A Weekend Manifesto Nobody Will Follow
The weekend arrives and you mean to do something memorable. By Saturday morning the sofa has won.
Ten missions. Not goals—goals imply planning and incremental progress, missions imply possible disaster and a story worth telling Monday. Give your ex a superlike on Tinder and watch what happens. Dress as Batman and patrol a shopping district, offering to solve crimes—theft, confrontation, littering, whatever feels manageable. Find a Nintendo 64 and a copy of Super Smash Bros. and turn it into a drinking game with some friends, because that version still plays better than anything released since and the hangover will feel earned. Walk into a club and treat it like karaoke—Mr. Brightside, then Purple Rain, then My Heart Will Go On, in sequence, with full commitment to every note.
Carry condoms and hand them out to strangers who are clearly having a better night than you. Watch every Harry Potter film in reverse chronological order—newest first, all the way back to the beginning—and notice how they improve as you go. Bring a bag full of Jägermeister, sangria, and vodka to a nursing home and start a beer pong tournament. Speak to everyone in the most cartoonishly overdone British accent you can sustain. Wear a monocle.
Cure cancer.