Ten Little Missions

Another weekend bearing down and I’ve got nothing. No plans, no ideas, just the dead weight of Saturday sitting on my chest. Here’s what keeps spinning in my head.

Start with the simple one: find a song, play it on repeat all day. Loud enough that everyone in earshot actually considers checking themselves in. Write an official complaint to whoever runs government—Thursdays are a fundamental error and need to be deleted from the calendar. Apparently three complaints and they have to listen. That’s the law. Probably.

There’s a collection of the most uncomfortable moments ever captured. The kind of images that make your skin crawl. Spend an hour looking at them. Try to make that feeling permanent, embed it into your bones.

Get properly high. All the way. Especially if you’ve wasted the last few years thinking some political movement was going to fix anything.

Go to a club. Drop your pants on the dance floor. Middle of the crowd, mid-song. Don’t say anything. Just let it play out.

Find an interview with a woman who made porn, whose mother had also made porn before her. There’s something genuinely fascinating about inherited professions and what gets passed down without being asked.

Dress up your fat cat for Halloween, even though the entire proposition disgusts you. The cat will suffer equally.

Go out tonight. By the time you’ve talked to fifty people, tell one you want to sleep with them. You miss shots you don’t take.

Leave a thawed-out frozen pizza on each of your neighbors’ doorsteps. No note. No explanation. Just an increasingly warm mystery.

Wake up Sunday morning somewhere you’ve never been. Naked if possible. A red balloon in one hand. Foreign currency in the other. Don’t ask yourself how you got there.