Still Alive, Somehow

Against all odds and my best suggestions, you’re still alive. The roommate sabotage, the dealings with corrupt Belarusian businessmen, the ill-advised proximity to Courtney Love—none of it finished you. Equal parts impressive and disappointing.

The weekend has a list. Ten things, none of them reasonable, all of them necessary.

You drink half a bottle of neat vodka and you put the Badger Song on at full volume—that infinite loop of woodland creatures and mushrooms—and you do not let your skull find a wall. The challenge isn’t the vodka.

You become temporarily gay this summer. Just as a seasonal experiment, no documentation required. The alternative, always the same thing forever, gets tedious eventually.

You find a hot actress—criteria entirely your own—and you build a small religion around her. Altar, liturgy, a few foundational texts. You’ll be surprised how fast it comes together when the devotion is genuine.

You go back to Burger King. Not forever. Once. They’ve apparently addressed some issues.

You take black and white photographs of your pets in positions of ambiguous dignity. You keep them.

You launch a private television channel and broadcast S Club Party by S Club 7, twenty-four hours, no interruptions. You lose some people. They were the wrong people.

You believe in God again. Not as a position. Just as something to try, like the Burger King.

You kidnap Santa Claus.

You buy a book on homeopathy and give it to the most medically anxious member of your family. You watch. You don’t intervene.

You steal a bag of potatoes from a supermarket, get caught immediately, and explain to the police that history personally demanded it. You see how far that gets you.