Ask the cute cashier at the convenience store if they carry those condoms in “petite sizes.”
Have math homework every night for the rest of my life.
Sit on an uncovered gas station toilet seat.
Be the one to tell Kid Rock that wrestling isn’t real.
Invest my lifesavings in Blockbuster stock.
Be able to express myself using only lines of dialogue from the movie Paul Blart: Mall Cop.
Develop an exceedingly rare synaptic mix-up wherein every time I have an orgasm I experience the exact sensations and facial reactions of someone peeling an onion. But not vice-versa.
Become employed as the “Before” model in “Before and After” plastic surgery ads.
Set my teeth on fire.
Wear JNCOs and a denim bucket hat to every job interview for the rest of my life.
Grow a rattail.
I meant the haircut kind of rattail, but I’d also rather grow an actual rat’s tail out of my ass than eat mayo.
Be featured on the show My Strange Addiction.
Anything involving wet cat food.
Mash up my genitals with a bowling pin; mash ‘em up real good.
Say the phrase “epic fail” in public.
Get LASIK surgery from a guy who admits, “I’ve never been to med school, but I read the manual twice.”
Win one of those contests where the prize involves spending time with a celebrity because I cringe just thinking about how awkward and forced and mortifying that would be.
Attend a Turkish prison.
Shave off a homeless man’s beard and use it as my own personal loofah.
Pass an entire Slim Jim through my sinus cavity.
Piss off Christian Bale.
Forget how to read.
Trade hearts with Charlie Sheen. Not metaphorically speaking, but like actually receive his over-taxed, drug-addled heart.
Lick an umbrella after acid rain.
Start every conversation for the rest of my life with the phrase, “I’m wearing a diaper.”
Get stuck in an elevator for an inordinately long period of time with Donald Trump.
Encounter alien life forms, discover they’re not even chill.
