The next node over the next node over >>
It’s Monday. The next node over the next node over >> This is Monday Morning Commute, the column where I run down a list of what I’m anticipating during a given week. The next node over the next node over >> This week? Eh, I don’t know. The next node over the next node over >> I’m still struggling to accept a world wherein the next four years are going to be lead by a God-Emperor Trump. The next node over the next node over >> I had a good weekend, hanging out with a good core of the Space-Ship Omega Crew. The next node over the next node over >> Drinking, eating, smoking, watching Arrival, eating, drinking, dancing.
It’s Election Night in America. In fact since I’m tardy writing this (I’m always tardy writing this, this semester!), I’ve had the distinct pleasure of turning off Early Results, closing my Twitter, and instead retreating here. To what has been so admirably dubbed my Space-Oasis, the Space-Ship Omega.
It’s that time again, folks. Weekend Open Bar, folks. I’ll level with you: I’m tired. I’ll level with you: I have nary an ounce of creative juice to squeeze out of my mind-guts, and that’s if you’re being optimistic and crediting me with creativity on occasion. But. Hey. It’s that time again, folks. Weekend Open Bar, folks. Someone has got to turn on the neon lights. Someone has got to make sure the hearth is lit. Someone gotta hook up the draught. That’s me, that’s me, that’s me! None the less, outside of that fact, with that taken into consideration, I’m pretty fucking good.
A little fatigued, a little woozy, a little weary. But here! Here, dammit.
It’s Tuesday, Tuesday Evening. I’m writing what was supposed to be Monday, Monday Morning Commute. The clock ticks towards quarter of 6pm, Eastern Seaboard of the Empire Standard. I have approximately 23 minutes to file this, to fart it, to fecal-blast this shinformation onto your digital face. Before! Before my next obligation. I’ve been wearing the same dress pants for ten hours, I’m tired, my caffeine levels are precariously low, and I have so much goddamn wood to chop before I sleep.
But I’m happy, happy to generate this minuscule bubble of textual diarrhea. This minuscule raft in the shitty seas of oblivion that seem to constitute this year, this 2016 A.D. Come friends, come quickly. Ignore my purple-headed boner, I merely have to pee. Come friends, come quickly. Ignore the wild look in eyes, I’m merely between my past caffeine fix and my next.
Come friends, come quickly. Join me on this raft, cling to it with me. Nay, cling to it for me.
This is Tuesday Evening Commute. This is what I’m looking forward to this week. Please, I implore, I beseech, I cajole. Please, join me in the comments section. Let me know what you’re indulging in this week.
P. dope, man. P. dope. Now Kit Harington can act poorly across even more media mediums.