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.

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rayguns | eugenia loli

Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay! I’m here, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here! Would you believe, would you somehow believe, that I didn’t get around to this column until today, Tuesday, because my wife and I had to go out to eat with a financial advisor last night? What life am I living? Who am I? Am I child-man in semen-crusted Star Wars shirts that dreams of being a man-child, or a man-child in dress pants who dreams of being a child-man in semen-crusted Star Wars shirts? The answer, of course, is that I am both. And the cognitive dissonance that arises from containing both entities in the Multitudes that Compromises Me (and Us all) sometimes gives me a nosebleed. Well, I’m getting the nosebleed from that, or the hundreds upon hundreds of milligrams of caffeine I ingest every day. One of those. Maybe both of those.

But I’m here now. But it’s Monday Morning Commute now. So here’s the deal now, Comrades. I’m about to fire off everything I’m enjoying this week, anticipating this week, looking forward to this week. Then you’re going to do me a solid!, a fucking solid!, and share your own list in the comments section.

Let’s be man-children posing as children-men posing as man-children together.

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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?

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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!

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