I haven’t Wednesday blogged in a long time, because I’m lazy. But also, because I have all sorts of other stuff I like to do on the blog (like update links pages…which never, ever happens. Not ever), a lot of which I’d like to do on the weekly. When I found out this week that the topic is “your anti-bucket list” I was like, “Bitch, what is an anti-bucket list?” And Bronwyn Green was like, “It’s a list of things you don’t want to do before you die.” I immediately thought of about five thousand really grim things, like “experience surgical awareness,” “get cancer,” or “have one of my kids die.” And then Bronwyn was like, “Cool your jets, it doesn’t have to be like that.” And I thought of some much better ones that aren’t, you know. Common fears.
So here is my anti-bucket list:
Meet Anthony Stewart Head. So many well-intentioned Trout Nation citizens have tried to convince me to go to a con and meet him, because it would be funny and make a good blog post. They’ve tried to entice me with details like, “He smells so good,” and “He’ll totally hug you,” and “He’s really nice, honest.” I’m sure he’s super duper nice, and while my knees go positively weak at the thought of knowing what he smells like… dudes. Come on. I’ve written four books of graphic sex with a main character who looks and sounds nearly exactly like him in my head. There is no way I could be comfortable being in the same building as this person, let alone actually speaking to and having a picture taken with him.
Have to use pepper spray on anyone. I mean, I don’t carry pepper spray, but I’m really afraid that sometime, somehow, I’m going to have to pepper spray someone. I can see this going down one of two ways:
1. I am in a horribly scary, life threatening situation in which the use of force is necessary to prevent injury and/or death to my person.
2. I am not in a scary, life threatening situation in which the use of force is necessary to prevent injury and/or death to my person, and I have just maced somebody on accident.
Neither of these scenarios appeal to me, so I’m just gonna make like Bartleby in this situation and prefer the fuck not to.
Go into space. I realize that I’m already in space, flying around on a little hunk of rock in an infinite, mysterious void. I don’t want to leave this little hunk of rock, because fuck that. Space is scary as hell. If The Doctor showed up in fifteen minutes and was like, “You wanna?” I would be like, “yeah!” But he’s the only person I would trust to take me into space. And I don’t care how brave Katrina was, I’m not blowing myself out an airlock for him. Space is out there. But back to my original point: space is freaky and I don’t like knowing it’s out there, so I’m not going to go there.
Swim next to a whale. What the fuck is wrong with you people? Do you not see how big that thing is? Why would you? Why?
Age gracefully. Because that’s just bullshit. It’s bullshit to expect women to not take advantage of the miracles medical science has provided us, while at the same time torturing us in a culture that prizes our beauty and youth above all. And then we deride women when they try to fulfill that cultural expectation through surgical means. That’s bullshit. I speculate that by the time I am seventy, I will look something like this:
You know why? Because with all the tattoos I’ve put on my body, and all the holes I’ve punched in it (though I don’t wear my piercings anymore), I cannot be morally above becoming a bitchy trampoline in my golden years.
Have any kind of dangerous, life changing adventure. You know what? If a bunch of dwarves start showing up at your house? You don’t have to let them in. You can sit in your safe, cozy hole, smoke your pipe leaf, and put your hairy little feet up. Which is exactly what I would do. Fuck you Bilbo. This ain’t amateur hour.
Tell me what you’d put on your anti-bucket list, and check out the lists from these Wednesday bloggers: