#September2016
Views From The Space-Ship: Robotics and Nose-Pickings
My weeks are busy. I am busy.
A perpetual motion-machine filled with teaching, tutoring, brief glimpses of both my wife, dog, and cats, sporadic, late-night gym visits, and sleepy-eyed gazings into various Social Media Abysses before falling sleep.
My weeks are busy. I am busy.
This is Desktop Thursdays, where I’m giving you a look into my life. I hope you’ll share your own glimpses in the comments section.
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Weekend Open Bar: Transcend Meat-Space
I’m tired, man. Straight fatigued. The sort of stretched-out, mentally wiped LackOf that hits on occasion. My wife has been away, the dog has been barking incessantly every morning, the glory of InfiniteMasturbation and PizzaTime that shepherded me through the early week has lost its sheen. My work has been unrelenting, and it doesn’t appear there’s a vacation on the horizon until December. Eh, fuck it. Eh, fuck it!
This is Weekend Open Bar. The yaddaYaddayadda where we YapYapYap. Please, come YapYapYap with me. Tell me what you’re EatingDrinkingWatchingReadingMashingittoo this weekend.
Monday Morning Commute: As lonely as you let it be
SK3RTT | slimesunday
One of the things that has struck me, on this, my wife’s fourth day away on her current business trip, is how much time I used to spend alone. Reflecting back, graduate school was just hours upon hours of me by myself, stuck in a study. Staring at a computer screen. Reading works. Contemplating bullshit academic sophistry. And, of course, writing for Omega Level.
On this, my wife’s fourth day away on her current business trip, I think I understand why I wrote so much and so openly about my cock, balls, fluids, and all sorts of weird fetishes (I still do have, but no longer flaunt so openly).
Being alone does things to you, man.
Each of these days I’ve found myself soaked in a Diet Dew haze, my hands covered in failed-children and coconut Vaseline, a stupor of unwanted freedom for a countenance. The more I seem to caffeinate, the more trips to PornHub I make, the more concerned my dog looks as I stumble around the house with my underwear around my ankles and the paper towels eluding me, the more I understand my former-self.
My former-self is really just my current-self, but far more lonely, and with far too much time on his hands.
On this, my wife’s fourth day away on her current business trip, I think I should point out to you that she’s going to be gone for another ten out of fourteen days or so.
Buckle up, good friends, OverCaffeinatedCaffeinePowered is upon you.
This is Monday Morning Commute. This is the weekly column where I list what I’m up to during a given week. I hope you’ll share what you’re doing in the comments section below. I hope you’ll keep me company. For me. For my concerned dog. For my chaffed cock and balls and crusty t-shirts and my shattered sanity and my Diet Dew-fort and my anxiety.
‘Mr. Robot’ renewed for third season; I should probably watch its second
Mr. Robot is getting itself a third season! However, I haven’t watched Mr. Robot‘s second season yet. The power went out the one time Mrs. Omega and I attempted to watch it, our viewing schedules finally in sync. But, she’s going away for two weeks. YOU KNOW WHAT THE MEANS: Mr. Robot Season 2 blitzkrieg!
Monday Morning Commute: We Can Dance If You Want To
untitled | christopher zelaya
We can dance if you want to!
We can leave the Material Realm behind! ‘
Cause your connection to the Linear Tangible Time-Cord is weak and if it’s weak, well, let’s leave this Plane behind!
What’s up, you fucking degenerates! Oh, don’t take offense. We’re all degenerating into worm-food, into former-human, entrapped by failing meat-cases.
So we might as well dance.
Monday Morning Commute: The sky above the port was the color of television
Monday Morning Commute! On a Monday Evening! Truthfully, this tardiness is, relativistically speaking, pretty good compared to my usual antics. In fact, this column would have slithered out of my mind-hole earlier had the words come to me. Sometimes the Muses toss lightning bolts up your ass, and you feel Empowered. Emboldened. Surfing The Edge. Sometimes the Muses retreat to a 7-Eleven bathroom to trib with faeries and knaves and satyrs. Coating themselves in the slickening sugary confections we pass off as food, writhing in wrappers and detritus, orgasming in supplication to the Eternal Engine which neither Cares nor Notices us.
Today? For me? The Muses are fucking around with the fucking faeries in the fucking bathroom. But still, I persist. But still, I exist. Put that on a Hallmark card and staple it onto my forehead, I know it’s fucking lame.
