DO
Everything you feel is right. No one cares. You will die alone. There is no reason to keep going. This is as good as it will ever get. Don’t leave a note. Just go. It’s better this way.
DON’T
If I knew that one day I would have a son who would grow up to be just like this, I would let that pregnancy come to full term. I wouldn’t regret every choice I’d made up to this point and book an appointment at my local Planned Parenthood. I wouldn’t sit in the waiting room all by myself and wish I was dead because of what you did to me.
DO
“Oh ho ho, what’s this? Another pair of Williamsburg design-school dropouts blowing their parents’ money on their Beanie Baby performance-art band hur hur?” No, this is a group of Japanese musicians who’ve completely alienated themselves from their parents to spend their lives hand-sewing hundreds of stuffed, animatronic naked people and travel the world setting them loose all at once onstage, where their collective toy-dog yaps combine into a frenzied cacophony so majestic and all-consuming it’s like God’s own jizzum spurting gloriously in your ears. How’s the blog coming, Captain Interesting?
DON’T
British festival season harkens back to the ancient Catholic rite of carnevale, when rule of law was overturned, sumptuary codes suspended, and a spirit of mirthful anarchy descended o’er the whole of the village, allowing red-faced 45-year-old divorcés to ply their wares on thoroughly uninterested barmaids and cider-drunk moms on holiday. Only five months to go!
DO
As Marc Maron said, how sickly satisfying is it when you’ve been sitting for an hour and a half pounding the steering wheel and screaming, “This better not be bullshit! This better be because somebody died!” then you finally get there and he did?
