Ten Little Missions
There’s a list in my head of things worth doing, or at least worth sitting with. Nothing particularly coherent. Some serious, some absurd, all of them lodged in there somehow.
Legalizing weed in my region. I keep thinking about it because California did it and youth crime fell, whether that’s cause or just correlation I’m not sure, but the logic feels sound—treat people like adults and something shifts. I don’t have a plan. It’s just something I turn over.
Animals suffering and needing comfort that they can’t ask for. That one actually matters, unlike most of these. You find something hurting and you give it what it needs: touch, words, a moment of presence. It’s the bare minimum and it counts.
Yoko Ono made fashion for men. I think about wearing it not for the Yoko mystique but for the deliberate strangeness of it—clothes that make you refuse to disappear into the crowd. You don’t need reasons beyond that.
Give money to people who share your name. Just a euro, no explanation. The specificity is perfect. The weird closeness of handing cash to a stranger because you both happened to get the same name at birth.
The shirtless gif that lives in my head. Make it, post it, let it sit there forever. I know what it looks like—vanity, exhibitionism. I also know the vulnerability underneath, the stupid freedom of doing something pointless and making it permanent anyway. I can’t fully talk myself out of it.
Feeding homeless people. I did it once, halfway through. Sandwiches, beer, cash. It’s the minimum and it doesn’t feel like enough and you do it anyway because what else are you going to do.
There’s Lindsay Lohan wet, and I’m not going to be coy about what that image does. Desire, celebrity, disaster, watching someone burn in real time. What does that feeling actually point to? What am I seeing when I see that?
Luxembourg. Nobody thinks about it and almost nobody goes. I keep thinking I should go there for no reason at all.
The Israel-Palestine thing dressed up as absurdist peace proposal: erase the borders, tell both sides they’re one people, problem solved. Except borders only exist because everyone agrees they do. If that agreement broke, they’d vanish. It won’t happen, but the thought is clean.
Matching tattoo with your best friend. Something dumb—a heart, a tree, a drunk care bear. It’s only permanent if you don’t regret it, and you don’t regret it if you decide not to. That kind of commitment to closeness, disguised as a joke. I like that impulse.