It’s true, dudes. Everyone in Greek mythology is absolutely gorgeous and definitely fucks. Just, you know how it goes when you’re immortal and hot as shit. No holes barred. Pun intended, motherfucker! But, enough of my puerile pourings. Right? I mean, that ain’t the objective of this column. Is it? Maybe, maybe it actually happens to be. You know, just a place to blather on and on with all you good folks, across a given weekend. After all, this shit is the Weekend Open Bar.
Your one-stop shop for reading my ruminations on Greek Gods fucking, conversing with other members of the Space-Ship Omega about what they’re up to this weekend, and other happy horseshit!
It’s a blue world without you, my friends. The fellows of Space-Ship Omega. What’s a world without friends, compatriots, and fellow mudders through the malaise of Existence. Fuck, do I enjoy hanging out with you all. And, I hope you’ll spend the weekend with me! Here at the Open Bar!
What’s up, my friends? I must confess I’ve been staring at an empty text box for the past ten minutes. Trying to come up with something more gripping than “what’s up friends?” – but here we are. Just a poorly caffeinated dude (way below my usual levels, but I’m working on it), wanting to hang out. With ya’ll! The fellow occupants of the sovereign state known as Space-ship Omega!
We’re into the second actual, full, meaty week of the year. The holidays receding into memory, though not without subtle reminders. For me? The tightness in my waistbands, the billing statements stacking up. And with that infinite recession comes the reality that, oh fuck, there ain’t any respite arriving any time soon.
However! That’s what we have the art & farts & sharts for! To serve as a balm for the existential soul, helping us to get through the grind. And, wouldn’t you fucking know it! This here Monday Morning Commute serves as a community to communicate the various things we’re enjoying, and looking forward to, in a given week.
I’ll go first! ‘Cause, you know, I’m writing the motherfucking thing.
How’s it going, friends? Me? I’m about to put a cap on the wonderful age of thirty-five. How was the year? Some good. Some bad. Another year of sucking wind, and another year of having my health. Thus, it’s hard not to feel grateful as I hurdle into the back-end of my thirties tomorrow.
I’m in the best shape of my life. Mentally, physically, and as a teacher. Yet, oh does Entropy ever whisper in my ear. Quietly passing along the irrefutable axiom, “all of this is borrowed.” Eh, what can you do, you know? Spend the time with friends and family, purpose and appreciation.
Spend time with me this weekend!
I’m hammering out this opening salvo quickly, because, I must confess, I gotta scrub my ass. Birthday dinner is waiting! Stuff guts with Mexican food! Then, tonight, Wrestle Kingdom with Bateman is waiting! Stuff guts with pizza, with sugar, with glory, and with glee. But, friends. Don’t think I’m neglecting you! This very hammering out, this very textual blitzkrieg is evidence I care about you!
Back to life, friends. Back to reality. At least, for people like me who are fortunate enough to have spent the last week wallowing in excess and friendship. So I have returned to reality, and I’m currently sitting in a very quiet Writing Center, writing very quietly.
None the less.
It’s the Weekend! Open Bar! Fuck, I know I’m late. Last night was a birthday dinner with family, rolled immediately into five hours of wrestling with Bateman. Oh! Lucha Underground. Oh! Wrestle Kingdom 11. Truthfully? I squeezed in a couple hours of Final Fantasy XV between the former ending and the latter beginning. Oh! No matter, no matter.
Oh what a day, what a lovely day. The terrifying, inevitable transition from cultural entropy into the feigned doubling-down of effort and self-disciplined. Yes, yes, friends. Comrades. Frequenters of Space-Ship Omega. It’s the beginning of a new year, the cessation of the end-of-year celebrations. Darkness looms. Deadlines loom.
Hark, hark, may the Ennui strike you more as a honeyed blanket of anaesthetization. And not, oh dear god, and not as the sort of bowels-liquefying anxiety that plunges you through your corpus, through your bed, through your plane of existence and onto the bottom of the bottomless chasm of existential dread.
Oh, you need a lifeline? Oh, you need something to help with this transition back into the wild world of labor extraction? Well, buddy. Well, pal. Well, comrade. I got you. I got you.
See, this here jam is the Monday Morning Commute jam. And here at this here jam I list the various things I’m using to get myself through a work week. The TV I’m watching to close my third-eye, the music I’m using to block out the droning clarion call of Listlessness. The video games I’m employ for the total deinvigorating oculuar-auditory shutdown I just may need.
That uh, pal, that uh. Got a bit dark. But fuck it, fuck it with gumption and assertiveness.
We get can make it through this reentry together.
The Weekend Open Bar. The old haunt of the Omegaverse’s New Scum. Where every weekend we can pry off our masks, slip off our gloves, and commune for a couple of days. We gather, away from the back-breaking SpiceMines, the porcelain shit thrones that must be shined, from the glue factory and the Dagobah Diners. We gather here.
How are you folks doing? Man — it’s been a minute since I sat down at my computer. Or, I suppose, sat my laptop down upon me. Spent the weekend hanging out with friends, slinging insane amounts of caffeine into my veins. Watching grown men throw balls into the air while I bark at them nonsensically. Imbuing the frivolities with so much importance, way too much importance, playing right into the distractionary hands of The Powers That Be.
But hey. It’s with friends. There are probably worse ways to spend the weekend than eating too much, farting too much, laughing too much, and the such, right? Even if the macguffin is SportEvent.
Anyways — now that I am at my computer, I shall compose this. Monday Morning Commute!