I Don't Need No F&%^ing Bucket List!

The other night...or was it early morning...I wrote about how I don't have a bucket list, but how Miss Serendipity leads me to things that should be on my bucket list and then I cross them off the non-existent bucket list. I was really writing about theatre, but the bucket list was there, probably in the footnotes because I don't have one. There was that time I was going to make a vision board, but I didn't finish it. OK, I cut some photos out and left them in a pile on the coffee table. Whatever. I have neither a vision board nor a bucket list. Ask me what's on my bucket list and I'll just give you a stupid look and change the subject to your bucket list.

Anyway, after I published that post, I checked for new posts from my regular blog porn and the only one there was about ... you guessed it from the title of this post so it doesn't count .... an entry The One True Sue wrote about a bucket list contest she'd entered*. Today as I was flying to Greece in a private jet waiting for my malware software to clean up a nasty critter that infested my computer, I went back to my blog porn and the first post that came up was Laura Mayes' latest post at Blog con Queso and it's about .... don't bother to guess because of course its about her bucket list, which she calls her life list. What the fuck? I thought. (Yes, I think in words, not in acronyms. I did not think WTF?)

Oh please, Miss Serendipity, don't make me write a bucket list. Unless the purpose is to win that contest, which I don't even have a link to, please don't make me write a bucket list. I've done similar visionary bullshit before. I've written what I want on pieces of paper and done all kinds of rituals, with or without people, during full moons and dark moons and even while I rode around in the night sky on my broom, and none of this shit works. Writing the things I wish I could do on a bucket list makes them no more likely to happen than I am likely to spontaneously start farting Mozart. I sometimes suspect just the act of asking for dreamy things like .... no, I'm not going to list any .... just the act of asking makes the Universe laugh and hold them there, just out of my reach.

Sigh.

Damn it.

Miss Serendipity is fucking with me. She does that. Then she hits me over the head a couple of times--metaphorically if I'm lucky--and I'm supposed to listen. A bucket list. The next thing I need to do, as if I didn't have enough to do, is write a bucket list. It's nothing but a recipe for disappointment. I know it is.

But I'm going to write a bucket fucking list.

And find that contest. I'm not doing this for nothing. Sorry, Sue. You're gonna have some competition. It won't be much, trust me, but I'm not doing this because I think anything good will come out of it. I need a higher purpose; I need competition. (I sure don't need no fucking bucket list.)

*She didn't post a link to the contest though because she doesn't want the competition. She's wily, that one.

There's a list in this bucket somewhere.