Ten Commandments, None of Them Holy
The pen, the dildo, the boomerang—all back in the drawer. It’s Friday. Here’s what the weekend actually requires.
Kaya Scodelario is one of the few people worth falling for completely and without justification—the kind of person you encounter and just give up. Rick Astley has a new song called Lights Out, an actual new release rather than a rickroll, though the confusion is spiritually appropriate; it turns out even trolls need a fresh anthem occasionally. Apple launched Ping this week, which means the correct move is to sign up, spend about two hours there, and then quietly deactivate. Everyone is currently doing exactly this in sequence. Herd behavior has a strange, specific comfort.
Starbucks sells a New York cheesecake. It fits in a brown paper bag. The rest of the logistics—lighting the top on fire, leaving it on a neighbor’s doorstep—are self-evident. Going out with your ugliest friends is survivable if you commit to wearing a Darth Vader mask for the duration. They’ll resent you for about fifteen minutes and then accept it as a fixed feature of your personality.
Katy Perry recently gave the internet a nip slip so undramatic it verged on a sedative. Logging into MySpace right now is the closest thing to consensual necrophilia available to the general public—all those abandoned profiles, the frozen Top 8s, the music players nobody ever pressed stop on. Take a stuffed Pikachu on a dog leash to the most fashionable club in your city. If the bouncers don’t destroy you for it, you have set a trend. That’s a binding promise.
Read Murakami. Any of them—pick one with a cover you can tolerate in public. All of them will do something quiet and irreversible to you, and you won’t entirely be able to explain what.
Finally, acquire something educational about anal sex and approach the material with the seriousness it deserves. The sphincter, working in cooperation with the right gel and a sufficiently inventive pantry, contains multitudes. The weekend is long. Use it honestly.