Ten Little Missions
I came up with this idea for weekends: ten pointless missions to trick myself into thinking I’d accomplished something by Monday. Like a checklist would matter.
The first few were almost reasonable. Adopt a cat—called it President Mubarak—and actually take care of it. Scratching post, decent food, the works. Second: jerk off to Get Your Body
by Bigga Threat and call it fitness. Third: sign up for a social media academy and let them tear me apart. Fourth: stop showering. Save water. Fifth: find Elvis.
From there it just got stupid. Sixth was to demonstrate for women’s quotas in sex work, then realize halfway through that the whole thing was a bigger waste of time than standing on a traffic island. Seventh: avoid red food. Eighth: get physically close to my best friend in public and let other people watch. Let them get something out of it. Ninth was the normal one—send a postcard to my parents, tell them it’s nice out, mention what I’d been doing.
Tenth was just to suck a dick.
I’m not sure what the point was supposed to be. There probably wasn’t one. Just something to do with a weekend that would happen anyway.