Lists.

I could list something right now.  Things to do, people to call, girls I want to fuck, movies I want to see, places I want to visit.  I’m not sure how much of a difference it would really make to my life.  Lists are kind of like the American Dream.  It looks so good on paper but the reality is far removed from the perceived notion of a perfect existence.

I made a list like this last year that read:

things to achieve during the holidays

  • Learn Guitar
  • Write a play
  • Give up drinking
  • Book trip to Europe

A year later and I have written one scene of a play, learnt one chord on my guitar despite not being able to tune the fucking thing, drunk harder on a Saturday night than ever and am no closer to getting myself onto a plane to Europe.  The things that I have achieved have not come through the help of an unaccountable and completely inapplicable list of dashes, dots and draining documentation (alright, I just wanted to alliterate that sentence… what of it?)  I like procrastinating, my mind doesn’t operate like clockwork, I lack discipline.  So when I when I write lists I am simply painting the dream of my own life’s journey.  Painting a life of my desires being fulfilled where I land a beautiful woman who allows me to rub honey on her chest whilst I nod my head to The Weeknd playing on my dock before I head out to my studio to film a few scenes of my latest black comedy/rom-com/pornography with a twist (female pool cleaners).

I suppose the mentality of a list poses similarities to keeping a diary in that it allows us to keep track of our needs and wants whilst enabling a little indulgence on the side.  Then again, Frank Ocean is a fellow hater of lists so I might just team up with him.

However, for the sake of entertainment for my nil readers, I’m going to go ahead and list my dream day… list for all you listless characters to have a browse of:

Things to do;

  • Go running with Daniel Day Lewis… tell him his running technique is fundamentally flawed.
  • Have coffee with Annie Proulx… just to chat about our writing; my blog and her… well, you know, she’s a genius.
  • Drive my Mazda 626 ’97 model (what a vehicle) down the road and exchange it for a supped up VW Kombi
  • Sit on the beach and observe a pilates session that involves women of the ilk of Teresa Palmer, Lea Michele and Rosie O’Donnell.
  • Talk to one of them, preferably not the latter.  Engage in consensual love making in the back of my Kombi.
  • Cry a little after some supremely gifted love making… I feel obliged to apologise for the drivel I am spouting.
  • Learn French.  Speak French.  Impress a Frenchman with my French.
  • Sell script to Coen Brothers.  Cry tears of joy into a pint of Budvar.
  • Buy this suit off the Gos, give him a hug and arrange a man date.
  • Have a picnic by myself.  Attract the attention of a girl with a rare smile.  Fall in love after she reveals her endearing crush on Justin Vernon.
  • Marry her after she reveals her love of listing things that she never achieves.
  • Sleep on the roof because I can do what I want, when I want.
  • Wake up and find that she is still as beautiful as she was yesterday.

So basically I have revealed that I am a pathetic romantic and addicted to my wild imagination.  So even if it is a waste of time, it is a little bit of comfort for rainy days when I have come to the conclusion that I am an absolute sad case.

I’ll list what I want, when I want.  You can’t stop me.

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