Climb Significant Mountains
Not to toot my own horn, but I’ve done a hiking once or twice in my time. Actually, I think it was just once–who can remember? If I were the proactive type, I imagine I’d be all over the face of mountains like their teenage tectonic acne, but I’m not proactive. I’m hardly a novice at activity let alone a professional (get it? PRO active!) Brilliant wordplay aside, if I were the type of person to do anything more than sit in a swivel chair making plane noises, I bet something I’d do to kill time is conquer nature’s greatest triangles.
Stick to My Morals
When it comes to torturing animals, I consider myself not a fan. I have little or no desire to slaughter legions of cows; my days aren’t empty if I fail to bite the face off a lamb; I detest that the fast food industry minces legions of Woodstocks to make the pink paste that feeds the archdemons who shit out Mcnuggets™. My moral compass points directly toward a sign that says “murdering all the animals is bad.” However, I have to admit, animals are really tasty, and I am not a strong enough person to resist the supple, pan-seared flesh of a young cow marinated in its dreams. I have morals–I have the hell out of morals–but I am not spiritually stalwart enough to really listen to them. The angel on my shoulder is loud, and it’s passionate, and it knows what’s best for the world, and I ignore the shit out of it.
Nah, fuck that.
Eat Something Other Than Coffee Shop Sandwiches
I remember a time distant, primordial, when I actually had the energy and the wherewithal to cook and eat real food. It was a good time, but things change, man. Most of the time I’m at home, I am unconscious and the only thing in the oven is an overwhelming sense of despondency. I recently learned that cooking doesn’t happen while I’m asleep, which is problem because the only time I have access to a kitchen is when I’m face-down in a nebulous cacophony of blankets and dreaming of homework. So most of my food comes from cheap coffee shop sandwiches made of some approximation of peanut butter and jelly smeared between two walls of bread. I actually love the sandwiches, but I think I’m experiencing some kind of culinary Stockholm syndrome, so either the police, a chef, or the adult version of Child Protective Services needs to save me from myself.
Be a Real Person
A real person has a life defined by facets of their personality; ambition, socialization, a love life that isn’t laughably sparse, maybe a hobby that they aren’t ashamed to tell their friends about. A real person, to me, is someone who has something going on. I am almost certainly not a real person. Oh sure, I’m in school, have a job, hobbies, a fantastic cat, and some people who read this would be annoyed if I said I don’t have friends. So, on a superficial level, I am a real person, BUT it’s absolutely not my fault. I have all these delightful things–friends, cats, job, school–because people kept hurling them at me until I accepted. The friends just kept inviting me out; the cat was because a person went with me and got one too; the job was because I was tricked into being a good worker by cool teachers, and I’m still in school because it’s just what I’m good at–and I like it lots. None of my person-qualities came from within, all from without! I am not the type of person to be a person, so I have been personified by other people.