Evidence of a Weekend

Google’s barrel roll gag entertained me for about an hour on Thursday before the novelty collapsed, and then Friday opened up like a gap in the floor. Friends had plans that didn’t include me. The weekend was a problem requiring proposals.

Ten of them. Not plans exactly—more like mission statements for a self with nowhere to be.

Charge people ten euros each to let me breathe on them and give them my flu. They get a legitimate week off work; I get pocket money and the quiet satisfaction of being genuinely useful. Film myself throwing small dogs into a river, laughing. The internet has an appetite for exactly that content and someone has to supply it. Say the word "cock" at least twenty times over the course of the day—language doesn’t preserve itself and I take that responsibility seriously.

Watch a certain video on loop for three hours, then ask whoever is nearest how much purple is actually between the sun and the nearest tree. The question has an answer. The real question is whether I do. Trade whatever remains of my virginity for a bubble tea, on the sound theory that the bubble tea is at least guaranteed. Follow Fat Pikachu on Twitter and eat a chocolate donut every time he posts—medically inadvisable, internally consistent. Let my mother hug me until something releases. Construct a joke using only the words "underwear," "holes," and "mother," and leave it in the comments as a gift to anyone reading.

Take my sister’s badminton racket out at dusk and hunt zombies—anyone over sixty still on the street after dark counts, obviously. And finally: write something genuinely funny on myself in red marker and spend the rest of the night finding at least one person to read it.

Ten missions. The weekend is a problem that requires solutions, and these were mine.