NUMBERLESS HITCH LIST ITEM: Emotional Detox, or, Semi-Illegally Squatting in an Ex's Apartment (with a non-stalker purpose)

I'm squatting in an ex-lover's apartment.


Okay, well, not entirely. According to the unquestionably reliable pillar of knowledge that is Wikipedia, "squatting" is classically defined as "occupying an abandoned or unoccupied space or building, usually residential, that the squatter does not own, rent or otherwise have permission to use."


The whatever-he-was knows I have his keys, because he gave them to me. And, before our tenuous pseudo-romance pseudo-ended with all the flaccid fanfare of a cigarette sizzling out in a rain storm, he asked me if I'd mind picking up his mail while he was away on a trip I was not invited along on. (An exclusion that led to the conversation which finally revealed, to me at least, the Munchian portrait of how much he was "just not that into me." Hence the weird psuedo-ending.) So he knows I'm around his unoccupied residential space that I do not own, rent, but otherwise have semi-permission to use. 


What he does not know, entirely, is that I brought a suitcase, three different pairs of black suede boots of varying styles and heel size, a blow-dryer, a flat-iron and my laptop, and have set up for an all out affection-detox scheduled to last from this very moment until the day before he returns, whereupon I will slink back to Brooklyn with, ideally, some sort of immunity to him--a resistance to the pieces of him that have, somehow, taken root in the usually un-farmable topsoil that is my emotional commitment to anyone. I figure that if I cannot exorcise the demon of feelings after several days of living among the items of a life he has, almost expertly, built to exclude anyone like me, then the matter is out of my hands and I can go cry to old Joy Division albums without shame. 


I'm fully aware that this sounds insane.


Walk with me a moment, will you?


First, lets make this clear: this is not an obsessive camp-out. He is a good man, a post-Alex rebound I knew better than to catch feelings for. I was a rebound he had no intention of ever feeling anything for. And so I am not wandering his halls swathed in a burka constructed from used bed sheets while tearily keening to Vic Chesnutt records. I have no delusions that he will suddenly burst through the door, drop his suitcase on to the floor with a careless clatter and scoop my pixyish form into his arms, pressing my tiny head to his chest while confessing the time apart has made him realize all we could be. His journal, left in plain sight, remains and WILL remain untouched. I've even started to return things he's given me over the length of our purgatorial courtship--the skully I borrowed during an icy, mid-December meet-up; the vintage men's nightshirt he gave me because it made me feel like I was on Mad Men; the palm-sized copy of a book of microfiction passed along with a "you have to read this"--to their original homes. In his actual home. 


The thing is, when it comes to the end of affairs, I have chosen the "Out of Sight, Out of Mind" method of healing hurt (with a little sprinting from my emotions tossed in for good measure) for about...oh, 26 years. OSOM is easy, familiar, methodic: box up all photos, ticket stubs, items left behind, gifts given, etc., and discard or hide them. Pull all bands/songs shared as a pair from the iTunes playlist. Carefully remove "we, he, us" and their formal name from the daily vocabulary. And then, as stoically as possible, move forward (punctuating the journey with occasional emotional meltdowns, complete with  Nancy Kerrigan-style wails of "WHYYY," that are usually triggered by the door closing on a now tomb-like bedroom). 


But this tactic obviously doesn't work for me. Seven years after the first major split of my life, I still can't listen past the first chord of Des'Ree's "Kissing You" without exploding into snot and tears like a cheap tissue. I obsess. I dissect. I blame myself for everything while running as far in the opposite direction of my own bloodstains as possible. And, once the over-analysis and self-flagellating passes, I find myself thinking about the death-blow and executioner constantly, like some ghost haunting her own tomb, seeing only the specter of the fantasy "us" and not the reality of the situation. Burying my head in the sand burns the imprint of loss inside my skull. 


So, a new tactic; an experiment of emotional kinetics. Staying still, rather than running. And attempting those fledging steps of detachment while surrounding myself with things I've become attached to.   


Toilet paper. Shampoo. His coffee. That couch. I'm injecting these little pieces of infection into my body purposely, until my emotional defenses are armed effectively enough to exorcise them. Call it practical applications of vaccination theology.


I cannot run from feelings anymore. So I'm just going to sit here with them until they run from him...until the fever breaks and I go numb.


Also, his place is 3 subway stops from my office, one block from Whole Foods, has heat and there's a motherfucking blizzard outside. If faced with the same option, I hope he'd make the same decision.


