Ten Small Missions

The weekend has arrived, which means it was the right call not to throw yourself in front of the subway on Thursday just to avoid seeing those faces one more time. God, Steffi. Put a bag over it. Anyway. Ten small missions for the holiest of all days—which is Sunday, and Saturday, and the back half of Friday, which people always forget.

Mission one: order both t-shirts—"I’m just decoration in math" and "Hey DJ, turn me on!"—and get them onto the nearest child of a militant feminist the moment her back is turned. Staple them down properly. Two: read that BuzzFeed post about the happiest facts in the world, and then stop crying, for once. Three: take your pet to another city, swap it for whatever animal happens to be available, bring that one home, and insist you’ve always owned a striped pony named Bello. Good boy, Bello. Four: have anal sex and enjoy it for once in your goddamn life. Five: write "poppers" on your mother’s shopping list.

Six: tell a different catastrophic secret to every member of your family and watch who cracks first. Pregnant. Gay. Two complete sets of genitals. Your dog assaulted you in your sleep and you haven’t fully processed it. You secretly watch My Little Pony reruns. You enjoy urinating into small children’s shoes. Take notes on who calls whom. Seven: eat and drink only blue things all weekend—no exceptions. Seven again, I lost count: talk a complete stranger into taking nude photos and sending them to you. The 45-year-old creeps from the chat forums don’t count. Eight: find a black marker and scribble on every plant you encounter—houseplants, street trees, the shrub outside the bank. Nine: give your real phone number to the most repulsive person on the subway and whisper into his ear: "See you later, stallion." Ten: send me photos of cheesecake.