Which tastes better: dinner before sex or dinner after sex? Which jokes will I tell? Which parent will die first? Which crap foods won’t give me colon cancer? Which newspaper prints the most truth? Which lung will I lose? Which roast beef sandwich has listeria? Which side will I nod along with, pretending to understand? Which recreational drug costs the least and lasts the longest? Which detail do I expediently omit? Which chick will slap me inna face? Which church finally tells the truth? Which wall will I punch? Which bone will I break? Which of my eyes will I blacken? Which job will I get canned from because of some stupid Peruvian bimbo who only wanted a fuck? Which planet might my abductors be from? Which booze will make me cool and confident and better-looking? Which voice will I use? Which vice will land me inna least trouble? Which repressed fart will finally split me apart? Which crucial Friday p.m. appointment will I miss because of a dwarf carpenter who boarded up my bedroom door and went home early for the weekend? Which woman will stab me inna heart with an escargot fork? Which hockey team won’t win the Stanley Cup this year, just like the last forty-one? Which questions are most important? Which bridges are burned? Which questions are answered? Which whistles are blown? Which answers are questioned? Which atrocities am I responsible for, even inna tiniest? Which way will I die? Which day will I die? Which —
I was gonna — seven more pages of ‘which’ questions — but I can’t. Even I admit, the thing got tedious fast. Sorry, courageous reader. I’ve learned my lesson. Lists can be fun. But the important thing to realize is that lists aren’t real. They’re idealized non-binding itineraries set to theme park music. That means you can stop following them, reading them, writing them any time you want. You mustn’t let them dictate your life. Just remember: The list can be your friend, but it can also be a fascist addictive agent. Play safe, kids.
