The Universe was owed a life, so I gave it the first twenty-five years of mine. It only seemed fair. When a daredevil defies the odds, a Furie is bested. It only seemed fair. When a beast recoils just before the trap snaps shut, the Odds are defied. It only seemed fair. Fourteen years ago I took a ride that should have claimed me, but the Universe wasn’t paying attention.

I don’t believe in Providence, or Destiny, but I do believe in Chance. The opportunity to do better, to improve, to make the most of it. Like a lot of chances, I hadn’t asked for it, nor did I expect it. But it was given to me all the same.

So when I climbed out of that car, climbed out of myself, and climbed out of whatever sort of husk had set slowly over me during my first quarter-century, I looked the Universe in its Third Eye. We spoke nothing, but exchanged something, and that was the first twenty-five years of my life.

It only seemed fair.

This summer though, I’ve gone looking. Around the corners. Down the halls. Behind the aisles. Looking for those first twenty-five years of my life.

They were there. Right there. Just waiting for me.

The lie I had told myself was that I had given the Universe the first twenty-five years of my life, but the truth really was that I didn’t want them anymore. Maybe it’s necessary to lie to yourself every once in a while. When you’re climbing out of cars, when you’re climbing out of yourselves, when you’re climbing out of husks. Clean starts don’t exist, but maybe sometimes you need to believe in them just to put your first foot forward. But that doesn’t amputate the angst, it just punts it. My first twenty-five years weren’t sacrificed, they were stabled, tabled, hidden for a while.

This summer though, I’ve gone looking. Rummaging. Pulling out and examining those first twenty-five years.

They were there. Right there. Just waiting for me.

What’s nostalgia when it’s dread?

What’s nostalgia when you’re not looking back because it feels good, but because it hurts?

Sometimes maybe lies are necessary, and definitely sometimes maybe hurt is good for the soul. Not the sort of ruinous hurt that lays one down, but the sort of healing hurt that comes from acknowledging who you were and finding peace with it. It’s easy to say you Contain Multitudes when you’re just trying to pretend you’re complicated and unique. It’s difficult to say you Contain Multitudes when you’re ashamed of the first twenty-five years of your life. A burdensome, non-productive shame. Though, is shame ever really a productive emotion? Probably not.

This summer though, I’ve gone looking. I’ve found them. The first twenty-five years of my life.

They were there. Right there. Just waiting for me.

What does it mean to acknowledge? What does it mean to accept? What’s the difference between the two?

Not sure, unclear, and I have no idea.

But what I have found this summer is as I’ve sifted through the wreckage, the bartering with the Cosmos, the climbing, the cars, the husks, the shame, the liminal states, the regretful behavior, the endless car rides, the sleepless nights, the countless different medications, the unpredictability as a friend-boyfriend-brother-son-coworker, is that, as they say, the Way Out Is Through.

I thought the Universe was owed a life, so I thought I’d give it the first twenty-five years of mine. It declined. The rest has been up to me.

This is Monday Morning Commute.

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OL turns 13 today, my friends. By the Lords of Kobol, the Elder Ones beyond Comprehension, and Jesus titty-fucking Christ himself, I can’t believe it. Thirteen fucking years in this madhouse. It has been, as the title suggests, a constant companion of mine at this point. It’s born friendships, feuds, interviews, Twitch streams, and various off-shoots communities such as our Instagram, Facebook, and Discord.

More than anything, it’s given myself and others a little Oasis in the middle of the maelstrom that is The Online World these days. A bastion of banality and congeniality, if you will. As I usually do when we hit some benchmark, I want to shout out everyone who has ever written for OL, hung out on OL, promoted OL, or even slandered us in the dark, hate-slickened halls of their own impropriety.

Where we at existentially at the moment? Well, the summer is drawing down, the school year is looming (why the fuck did I say I’d teach five classes?), and the Most Righteous Time of the Year is almost here. Football! Halloween! Apple cider donuts! The rejoicing upon the Eternal Finality of the Year and the Spirits it unleashes!

But I still got three-weeks or so to revel in my own crumb-covered lethargy as a full-time maniac and a part-time house husband! Here’s what’s capturing my attention this week.

This is Monday Morning Commute, baby!

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Stick out your tongue and let me drizzle some glimpses of my life into your willing mouth! Now with that tone set, let’s get into it. I really need to make it a point to take some more pictures on the daily, just so I can drop them bits of archival nonsense into these posts! But, can’t do anything about that today. Nope!

Consume these Views From The Space-Ship my friends, and leave your own in the comments. Gorge yourselves upon them, and vomit up into the ether views from your own existence.

