Ten Little Missions

Snow outside. The weekend’s here and I have no fucking idea what to do with it. I could ski, could sled, could do normal things. Instead I think about all the stupid shit I’ve been putting off—the half-serious missions that would actually feel like something if I committed hard enough.

Create an island in some online game and watch it destroy me completely. Download every version of Last Christmas and burn them in a forest because that feels like something. Weep like an idiot when I remember iTunes exists. Measure myself to see if anything’s changed. Sign up for Diaspora in some moment of internet idealism, spend an hour there, then crawl straight back to Facebook because Mark Zuckerberg knows me better than I know myself. Visit a grave. Someone I care about. Someone I haven’t thought about in months. Do it because I should, because guilt is the only engine that still works on me.

Save a horse. Play that ridiculous unicorn song as loud as my neighbors will tolerate and jump around the apartment like I’ve lost my mind completely. Call the ex and sleep with them because bad sex is infinitely better than no sex, and shame doesn’t pay the bills anyway. Jerk off to magazines from twenty years ago like I’m tethered to something, quit after fifteen minutes because it doesn’t work, do something worse instead. Wish my parents a surprise sibling at Christmas as a joke, give my dad a high-five when he finally gets it.

That’s what weekends are for. Not rest. Not becoming a better person. Just the systematic pursuit of every stupid impulse you’ve been holding, assembled into a list that almost looks intentional, almost feels like something worth doing. Almost.