Ten Little Missions

Spent a Friday night making up a list of stupid things to do. Nothing better going on.

Join Ello, the social network that was supposed to murder Facebook. I joined. Lasted maybe forty minutes before I realized nobody on Ello wanted to talk to anyone either. Left immediately.

Go to a party and actually try discussing something. The quietest supporting actors in old silent films. Whatever year barn swallows were important. That time my printer had a paper jam. Watch how fast people check their phones instead.

Buy a CD. It’s pointless given streaming exists, but there’s something honest about it.

Ask the bouncer at Berghain—Berlin’s most unapproachable techno club, basically a bouncer who judges souls—if he knows where Q-DORF is. He won’t. Won’t care either.

Sleep with someone who has your exact same name. Still waiting for that coincidence to happen.

Cover every Sami Slimani poster in the city—he was some TV guy nobody remembers—with pictures of a solitary, sad sausage. Just the sausage. Just… vibes.

Try to change Berlin’s motto from Poor but sexy to Which sauce for your döner? which is way more accurate anyway. That one never got off the ground.

Sit quietly in memory of OZ. No idea who that even is at this point.

Only eat things whose names rhyme with parent-teacher conference, windshield wipers, or Thorsten. It’s impossible. That’s the whole thing.