Ten Things, Most of Them Terrible

Another Friday arrives before I’ve processed Monday. I’m still staring at the pile my boss handed me while fleeing from invisible ninjas—highest priority, he screamed, absolutely critical—and I nodded and thought about the dog I’d painted bright colors and thrown from the window with a little stapled-on parachute. The files can wait. They always can.

So instead: ten missions for the weekend. I want you to succeed.

Let a frozen chunk of aircraft lavatory waste fall on you and end your life—it’s a genuinely stupid way to go, and stupidity at scale deserves a kind of respect. Hug a Coke machine, since at least the machine won’t ghost you. Embed as many YouTube videos on your site as possible; apparently the MPAA has argued that embedding alone constitutes infringement, which makes the whole thing feel slightly dangerous and therefore worthwhile. Join Scientology and try to destroy it from within. Succeed and I’ll give you a cookie. Fail and you’ll at least be broke and content. Eat a lot of ground-meat ice cream. Way more than seems appropriate.

Spend the entire weekend barefoot. Nails, broken glass, dog shit—whatever you step in, you leave it. No washing, no extracting. That’s the rule and the rule is final. Kiss Lana Del Rey, because those lips exist for a specific purpose and everyone knows what it is. Start a blog documenting every toilet you use—public, private, doesn’t matter—with proper photographs and considered commentary. I mean it. I would read every entry. Finally: bring whoever you’re currently sleeping with, considering sleeping with, or not sleeping with but absolutely should be to orgasm using only a feather, some mayonnaise, and a sheet of baking paper. If you can’t figure it out, sex probably isn’t quite ready for you yet.

Report back Monday.