I am a mad, mad, mad, mad scientist. With keys. 

Confession: Hiding in Plain Sight

One of my best friends and most objective critics--Ariel, clearly--looked at me last night and asked where my blog was.


I told her I've been busy. With, you know, like, work, which slowly drains my words away over the course of a 10-hour stretch in a fluorescent-lit cube. And those oh-so-busy bustling holidays. And, um, my pro-antidisestablishmentarianism activism work in that commune in Johannesburg. Or somesuch. Ahem.


She called shenanigans on all excuses. (For the record, the draining death-cube part is true, but it's never stopped me from writing before, so...yeah. Erroneous.)


"You're afraid to tell the truth." Bitch. Acting like she knows me... 


...she does know me. I can't not write the truth. But I don't want to write it, because then it's documented, so it's real. So it must be dealt with. Dammit.


The partial truth is I get home at night, at whatever time, drained or undrained, and lift the screen. I put my spritely little hands on the keys, stare at an empty page--and immediately begin to panic.


Not because I've got nothing to write. I've go so much to write my life is bingeing and purging Post-It notes. I could sleep under them, like a bag lady under newspaper. I found one stuck to the back of my cell phone the other day. All it said was: "awkward hyena laugh." There could have been an interesting post in that phrase, but I've forgotten what I meant when I wrote it. There's also the two different totable notebooks filled with scrawl, handwriting spilling into the margins, frantic little arrows pointing to connecting thoughts disjointed by separate pages. "LOOK! More! There's more!" Plus two new moleskines received as gifts recently, already front-heavy with notes and dog-eared pages and----I know, I'm sorry----poetry. Lots of it. Point is, I've got stuff to write.


The partial truth is I've morphed into an anxiety-ridden, talentless bullshit artist being dry-humped to death by her own pathetic existential funk. Excuse me, Mr. Sartre? Could you get off please, I'm starting to chaff...


...and it's all rooted right back where this blog started.


The whole truth is that around the time of The 2nd First Date, Alex and I not-so-secretly went on a 2nd Second Date. And then a 2nd Third Date. And then a fourth, and so on, until we were not-so-secretly seconding right back into an intimate, albeit unlabeled, something that was obvious to everyone but us. And it was wonderful. I slept in his nook again. He looked at me with eyes that know every single thing about me. We walked our dog, together. We even not-so-secretly celebrated our six-year anniversary, as if we'd never split in the first place (even though the term "boyfriend/girlfriend" was blacked out of the syllabus entirely), and dropped the "m" word (m-a-r-r-i-a-g-e) again.


And then, lightning-fast, the brakes. Me, slamming on them. Again. Alex getting whiplash. Again. Me resting my head on the dashboard in shame and frustration. All the people who'd been predicting our inevitable marriage since we were 20 and wringing their hands gleefully over our romantic re-coupling watching the hubcaps rolls down the street.


The prediction most people made when I posted on this blog about he and I testing a reunion was that we'd get back together and the same problems  would still be there. What actually happened was that the old problems were essentially gone, but an entirely new garden of ragweed was springing up in its place, with one gigantic, choking vine in the middle, namely that--through listing, through life, through god-knows-what--I've become someone very different than the girl who grew up with her hand in his. He is still very much the same wonderful man. I do not know if he and this foreigner fit together.


It's been a revelation shocking to no one but me.


I'm trying to think of something to liken it to. This is one of the only things in my limited range of experience that fits:


When I was 17, the punk band I'd been playing in for two years blew up. A meandering impersonation of something we all aspired to be hit a streak of luck and local acclaim, climbed to modest (pre-iTunes/pre-MySpace) and centralized esteem, and set out on a half-cocked tour of the East Coast. Five guys, one girl, a U-Haul of equipment and a van. Eight exhilarating, sweaty, wild, debauched days in, we were cruising down the interstate at the Florida border at about 90 miles-per-hour, all six of us stomping out our own (assuredly heinous) double-bass beat to a Poison the Well cassette jammed in the tapedeck. It was glorious. And at THAT exact, blind, blissful moment, the hood of the van popped up, caught in the wind and slammed against the windshield, starring out the glass in a spiderweb of cracks and blocking the road entirely from view, causing the entire band to let out a sustained unison scream than would have shamed Macaulay Culkin. We swerved off the road and into a small ditch.


Sitting in the side of a drainage shoulder in Florida, broken down and broke and drenched in sweat, our bass player calling his mom for help on a brick-sized cell-phone, reality burned itself into our skin: we were not rock stars. We were kids. And we had no idea what we were doing.


