I don’t have one. I don’t want one.
I don’t like them.
I don’t have a thing against lists. Lists are great, man. Lists are a perfectly adequate substitute for the fully-functioning brain I no longer possess since having children. The brain that is firing on all 5 billion wobbly cylinders and maxed out at full capacity and totally resistant to the notion that it can push itself any harder or faster without vomiting from the exhertion.
Lists are like fitspo for the fat little brain that no longer wants to get off the sofa.
You can REMEMBER this! You can DO it! I am here to HELP you!
I love lists. But I hate the idea of bucket lists.
I hate the idea of a list that has a deadline of being, well, DEAD.
I don’t need an existential to-do list to remind me that I’m doing life all wrong.
I don’t need a long list of the exciting and meaningful endeavours I’ve failed to experience to remind me how bogged down in the moribund and mundane I am. And quite frankly, existential considerations aside, I have quite enough lists in my life as it is. All of them incomplete.
I have lists of speech therapy exercises that I’m meant to be doing with my kid.
I have lists of unread online articles still waiting for my attention.
I have lists of tasks I need to complete for my freelance clients.
I have lists of things I need to buy in the grocery shopping.
I have lists of Christmas gifts to purchase.
I have lists of unread emails I have no time to read.
I have lists of blog post ideas that I have no time to write.
I have lists of things I need to remember for preschool.
Last Friday was “Dress Like a Pirate Day”, this Friday is “Loud Shirt Day”, the Reptile Man is coming on Wednesday, Bravehearts are coming on Thursday and don’t forget to bring a plain t-shirt for “Children’s Week” next week or your kid will miss out on the special screen-printing activity.
What the FUCK is Children’s Week?
I have enough lists in my life.
I have enough shit to do.
Everything else can wait until I’m dead.