Ten Protocols for a Ruined Weekend

Friday. Work done. The weekend opens like a blank contract begging to be misused, and I have a list.

First, Egypt. The pyramids. I have been meaning to go for roughly fifteen years, and everyone I’ve ever met insists they’re genuinely great, so that’s this weekend sorted. On the way back I’ll finally return the deposit bottles that have been colonizing my hallway since October—leave them much longer and they’ll achieve autonomous governance and start issuing demands. I already counted the product placements in Avril Lavigne’s What The Hell video, which is less a music video than an unacknowledged commercial, and the number is offensive enough that I owe her one across the face if our paths ever cross. Somewhere on the internet a forum thread exists devoted entirely to tearing apart every blogger worth mocking, and I want to contribute something elegant before Monday.

Saturday: LSD party, small guest list, grandmother’s attendance non-negotiable—she’s been patient long enough. Then I lock myself in a room with a loaded handgun of my choosing and the new Indira Weis single, and we’ll see which outlasts the other. I’ve been reading about urethral stimulation in the spirit of rendering every previous sexual encounter structurally obsolete. Stop crying at nothing. Go to McCafé. Make at least one actual decision. Upload naked photos to MySpace, where they’ll drift in total and beautiful obscurity until the servers finally give out.

Ten missions. All of them perfect.