Ten Little Missions

Friday’s coming and I’m already deep in the fantasy. The sun’s been frying everyone and all I want is to freeze myself solid for a few weeks until Diablo 3 drops, maybe leave a clone to handle work. Everything else spirals from there.

I’d feed Anja Rubik. I’d strap on a mouth spreader and swear an oath: whatever lands in there stays in or goes down. Lick everything you see, every surface, all of it. Burn something large that doesn’t belong to me—something that would feel good to burn. Finally do the group sex thing I’ve been fantasizing about since I was eleven. Play pranks on friends until there’s no one left to prank. Record a video for a kid who doesn’t exist yet, confessing every terrible thing I’ve done, showing them where they can find the porn film I made at eighteen when I was broke.

Smoke an apple. Break into a research lab, steal two animals, put them in bright costumes, fight crime with them. By the time I’m thinking about that last one I know it’s just Friday afternoon brain, none of this is happening. But the wanting doesn’t really stop.