No Instructions, Just Missions
Weekends are genuinely strange if you stop pretending they aren’t. Two full days with no structure, no desk, no one telling you where to be—and somehow that freedom arrives like a punishment. Here’s what I’d actually consider doing with the time.
Quit the job that makes your chest tighten on Sunday afternoon. Don’t give notice in any professionally acceptable way. Leave something that smells wrong on the manager’s desk. Shout something unprintable on the way out the door.
Cry. Not about anything serious—the serious stuff never comes when you call it. Let it be something small: a song, a memory, an egg cooked slightly wrong. Everything out.
Put on the most embarrassing sentimental music you own at full volume. The stuff you’d deny under questioning.
Let jealousy take the wheel, completely, just once. Trust nobody. Investigate everything. Make accusations. See how far the thread goes. I accept no liability for outcomes.
Be too cool. Hold it for the whole weekend. See if it becomes something.
Eat nothing red, yellow, or green for two days. Whatever’s left—white, brown, grey—that’s your diet. An entirely new way of perceiving the world will reveal itself. Or you’ll just feel odd. The line between those two experiences is thinner than people admit.
Scream "You’re not my mother!" at the next person who addresses you without invitation. Make an occasional exception for your actual mother.
Go to sex therapy as a couple. Let someone with credentials explain, in clinical terms, how bodies are supposed to work together. There is a reasonable statistical chance you will never have sex with each other again after this session. The drive home will be extraordinary.
Pray to God. Properly—on your knees, the whole ritual, full commitment. Maybe this time something actually happens.
Win at life.