Ten Little Missions

Found a list somewhere of ten things to do on a weekend if you’re bored enough. Give a fake diamond to a random person, whisper something terrifying—They’re coming, I’m running out of time—and just walk away. Don’t explain. Leave them holding a piece of glass interpreting your paranoia. Show up to someone’s party in a ski mask. Order a three-course meal at a fancy restaurant, throw it all up, order again. Admit that you’re less attractive than a horse, and mean it. Fall in love with a girl whose name is a single letter and name all your children other letters—M, O, Z, Y—build a whole life that’s basically a joke nobody understands.

It’s all completely pointless. That’s the thing about these lists—they’re not about accomplishment or even experience. They’re just permission to be chaotic for no reason. To disrupt a stranger’s day, to waste money on vomit, to admit embarrassing things to yourself. None of it leads anywhere. It doesn’t mean anything.

But there’s something I like about that. The idea that you could spend a weekend doing something completely unhinged and the only payoff is that you did it. No lesson learned, no growth, no story to tell that makes sense. Just: I was weird and pointless for a few hours and nothing changed.

I’ve never actually done any of this, obviously. But I keep the list around because it reminds me that the alternative to being reasonable is right there—accessible, ridiculous, yours if you want it.