Ten Little Missions

Friday finally showed up. I’d genuinely started thinking it might not arrive this year, but here it is—that moment when nothing matters and the weekend is just screens, porn, and horizontal commitment for seventy-two hours. The baseline state.

Emeli Sandé put out an album for free and it’s actually good, which is worth mentioning. Actually worth your time instead of the usual internet noise.

I fell down a video about unwanted Pokémon, creatures nobody wanted, and spent longer than reasonable calculating how many I’ve murdered just to keep my party from looking pathetic. The real number is higher than I want to admit.

The Death Star calculation keeps circulating—853 quadrillion dollars for the real thing. It’s beautiful stupidity. You only live once, might as well think about the actual cost of your fantasies.

Sacha Baron Cohen was complaining about not getting Oscar tickets, which is petty and perfect. That man manufactures chaos from nothing; imagine what he’d actually do with an invitation.

Nicki Minaj gets stuck in my head in that uncomfortable way. I watched her become exactly what the industry needed and just kept participating, every click and listen and share feeding into the machine until there was nowhere else for her to go. There’s something complicit about that.

Models who can’t properly walk keep becoming funny again, which is weirdly predictable. The photographs are perfect and then they step and it all breaks. There’s something true about that gap.

Grimes is still happening. Whether she’s the next thing or just what we’re trained to want right now, I haven’t decided. But the songs stick, so maybe it doesn’t matter.