Weekend Missions

Everyone worth knowing is at the festival right now. The rest of us are stuck here, wandering around the city like I own the place, looking for something that justifies the time. I’ve been thinking about what would actually make a weekend feel different.

Stand on a busy street with a cardboard sign and write something stupid on it. See who honks. There’s something pure about forcing strangers to engage with your dumbness. Spend the whole weekend dressed like a 1970s rock star, moving and talking completely wrong, not giving a shit. Watch how differently people treat you when you’ve stopped caring what you look like.

Fill a bathtub with iced tea just because you can. It’s cold and pointless and smells weird—and that’s the entire appeal. Sleep with someone random, someone with nothing to do with your real life. Your body needs to remember it’s alive. It’s not profound, it’s just biology and boredom intersecting.

Read a big stupid fantasy novel about werewolves and gods, the kind that doesn’t apologize for itself. Kiss someone you weren’t planning on. Buy a stranger money or a drink for nothing. Call your ex and tell them something completely insane, then hang up and never call them again.

The point is that doing something intentionally pointless is better than sitting around doing nothing pointfully. That’s the whole weekend right there.