Ten Little Missions

These were weekly challenges on some blog I followed. Ten ridiculous things to do by Sunday, half of them actual recommendations and half complete fever dreams. Buy a grey Game Boy with Pokémon Blue at the flea market and pick Charmander - that one could work. But also: dive your head into liquid cheese at Pizza Hut and die a beautiful death, get forced into marriage with your first girlfriend, yell First! while jamming sushi rolls into your best friend’s mouth, don’t congratulate the redhead unless she actually deserves it.

The crude energy ran through the whole thing. Comments about foot fetishists, observations about redhead ex-girlfriends and their bodies, a joke that girls with internet fame were better than disco sluts to kiss - supposedly better with tongue. That vulgarity wasn’t trying to be clever or ironic, just saying it straight. The objectification, the directness about desire - it felt honest at the time, even though it was absolutely obnoxious.

There was something about having real advice mixed in with the absurdity. That flea market recommendation stood out because it actually made sense. Pick Charmander, that’s good. Everything else was broken logic - marry your first girlfriend for no reason, surprise your best friend with aggressive sushi, ignore your ex. All of it stupid and horny and completely unafraid to say so.

That kind of casual vulgarity couldn’t really exist now. Not because the internet’s gotten prudish - there’s crude content everywhere - but because that specific tone, that objectification without the protective layer of irony or knowing commentary, that just sits there and exists. That feels like a completely different era online.