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.

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It’s the Weekend Open Bar.

Here on the Space-Ship Omega.

Round and round and round the Sun we go. Harboring ill memories, favorable moments, abject disproofs of karma, and transformative moments of kindness. In the grand scheme of things, we, the Sun, these burps and blips don’t matter one lick. In the grand scheme of things, these random scatterings of electrical impulses, of poor choices, of wise decisions, of moments of passion and anger, they’re all we fucking got.

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