Ten Missions Before Monday Takes You

Every time this column loads on your screen, you’re seven days closer to dying. You, the people you love, the whole doomed arrangement—all of it moving on schedule toward the same appointment. These ten missions won’t change that math. They’ll just make the weekend less of a waste.

Put on your best jacket. Bring a tablecloth, china plates, and proper wine glasses to McDonald’s, set the table, and eat like the occasion demands it. Other customers will be baffled or hostile; both reactions are worth the effort. While you’re at it, grow a full memorial beard for Ryan Dunn, who died last week at 34 and would’ve respected the commitment. Get drunk with the people you’d call from a jail cell, and don’t shave until the grief starts feeling theatrical.

Download the CSS track Hits Me Like A Rock and dance. Not ironically—actually dance, in your apartment, until something in your life moves. No cat videos. That’s the only rule here with no exceptions, no appeals, no special circumstances.

Spend fifteen minutes watching Boxxy on YouTube and try to track the internal logic. If you run a blog nobody reads, close it this weekend—no farewell post, no announcement, no explanation. Just stop. Quietly. That restraint is the kindness.

Lick something you absolutely should not, and when asked to explain, reference a complicated oral fixation traceable to a stepfather and a specific afternoon when you were five. Tell at least one person you love them before Sunday ends, and prove it with a list that starts at ice cream and ends, without apology, at anal sex. If it doesn’t land, move on—someone out there will find the specificity romantic.

Donate fifty euros to the WWF. Good work, good cause, good panda. Monday is coming regardless. Might as well arrive wrecked.