I’ve spent the last week wondering what the fuck I’m doing. Let me tell you — the life of an adjunct is brutal. I stand a mere seven days away from starting a semester, and I don’t know what classes I’m teaching. How many, what time, their subject level. And I stand and I gaze into myself and I wonder why I put myself through such rigors. Every semester. The answers are obvious but when you’re stressed, when you have a haunting sense of not pulling your share of the financial weight, when you have a new mortgage, they seem to evaporate before they have any chance of distilling into anything appreciable.

Lord, I don’t know.

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It’s Monday! But fuck, who cares. You could grouse about that shit, or you can do what I did. Yeah, I did that. You know. Unleashed the soft-serve ice cream machine into the depths of my pants. Ran up to the first Authority Figure I could find on campus. Hugged him with a ferocity, velocity, and eagerness seldom seen. Embraced the cold, yet welcoming, explosion of soft serve ice cream that rocketed up out of my unbuttoned jean shorts. Hitting us both in the neck, face, tits, soul. Screamed “We just ice CREAMED all over each other. #YOLO #YOLO #BADPUNS”, not forgetting to say HASHTAG before all three.

You could do that.

Or. Or you could just come hang out in Monday Morning Commute. The collection of arts, farts, social engineering projects, cataclysmic poor decisions, and other things you’re looking forward to this week.

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