Ten Small Acts of Ruin for a Long Weekend

No potential sex partner, no plan, nothing but the long blank face of the weekend opening up in front of you. Perfect conditions. Here’s what to do with it.

Drive to hell. Not metaphorically—find the nearest place actually named that and go there today. While you’re in the spirit of self-punishment, drink enough Fritz-Limo melon flavor that you end up sitting in a parking lot somewhere, staring at nothing, regretting your birth. The aftertaste alone earns it.

Seduce your building’s caretaker over candlelight and a glass of red wine. He’s been waiting longer than you think. After that, kiss a pimp on the street—passionately, in full view of everyone—and then take him out for ice cream afterward like it’s the most obvious next step imaginable. It is.

Sell your computer at a flea market and move to Uganda. Come back only when you’ve forgotten what fast internet feels like and run out of things to complain about. Before you go, put on "This Language" by Staless at a volume that bothers someone and eat a blood orange while it plays. The juice running down your chin will feel like something. It isn’t. Go with it.

Write a furious, detailed letter to Blonde magazine explaining exactly why they’ve failed the world by not being more like NEON. Use a thesaurus. Then call your health insurance company and, with complete sincerity, ask them where babies come from. Follow up by asking at what age a baby is legally old enough to clean a bathroom. Take notes.

Finally: use your little sister’s nasal spray anally. Enjoy the tingle. Return it to her nightstand. When you see her, express genuine concern that she looks a bit stuffed up. Complete all of the above and report back. There may be biscuits in it for you.