. I’m tired. All I want to do is sleep, masturbate wildly while screaming at the ceiling fan, and eat. Eat, and eat, and eat, and eat. Rinse. Repeat.
This is MondayMorningCommute by way of TuesdayAfternoon.
Being MMC BYO TA, the task at hand is simple. I share what I’m looking forward to this week. What I’m hoping will rocket me out of Doldrums City, comrades. Then you share your own anticipatory happenings in the comments section.
The bar is open early, friends. It’s Thanksgiving Eve here on the eastern arm of the Empire. I’m blessed enough to have the rest of the week off. So why not let the Asgardian ale flow already? So why not let the Martian space spice be smoked already? I have no good reasons for why not to, I have no good explanations. All I know is that life is too short, too vicious for even the most blessed, to not seize upon moments of revelry with you and yours.
Weekend Open Bar on a Wednesday evening.
Sweatpants, Diet Dew, a fire, a furry dog at my feet. Life ain’t bad, life ain’t bad generally. Going to keep this simple, on this simple evening. This is Monday Morning Commute, the column where we share what we’re up to during a particular week. The new movie we want to see. A comic book dropping on Wednesday we can’t wait to read. Et cetera et cetera et cetera. Going to keep this simple, on this simple evening.
I’ll go first, you’ll follow in the comments section. Fair? Fair. Fair!
Weekend’s half over, and I’m just opening the bar. C’est la vie of a loser blogger with a moderately busy life and a poor sense of discipline. Crazy week. First week of the semester. No gentle ascent into the warm, welcoming arms of academic banality. No ma’am. No sir. Instead. Picture it. A rocket-ship. My ass gently dolloped onto the top of said rocket-ship. Instead. Picture it. Said rocket-ship rocketing into the atmosphere, my poor, sad flaccid dong-dong burning up. My hair a fury’d mess. My nipples chaffing under the duress of embracing former-Earth, my throat. Oh, my throat! A bloodied, shredded mess as I howl at the enormity of the next fifteen weeks, laugh at my general enjoyment of this madness, scream at my own anxiety and depressing encircling my brain-piece with their gnarled claws.
I’m here, though. At the Weekend Open Bar. I’m here though, hoping you’ll join me at said bar. Come hang out. Come tell me what you’re up to throughout this half-over Weekend. What are you eating-playing-reading-drinking-worshipping?
I’m getting real shit at publishing a weekend column at the start of the weekend. Man! Fuck! But yesterday was busy, hopscotching from work, to dinner with a mentor, to an entire bag of Sour Patch Watermelons, to staring at the IdiotBox for three or so hours. I’m here now, though, and I’m hoping I can lure you in as well! This is Weekend Open Bar, the weekly column where we all hang out.
Ah, yeah! It’s Thanksgiving Week! Which means the most glorious span of six weeks or so is kicking off! Holiday season! Days upon days of getting fat, fiddling with candy canes (interpret that as you will), getting fat, drinking with friends, getting fat, playing video games, and this year, seeing TheWarStars Movie over and over again!
Typically we rock a Monday Morning Commute here, but what the fuck. Let’s go nuts. A lot of people are already off, a lot of people are going to be off, and those who aren’t getting any time off are obviously welcome to use this place as a refuge.
It’s that glorious time again, comrades. That’s right! That’s correct! That’s precisely it. It’s time to kick-in the doors of the Weekend Open Bar. Flock to our designated *favorite* tables in the musty, dank-ass-air-filled tavern here on the Space-Ship Omega. It’s that glorious time again, comrades. For us to sit around the aforementioned tables, sharing with one another the glory that is the hypothetical weekend. I know some of you have the weekend off. I know that some of you have a long weekend. I know that some of you unfortunately have to work. But whatever your Existent Conditions are here in the OMNIVERSE, I hope you’ll join in the camaraderie.
It’s fucking July 24th! That can only mean one thing! My summer class is done! It’s fucking Friday! That can only mean one thing! I’m done with work for the week! It’s fucking Weekend Open Bar! That can only mean one thing! It’s time to gather in this column with fellow denizens of the Space-Ship OMEGA. Share what you’re doing this weekend!
Welcome to Monday Morning Commute, friends. It’s pretty much the end of the day here on the Eastern Coast of the Empire, but hey. I’m but one FictionMan, attempting to cobble together the disparate entities of the Space-Ship into one meandering husk. So forgive me! And I have to cop to you. A variety of Really Privileged Problems have me a bit worn down, today. Oh, I got married. Boohoo. Oh, I was lucky enough to come back and have to start my job I have immediately. Wah wah. Oh, I’m buying a house and all that financial expenditure is sort of terrifying. Cry more. I get it.
It’s the fucking weekend! Gather ye rosebuds while ye may! And fucking smoke them! Get lifted, ascend to a new level of Enlightenment! And then waste that Enlightenment on video games, comic books, hikes in the woods, eating too much! Whatever the fuck you want to do this weekend! But so long as you’re smoking them rose buds, crushing them Adult Sodas, and enjoying a break from the work week, hang out here! At the Weekend Open Bar! Anything goes as long as it is in the spirit of celebration. Unless it’s lighting your pubes on fire in the bathroom. We’ve had a spat of that lately (sorry), and we still can’t get the smell out of the pineapple wallpaper.