Ten Missions

2012 was on its way out, and I had ten things that needed doing before it finished. Whether the year was good or complete shit was personal math—comparing highs to lows, meetings to endings. But there was the list.

Watch Rihanna naked on a balcony. Someone pure-hearted had wished for this at Christmas, apparently. Never ask the internet to Photoshop the sun between your fingers; that only ends badly. Find the trailer for another zombie apocalypse, spot Tony from Skins if you can. Move to a different country—staying felt unbearable. Book a flight east, locate the oldest man alive, ask him why he hasn’t died yet. He’d say it was the sun. Probably not true, but I liked the mythology.

Kiss anyone named Marcel on New Year’s Eve. Trip anyone named Paul, Thang, or Janos—girls only, which already tells you something. Stare at Lana Del Rey photos one more time before everyone forgot her by spring. Start a new blog or magazine on January 1st. Make it so good it destroys everything that came before. Drink only tap water on December 31st and January 1st. Only tap water. Then kiss Marcel one more time.

The specificity haunts these old lists. The named people, the Rihanna moment, the pointless water fast. I actually believed these small rules would matter.