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?
Weekend Open Bar! And a content one at that.
My wife is home, tucked into bed. Home for the first time in more or less two weeks. Laffy Taff is in my gut, tucked into my digestive tract via my head-hole. In my gut for the first time in more or less too long. Outside, the crickets are chirping. A cool breeze passes by. Inside, the Red Sox are playing. A cool breeze passes by.
The Summer is winding down here in the Eastern arm of the Empire, and it was a damn good one for me. A mellow, unremarkable jaunt filled with teaching, quality time with my wife, some passable cinema, and a lot of really good wrestling.
I will not lament it leaving, though. For as I shed the husk of my most enjoyable Summer in years, it is being ushered out the door in lieu of the Most Wonderful time of the Year.
hawaii | sachiko
The summer drags on, man.
As I predicted a bit ago, I knew I was going to find myself melancholic as I found myself stranded in the liminal state between Summer Teaching and Fall Teaching. At first it was great. Sleeping in late. No lesson planning. Rocking shorts every day! Shorts, every day! Then the tedium set in.
My wife went away today, she’s going to be away, for something like thirteen out of sixteen days. At first it was great. I’ve jacked off fourteen times, walked the dog twice, crushed nineteen Diet Dew, and marveled at what freedom I have. Then the tedium set in.
The summer drags on, man.
Tired today, man. Currently supine. Battling fatigue and a stomach stuffed with staggering tumult. Am I a diarrhea that dreams it’s a man, or a man that dreams he’s merely a flesh-bag filled with diarrhea? I’m not sure, I’m not sure. What am I sure of? This week contains multitudes, multitudes of various arts and farts I’m looking forward to enjoying. These arts, these farts, they are an Existential Ripcord. I need merely let my excitement yank said cord, and rip me through the miasma of malaise my rolling tide of brown-churn and soul are currently sunk in.
It is my mandate as the curator of Monday Morning Commute to list these arts. To high-five these farts. It is your mandate as the consumer (be it by accident or be it by accentuated agency) to list what you are sweating this week in the comments section.
I spent four months playing Fallout 4. Four fucking months. Loved it. Love it. That said, I’m terrified about getting back into it with the release of Far Harbor. The game steals me, steals my mind, steals my heart. To escape once was lucky, may I escape twice? We shall find out, I suppose.