I ain’t having an anxiety attack, though! Don’t let the headline fool you. Just popped into my head today, when I was brainstorming headlines. A headline for what? Why, the one, the only, the perpetually poorly written and only intermittently published: Weekend Open Bar!

That’s right! Come one, come all and grab a seat here. Here! In the rotgut, mind-melting tavern aboard the Space-Ship Omega.

Once seated, then what? Glad you (didn’t) ask! Share what you’re up to over the next couple of days. Don’t matter if you’re fortunate enough to have them off, or unfortunate enough to have to continue your grind.

All are welcome! Share, share what you’re playing! Share, what what you’re reading! Share what you’re watching, eating, contemplating. Anything and everything goes here, so long as you keep it very tight butthole (the existential state, regarding your own butthole, go fucking wild, I encourage it).

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Yeah! It’s Saturday. And I’m just opening up this weekend’s Open Bar. Which means, since OL is already pretty quiet these days, that it’s just going to be me rambling to myself about what I’m doing this weekend. That’s fine! I’ve brought this upon myself. I’ve brought this upon myself! But this is Weekend Open Bar, and name is Ian Omega-Caffeine Powered-Xavier Thunderkick.

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To perceive oblivion is to invite your own doom. Ignore Yog-Soggoth’s dark, piercing clarion call. Turn your eyes away from his enticements. Do the same for the other Elder Ones. They whisper promises that shall only fill their bellies with your psychic-vomit, as your ears bleed and your ocular holes find themselves filled to the brim with gelatinous, former-eyes. Yeah, I know. It’s a letdown. The limitations of our meat-sacks. But hey! Until the great Transhumanism Movement of 20XX, we can spend our time bound in these rot-vessels together! Hanging out at the Weekend Open Bar.

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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.

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It’s the fucking Weekend, yo! At least for me. I bailed on my job a smidgen early. Samantha (the bae) is getting home from a week on business in Lisbon, Portugal. So I was all like, “Yeah fuck helping the youth for the rest of the day. I’m going to get home, throw the crumbs off the bedsheets, and wash my ass.” And here I am! Unwashed, and drawing the Bar doors Open. If you’re new to this game, this little morsel of Omega is simple.

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Oh dip! Living the Hoth Life here on the Eastern Seaboard of the Empire. I can’t grouse too much, though. It’s been a mild winter thus far. But whether or not you’re hunkering down away from the snow or surfing gnarly rays of light, come hither! Gather up to one of my Post-Apocalyptic Trash Fires burning in the Space-Ship Omega. Grab your favorite beverage from the Open Bar. And then share what you’re doing this weekend!

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I’m glad this is going up in between lunch and dinner.  I have enough time to make you sad at what you had for lunch, but give you enough time to change your dinner plans.  I’ve been wanting to do this one for a while now, so here goes.  Do you ever wonder what your last meal will be?  I do.  Be it the last meal before I am executed for the public and brutal execution of Michael Bay, passing away in the night at the age of 90, or trading in this fleshy meat bag for a robot body that no longer need food.  So if my last meal was any of these, I’d be happy.

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