‘Halt and Catch Fire’ creative team bringing new series to AMC about a rehab center and I’m sure it’ll rock
Man, I never finished Halt and Catch Fire. But, it was very, very good. And from what I’ve heard, it finished very, very, good. So, sign me the fuck up for the creative team’s next endeavor.
Halt and Catch Fire is a show consistently good enough for me to watch. It isn’t good enough for me to watch week to week, or fret when I fall behind (I’m not even on season three, yet). But it’s good! Solid! And so I’m glad the show is getting a fourth season to wrap everything up. It deserves as much.
I’m tired, man. Straight fatigued. The sort of stretched-out, mentally wiped LackOf that hits on occasion. My wife has been away, the dog has been barking incessantly every morning, the glory of InfiniteMasturbation and PizzaTime that shepherded me through the early week has lost its sheen. My work has been unrelenting, and it doesn’t appear there’s a vacation on the horizon until December. Eh, fuck it. Eh, fuck it!
This is Weekend Open Bar. The yaddaYaddayadda where we YapYapYap. Please, come YapYapYap with me. Tell me what you’re EatingDrinkingWatchingReadingMashingittoo this weekend.
SK3RTT | slimesunday
One of the things that has struck me, on this, my wife’s fourth day away on her current business trip, is how much time I used to spend alone. Reflecting back, graduate school was just hours upon hours of me by myself, stuck in a study. Staring at a computer screen. Reading works. Contemplating bullshit academic sophistry. And, of course, writing for Omega Level.
On this, my wife’s fourth day away on her current business trip, I think I understand why I wrote so much and so openly about my cock, balls, fluids, and all sorts of weird fetishes (I still do have, but no longer flaunt so openly).
Being alone does things to you, man.
Each of these days I’ve found myself soaked in a Diet Dew haze, my hands covered in failed-children and coconut Vaseline, a stupor of unwanted freedom for a countenance. The more I seem to caffeinate, the more trips to PornHub I make, the more concerned my dog looks as I stumble around the house with my underwear around my ankles and the paper towels eluding me, the more I understand my former-self.
My former-self is really just my current-self, but far more lonely, and with far too much time on his hands.
On this, my wife’s fourth day away on her current business trip, I think I should point out to you that she’s going to be gone for another ten out of fourteen days or so.
Buckle up, good friends, OverCaffeinatedCaffeinePowered is upon you.
This is Monday Morning Commute. This is the weekly column where I list what I’m up to during a given week. I hope you’ll share what you’re doing in the comments section below. I hope you’ll keep me company. For me. For my concerned dog. For my chaffed cock and balls and crusty t-shirts and my shattered sanity and my Diet Dew-fort and my anxiety.
I gave up on Halt and Catch Fire about three episodes into its second season. Nothing against the show — which was never great, but always enjoyable. I just got sidetracked by buying a house, teaching, getting a dog, watching Mr. Robot until my eyes bleed and my bladder burst. But maybe I’ll find the wherewithal to finish its second season. ‘Cause despite shitty, shitty ratings, AMC has renewed the show.
It’s the Weekend, man. Which means the Bar is Open! I’m feeling particularly relaxed this weekend. Most of this relaxation is due in part to the momentary lull in the Maelstrom that is Home Ownership. Purchase and Sale: signed. House appraisal by the bank: done. Now it’s merely a thousand or so documents to be faxed by us to the Corporate Overlords, and awaiting the official closing. Additionally, my summer class is winding down. Just one more week, and ain’t no teaching taking place during it (not my choice, but I will not complain about not having to lesson plan until September). So life is good. Relaxed, I dare say. So yeah, weekend is lining up to be a enjoyable: some Lucha Underground, some DVR purging, some time with Bae. Pizza, obviously.
Fucking crap day, here. Just busy. Really fucking busy, and ineffective. My class smells blood, knowing the end of the semester is upon them next week. Today this led to a case of The Mondays in class writ large. A disaffection that was equalled in enormity only by the disruptiveness with which it manifested itself. In other words, no one gave a fuck, and everyone was talking. So class was going shit, and then during our mid-class break it became known to me through a squabble of error messages and beeping that the copier was. In fact. Fucking broken. In other words, I wasn’t able to make a copy of (what should have been) tonight’s reading. So what am I doing tomorrow? Fuck if I know. Today was the first day (and this is probably actually a good sign) in my 3+ years of teaching where I openly asked myself, “What the fuck am I doing wasting my time with this?” A shuddering, unrelenting tidal wave of bile-duct refuse and existential despair washed over me. And for it I have no answers, other than to hope it ebbs as well as flows. I’m sure it does.
The Purchase & Sale is signed, folks. SAM-OMEGA and I are getting really, really close to thirty years of DEBT SLAVERY. And I’ll level with you: I could not be more excited. The idea of my own study, replete with fluid-splashed surroundings and toy shelves makes me excited. A giant ass backyard for a mutt-ass dog makes me excited. No longer living under Rock-Eating Typical Bostonians who scream wildly at the Prole-O-Vision while I’m trying to lesson plan for the next days’s class makes me excited. Now all that is left (and granted, this is a big “all that is left”) is the appraisal and the bank concretely agreeing to lend us, you know. Hundreds of thousands (*vomitvomitvomit*) of dollars. So come. Celebrate with me, here at Weekend Open Bar.
This is my third week of marriage. It feels very much the similar to the life I was living prior to marriage – namely a maelstrom of responsibilities and too few nights spent actually enjoying the company of my Wife. We spent the weekend house shopping, and now she’s away on business. When…when does life calm down? And in the midst of all that bullshit — we are submitting an offer sheet on a house tomorrow. So there’s that. Either we get a house tomorrow, or we have to hit the house hunting grind again this weekend. Which, admittedly, is a privilege. I get that. But it’s stressful as fuck, and at a certain point having more space for shit you probably doesn’t need must feel irrelevant in the Frowning Face of Not Enjoying Time with a loved one. Right?
They soar! Fuck limitations, man. Kick the hinges off the Impossible Door, and run into the Halls of Improbability dropping stone-cold stunners and rock bottoms! This is Monday Morning Commute. And together we shall brave the perpetual irradiation that is Life, uniting in some sort of Existential Voltron. Or! Or at the very least. With fingers with nails with caked-on Dominos pizza crust, we shall what we’re up to this week.