Ten Little Missions

The weekend shows up and I’m staring at some files my boss handed me with that theatrical urgency you learn to ignore. Highest priority. Right. I know it’ll wait. I know I’ll either get to it or I won’t. So instead I’m thinking about random things, like the time I painted my dog and threw him out a window with a parachute. Completely absurd. But that’s how avoidance works—you replace one pointless task with another, weirder one. And if I’m going to waste time anyway, I might as well be thorough about it.

I could wait for frozen piss from an airplane to kill me. It’s the dumbest possible way to go out—I can’t even imagine a worse death. Or just stand somewhere and embrace a vending machine like it’s human. If nobody else is going to hold me, at least this dispenses something cold. Embed as many YouTube videos as possible on this website until it breaks. Completely illegal. Doesn’t matter. Join a cult and try to blow it up from inside. If I somehow pull it off, I deserve a medal. If I fail, at least I’ll be happy and broke.

The weekend stretches. I could eat ground meat ice cream until I’m sick. Just keep eating, no threshold, no good reason to stop. Walk barefoot all weekend—nails, glass, dog shit, whatever. Don’t wash it off. Don’t pick anything out. Spend hours thinking about someone I’ll never have. Their face, their voice, the pointless fantasy of it. Let a skateboard take my virginity somehow. I don’t know how that works logistically, but it’s probably still better than most people.

Document every toilet I use all weekend. Public restrooms, private bathrooms, doesn’t matter. Just photograph them and call it a blog. I’d actually read that. Or figure out how to make someone come using only a feather, mayonnaise, and baking paper. Three stupid objects, nothing else. If I can’t manage it, I’m not ready to be inside anyone.

That’s my actual weekend. That’s what I’m going to do while the files wait.