Father forgive me, because I do know what I do! Mainly, I fling profanities and fluids with a carelessness that must be condemned and appreciated. You know? Oh, you fucking know! Seriously though, I had to riff one last time on 30 Coins before its season finale this week. Mamma mia, what a really, really, really fun fucking show. Sad to see it go, glad to have experienced it, quietly wondering if we are going to get a second season.

But that wild, wonderful show about secret sects, spider babies, forbidden gospels, and hot, hot people ain’t the only thing I’m enjoying this week. In fact, I got a whole fucking list of shit I’m digging this week! Double in fact, I’m about to reveal that list to you! Open your eyes! Open your mind! Open your ass! Bask in the infinity of my hobbies and interests! Scream, as said list shears mind from common sense. Scream, as said list condemns you to an oblivion only previously thought theoretical.

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Is it Spring yet? ‘Cause I have visions of it, my dudes. My mind wanders as I drive down the roads, the frozen-ass tundra greeting me. Is this truly the same planet that I mountain biked on, like four months ago? It is, but my does it boggle my rotted-ass synapses. What an odd world, what an odd life, what an odd time. Yet, with each passing day, those motherfucking trails get closer. Day by day, minute by minute, the glorious summer dusk bike rides are closer to their return.

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As our own Neo said to me today, lately my ass definitely sounds “kinda burned for this early in the semester” and he ain’t wrong. I don’t know, man! Fucking snow! Fucking gray skies! Fucking remote teaching! It’s all just a lot, and every day survived feels like a small victory. There’s sludge in the brain! Mud in the blood! My synaptic cycling is definitely more slowed than preferred.

Eh! Fuck it, right? I mean, I don’t know what to do.

Keep moving! Keep going! Push forward.

I’m just grousing, but I’m here! Which has to count for something, right? Please tell me yes. Just lie, if need be. I need it.

Meanwhile, despite my gloom, I’m enjoying my fair share of commodities and consumerist models. So I’m gonna share these oddities, commodities, and various arts & farts with ya’ll. Then, I hope you’ll decide to join me in the comments section.

Let’s fucking go!

This is Monday Morning Commute.

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The Saints can’t save you, motherfuckers! Nor can the Trees, or the Ones Who Walk Behind The Shadows. However, you can absolutely save your fucking self. It’s within you, it’s within your guts, it’s within your marrow. Is it easy? Nah! Is it guaranteed? Nah! But, it’s a promise at the end of a dank tunnel. What does salvation look like, for me? Acknowledging that I have control over my circumstances. Self-care. And! Hanging out with you fuckers! Hey, look at that. A poorly-stuck segue into this here fucking column! However, I ain’t completely full of shit.

Salvation comes in the form of community, the creation of bonds, the spending of our entropic-distillation together. Shiny baubles and distractions are fantastic, but just fucking broing out with you legion of degenerates is more enjoyable than anything else.

So come hither, you fellow slime. Let’s spend the weekend together at the Open Bar!

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It’s true! My skeleton is my oldest house. Within its walls, do I ever haunt. The burbling, bubbling of a mad brain. The frenzied, arrhythmic horrors of an over-caffeinated heart.  The creaky, laborious groans of a skeleton subjected to gravity, entropy, and exertion. Oh, does my soul walk these halls. Oh, do I ever haunt. This house, the oldest house, it treats me well.

The oldest house keeps my meat-processor protected from the elements, until it doesn’t.

The oldest house keeps my circuitry protected from the elements, until it doesn’t.

I don’t fault the oldest house for its failing, for when it fails to protect me. Or, when the piping gets clogged. Or, when the meat-processor over-heats, or short-circuits. After all, what house is infallible? Show me the lark selling that shanty, and I’ll show you a liar.

My house, the oldest house, isn’t perfect.

But it’s the house I’ve got, and it’s the house I’ll have, until I have no house no more.

I take reasonable care of it, and it takes reasonable care of me.

On certain days, we’d probably ask more out of one another, but for the most part we’re pretty happy. Which is good.

‘Cause it’s the house I’ve got, and it’s the house I’ll have, until I have no house no more.

This is Monday Morning Commute.

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