Today? For me? I’m going to write this column anyways. Even though the Muses ain’t here. I’m going to tell you everything I’m excited about this week. Even though the Muses ain’t here. I’m going to ask you to join me, vapid, broken, banal me, in the comments section, letting me know what you are excited for this week. Even though the Muses ain’t here.
Well? Shall we?
Weekend Open Bar: The Fetish is the Fashion is the Fetish
Yesterday, I finished the last day of the summer class that I teach at UMass Boston. I am celebrating as only I, CaffDouche, can. Which is to say I’m currently eating Chez-Its, sipping directly from a 2 Liter of Pepsi Max, and playing Rise of the Tomb Raider after a long, under-caffeinated day. It’s a gratifying sensation to know that I’m done lesson planning (but not done working, this prole sallies forth like most others) for the summer. Six-weeks of being able to just beat that meat and game that game and read that comic without having to withdraw into pedagogical tomfoolery. But it’s also a bit melancholic, as six-weeks starts off sounding wonderful and slowly metamorphosizes into feeling interminable. These days, it feels culturally anathema to say you like your job. I do, though. Guilty. It’s rewarding, challenging, stimulating, and as dynamic as it gets.
I must not cop to that, though.
I’ll be ousted.
From my Millennial Generation, where self-loathing memes, anxiety, and a general pall seem to engulf the various news-feeds anyone internet-addicted and my age frequent.
Certainly, I understand the occasional bout of despair. The Earth is melting, when it’s not busy devolving into a rotting garbage heap. The United States’ election is being decided between a Crook and a Despot. We’re still not on Mars, we’re still fighting over oil and Sky People. So. Yeah. Certainly, I understand the occasional bout of despair.
But it’s exhausting man! And I won’t stand for it. Not today! Today, being the first day of my six-week break from wearing pants (I’ll be wearing shorts, but fuck pants until September 6). Not today! Being Saturday, the first day of my glorious weekend. Not today! Why, instead of leaning into the perpetual pall of misery and malaise, we could all embrace the glory of Weekend Open Bar!
Monday Morning Commute: Please Stand By
Tired today, man. Currently supine. Battling fatigue and a stomach stuffed with staggering tumult. Am I a diarrhea that dreams it’s a man, or a man that dreams he’s merely a flesh-bag filled with diarrhea? I’m not sure, I’m not sure. What am I sure of? This week contains multitudes, multitudes of various arts and farts I’m looking forward to enjoying. These arts, these farts, they are an Existential Ripcord. I need merely let my excitement yank said cord, and rip me through the miasma of malaise my rolling tide of brown-churn and soul are currently sunk in.
It is my mandate as the curator of Monday Morning Commute to list these arts. To high-five these farts. It is your mandate as the consumer (be it by accident or be it by accentuated agency) to list what you are sweating this week in the comments section.
Weekend Open Bar: To Cyber-Space for the Meat-Case
I say goddamn!, I’m glad it’s the weekend!
For numerous reasons. Oh, today marks the first day out of the past eight where I’m not dealing directly with my grandmother’s day. I say goddamn!, I’m glad it’s the weekend!
Oh, it marks the beginning of my glorious Cheat Days, where I can stuff my face with catastrophic amounts of calories with no guilt. I say goddamn!, I’m glad it’s the weekend.
Oh, it marks the beginning of a laundry list of Dope Shit I’m planning on watching, reading, playing.
I say goddamn!, I’m glad it’s the weekend!
So why don’t you join me here, at Weekend Open Bar. The column where I implore all of you denizens of the Space-Ship Omega to gather, to hang out. To share the various things that are causing you to “I say goddamn!, I’m glad it’s the weekend”, with me, comrades.
Tuesday Evening Commute: The Rolling Tide of Honeyed Ennui
Salutations, comrades. This is Monday Morning Commute by way of Tuesday Late Evening. Greetings, friends. I apologize for the tardiness, I’m just. I don’t know. Busy? Tired? Tired and Busy? Busy and Tired? Sure, sure. But if I’m being doubly honest, and let’s admit that I’ve written for nearly seven years an embarrassing amount of personal information, I’ve been a bit maudlin about OL.
Pillaging the archives makes me yearn for the days of commenters gone by, of days that were grad school, filled with too much caffeine, and a head full of ideas. I miss the folks who have drifted, I miss my own initiative.
What can you do?
Sally forth, I suppose. But it’s tinged with nostalgia when I know some of the old folk ain’t gonna comment.
What can you do?
Sally forth, I suppose. But it’s tinged with melancholy when I’m penning this shortly after grading papers for three hours, and shortly before I must slumber.
What can you do?
Sally forth, I suppose.
I’m still here, dammit.
