Things I Didn’t Do Because I Was Writing This Instead
It was worth it.
Create an office “secret birthday” calendar and throw parties for unsuspecting coworkers.
Visit an assisted living center and play Never Have I Ever with the residents.
Watch your Snapchat story, note your new glasses plus how big and beautiful your hair has gotten and, in an overwhelming moment of synesthetic digital delusion, catch a whiff of your skin that still reminds me of dryer sheets soaked in sunflower.
Reduce men’s risk of cancer by Instagramming myself using two eggs to demonstrate a testicular self-exam.
Buy size-11 men’s stilettos and break them in by the weekend.
Crowdsource two versions of my funeral rites, one from my family and the other from people in the deli line at the grocery store. List the pros and cons of each.
Book two plane tickets to San Juan and give myself six hours to find a beautiful stranger to accompany me.
Smoke all of the marijuana I could find and compete against no one in an Iron Chef-inspired grilled cheese battle.
Design cheerleading uniforms with ninja costumes instead of skirts and nun chucks for pom poms.
Scour as many thrift shops as it took to find the exact purple coat my grandmother used to wear.
Interview boys about their dogs.
Approach strangers who vaguely resemble my exes and try to make it work.
Shoplift petty items, return them a few hours later, and journal about my feelings.
Order from Graeter’s, the ice cream place in my hometown in Ohio, and have it rush delivered on dry ice to my parents’ house down the street.
Stop being so scared.
Find the people in the building next door whose apartment looks directly into mine, convince them to string a tin-can telephone from their window through mine, and pitch the story to Gawker.
Film a cool montage of two dudes getting out of a car, walking in tandem, and nonchalantly tossing things to each other, including: keys, a beer, a football, a bunny, a handful of Raisin Bran, another set of keys.
Play Edward 40-hands on top of a double-decker sightseeing tour bus.
Go to a yoga class and just sit there eating a club sandwich.
Create a fake budget for a fake person on Mint.com and keep it to myself.
Use a fanny pack to create a time capsule and fill it with:
- letters written on restaurant guest checks mounted on cardstock
- fortune cookies with customized messages on the inside
- a photo of three-year-old me rocking a blonde, curly mullet
Mail it to a former Hebrew school classmate and ask her to hold it for me until August 10, 2064.
Throw my TV into a river and see if I miss it.
Visit a Sikh temple and just ask them everything.
Save a horse, ride a cowboy.
Write the opposite of a suicide note — a note about why I decided to keep living today.