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Man, let me in! Let me in to my own fucking temple, man! How dare I be locked out of my sanctum, my home, my astral resting place. I’m talking about my own goddamn mind, man. One of the things I’m constantly realizing these days is that in many ways I’m locked out of my own goddamn mind, and I would argue I’m not alone. I think some of the more interesting shit happening in our minds emotionally is obfuscated by the emotional plaque that builds up, the defense mechanisms we subconsciously construct, and the narratives we tell ourselves.

Behind the scenes!

In my own goddamn temple!

I mean.

I have a good idea about some of the inner-workings, you know? I’m a goddamn man child. I care about people, the planet, and helping others. I’m bad to respond quickly to texts, I’m prone to emotional outbursts (negative and positive), and I’m deeply, deeply addicted to asses, my wife’s ass, and the pursuit of ass. The never-ending quest for ass.

I mean.

However at the same time, Jesus Christ, what’s going on in here? My mind! However at the same time, Jesus Christ, what’s going on in all our minds?! I’ve begun to realize that in many ways I’m a stranger until myself! Said revelation has come to me because at least once a week my therapist asks me a question that stops me in my tracks.

“Oh yeah, I like myself.”

“Do you like yourself?”

I mean.

Well said! Now that you’ve asked, I’m not really sure.

“I mean, I think so.”

“Would you question yourself, if you did?”

I mean!

Well said! Now that you’ve asked me, I’m not really sure.

All you can really do is be mindful of your own goddamn Temple, you know? Realize you ain’t seeing everything that’s going on in that son of a bitch. Humble yourself to the notion that there may be doors you can’t open yourself. Doors you can’t see yourself. All you can really do is be mindful of the fact that sometimes others can see into those existential doors, windows, gutters, and gulches of yours better than you can. If they’re kind, let them help you.

Locked out of your own temple! Goddamn. Life is a fucking trip, man.

This is Monday Morning Commute.

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Lucy’s been sleeping a lot more in her dirt holes this summer. Outside, conked out, oblivious to the dirt she’s covered in. Oblivious to the inexorable march of time that has her sleeping more. Oblivious to a lot of things.

It’s adorable, her sleeping in the dirt holes. I don’t have a problem with her doing so, even if she tracks dirt, dust, and the random errant branch into the house.

It’s what it portends.

I’ve been staring a lot more in the mirror lately trying to understand the face looking back. My nose is sharper. My eyes a bit more wearied. Not the face that I picture when I close my eyes. I told my wife that I was concerned I was aging. Bad news, she said. We’re all aging. I clarified that I was concerned I was aging poorly. No, she said. She told me she enjoyed the chin of my beard going gray. I suppose I don’t mind it the grays themselves.

It’s what it portends.

Last week the head of my department called me up. Asked me if I’d be willing to teach a different course, for my fourth course of the semester. You see, the sections of my usual course weren’t filling up. It’s all a numbers game. Hell yeah, I told him. I’d be happy to. In fact, the course he proposed was something I was interested in teaching in the Fall. It isn’t really the switch of the course that concerns me.

It’s what it portends.

Last week, I had to go to my therapy session equipped with the answer to her question from the prior one. She wanted to know what life would be like if I woke up one day “completely healed” of my mental maladies. She called it the magical serum question. I spent a good amount of the week leading up to the session thinking about her homework assignment.

The truth is, I don’t think I really had a good answer. But I told her I want to be able to live in the moment more. To be present. It’s not a particularly stunning revelation, not a particularly eye-opening wish, especially for someone with anxiety. But as the week passed, and I found myself saddened at my dog’s life winding down, or at my own face in the mirror, or at my potential course load down the line, I realized I was tired. Tired of always asking myself.

What does it portend?

This is Monday Morning Commute.

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Legit, fuck whoever leaked The Last of Us 2 footage straight in their astral mouth. The silver lining is that we have a date for the game, after it was indefinitely delayed. We all need to just duck spoilers for *check notes scrawled in vomit on a dented-in refrigerator door* like six weeks. Fuck me.

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It was announced literally last month that The Last of Us Part II was dropping in February, 2020. That is no more. Now, the title is dropping May 29th, 2020. And I ain’t complaining! Not only do I want the team to take as long as they need, but it also frees up what was an insanely packed Spring.

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Man, we’re really getting it, eh? The Last of Us 2! While the wait hasn’t been as colossal as, say, Cyberpunk 2077, it’s still unreal to think it’s arriving so soon. I was stoked previous to this trailer, and now? Fully stoked. Painfully stoked.

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Oh hell yes, friends! Not only are we getting The Last of Us 2 next year, but we’re getting it relatively fucking soon! That is, if you believe this leak. Which I do, cause usually when retailers fuck up, it’s legit.

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I’m so, so, so fucking ready for The Last of Us 2. When is it coming? We don’t fucking know yet! But, maybe we’ll know next Tuesday.

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