I absconded to New York this past weekend for the second time in three weeks or so. This is me yawning with a greatness. ‘Twas a good time. My Significant Other and I were fitted into a hotel room suite replete with a kitchen, refridgerator and other fancy stuff. It was fantastic, even if I felt bad at living in such luxury. I’m the guy who feels bad when someone calls him “sir” or carries his bags for him. I want to be like, “Dude, no seriously. I’m a 27 year-old schmuck who lives with his parents and you probably are busting your ass for ungrateful people. Let me carry my own bag.”

As I said though, it was enjoyable. My girlfriend, being infinitely more successful than myself despite being 4.5 years my younger, is a tough one to corral for a day alone. Her schedule is voluminous and her drive remarkable, and I’m just a guy reading books. So being able to get away with her, even to the noise and din of New York City was great.

I tried my best to not hyperventilate over all the school work I wasn’t getting done while I was there. When I closed my eyes I saw syllabuses not being completed. I could hear the crackle of pages not being turned. Grad school. It’s turning out to be a real son of a bitch.

Monday Morning Commute. Every Monday I’m going to detail the various things I’m either currently or will be watching, reading, playing, and listening to in the next seven days. It’s Monday. You’ve got a long week of school, work, or compulsive masturbation to get through. Tell me the arts that you’re indulging in, to stave off suicide.

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