A Weekend Agenda for People With Nothing Left to Lose

The absence of obligation doesn’t produce freedom. It produces a vacuum, and the vacuum fills with minor anxiety and the vague sensation that you could be doing something better with the time. The cure is not productivity. The cure is deliberate, targeted wrongness.

So here’s what I’m proposing. Show your bare ass to anyone whose first name starts with M, S, or Q—not as aggression, just as a gesture of goodwill. Go to a famous nightclub and lick the floor. Not because it tastes good. Because it shouldn’t. Then find anyone carrying an energy drink and knock it out of their hand, press a stick of celery into the gap, and walk away announcing that this is much healthier. Do the same to anyone with a cigarette. Have sex with the celery afterward, because at this point you’ve committed to the bit.

Spend an unreasonable amount of money on Lego and two bottles of red wine and build a pirate time-spaceship through the night. Read a book—a physical book, not a summary, not a thread, a book with pages. Go to a club and request the most embarrassing song in existence on repeat until they throw you out or, worse, actually play it. Every thirty minutes, stand up and announce that there’s a fire. Stay calm. Sit back down. Finally, enroll yourself in kindergarten and begin your life over from scratch, because honestly the first attempt had some structural issues.

None of this will fix anything. That’s the point. The weekend isn’t for fixing things. It’s for behavior the working week would never permit, and for understanding, by Sunday night, that the working week is the only thing standing between you and complete entropy. Which isn’t a problem. It’s an arrangement.