Ten Little Missions
Friday night and I’m at my computer instead of at some festival. No money, no friends, the weather’s being shit—whatever the reason. But it’s fine. I’m genuinely fine with it.
And there’s something to do with a weekend like this. Sleep as long as your body will let you—wake up, pillow back over your face, sleep more. Wake up again to your own snoring and just think, yeah, okay, more of this.
Stand outside naked in the rain and sing I Always Love You
completely off-key. No one’s listening. That’s the whole point.
Bake a cake. Eat all of it in five minutes. Then bake the same cake again because the repetition does something to you.
Have a fart competition with whoever’s around. The loudest one wins. It’s stupid and somehow it’s always funny.
Wear sweatpants the entire weekend. Don’t take them off unless it’s genuinely necessary. Just commit to it.
There’s that ugly guy from the corner bar—Giesbert or whatever—the one nobody talks to. Hook up with him. He’ll appreciate it more than the handsome ones ever would, and he probably needs it more.
Watch cartoons naked. You appreciate them better that way. There’s no reason for it but it works.
Order a burger with everything
and mean it. If it’s not right, send it back. Make the cook figure it out.
If you ever have kids, give them terrible names. Not trying-to-be-edgy names, just genuinely bad ones. Claire. Jacqueline. Justin Britney Fernando Stephen Krautschkowski. Make them own it their whole lives.
And the weekend just kind of dissolves into itself. Saturday becomes Sunday becomes Monday and you’re still in the sweatpants and you’ve forgotten why the festival mattered.