That's what this is like--the sort of utterly unexpected, blink of an eye disaster that stops everything in its tracks...and was, in many ways, totally foreseeable to any of the more mature people around you.


Until very recently I felt like there was a direction. Forward. To Alex? To something. If not to the happy ending, then to a major footnote with illustrations and a bookmark. Now, no direction. I'm an awkward, domesticated house-cat, released back into the wild...again...and confused as fuck about where the Fancy Feast is.


The first time I left, and Hitch Listed, and settled all smug down in Brooklyn to write my gimmicky blog about rediscovering independence, I did it with one hand still holding on to some piece of my old life across the Hudson River. It was being held back in return. I checked items off the list and started to mutate into whatever I am now with the confidence that comes from knowing that, even if you fail miserably, someone loves you and will take you back if you show up on their doorstep and say, "I'm a mess. Please love me anyway." I confess the one hand is still partially there---however, the fingers are being severed. Have been? Are being. There's still an index finger and a thumb wrapped around the doorknob.


Now, I'm settled, not-at-all smug, in Brooklyn, wondering if my gimmicky blog is even read and what the point of it is if I can't write it with some modicum of knowing authority, some end-point in sight. I know the blogs I like best are honest, well-written and exciting because there is no end-point...everyone's along for the ride. But I always need to like the narrator.  And I know that I, personally, don't really like the floundering, confused, frightened me---or at least not her rambling monologue relentlessly being broadcast inside my skull.


So I've been hiding.


There's one question I keep getting from friends and family about slamming on the brakes again. "Why?" Okay, fine:


I want too much. He doesn't seem to want enough. And there we both somehow went.


That's the whole truth.

#17 and #12: Taming the Wild Leopard (prints)

I've been so busy juggling personal stuff (stalker doctors, resurrected boyfriends, 90s dance club hits), that I've admittedly fallen off the "Hey, this is what I blog about" horse (which is for the best, since riding horses scares the shit out of me). So, having gotten off that scary-ass horse and reboarded a train, I'm now ready to backtrack and go over items I've checked off my list. I'll be doing this in addition to sharing any fascinating factoids about marriage, love and limerence uncovered during my self-assigned research, so expect some fantastically schizophrenic posts on the horizon.

#17 on my Hitch List, aka "Restock entire underwear drawer with new inventory," is done. Nothing sucks more than reading a literal laundry list of other peoples' undies, so I'll spare you itemized details. What I will say is that, after much arguing, the Victoria's Secret salesdemon inadvertently helped me bang out another Hitch List item, #12, aka "Break one personal beauty law." For me, that law was no leopard or cheetah print, EVER. It has been a personal fashion maxim since 2000. Here's just a few reasons why:

That personal beauty law was cemented by my first college roommate, a girl named Jessica who insisted everyone call her "Jasmine." On move-in day, my parents and I keyed into my very first dorm room (my own bohemian haven where I could smoke cannabis and read many leather-bound books!!) to find everything in the room, from curtains to throw rugs to trash cans to wall hangings, had been done up in a leopard print theme. One of the two college-issue twin beds wore leopard sheets and was accented with spotted throw pillows. Jasmine stood in the center of the room, a wide smile on her glossy lips. "HI, I'm your roomie! Don't you just LOVE it??" she cooed, gesturing around.

(If you listened closely during that moment, you could actually hear a piece of my mother, a tomboy who once made high school headlines as the first young woman on Long Island to letter in four consecutive varsity sports, die inside.)

The image of that room flashed before my eyes as I stood in my black, Very Sexy bra and bikini briefs with the leopard-pitching salesdemon. Our conversation went something like this:

Her: Those fit great! (holding up satin leopard bra and panty set) And I think this will be adorable.

Me: No.

Her: Why?

Me: I don't wear leopard.

Her: Why?

Me: I'll look like a Stat Rat.

Her: A Stat Rat?

Me: Crispy-haired bimbo with orange tan from Staten Island.

Her: You don't have a tan.

Me: I-- (I'm so pale I make Dita Von Teese look like Djimon Hounsou. Low blow, Salesdemon.) --whatever, I don't wear leopard.

Her: Come on, it's very sexy.

Me: I'm wearing the Very Sexy.

Her: That's a Very Sexy. I'm saying leopard print is "very sexy." The Very Sexy does come in leopard though--so do the Angels and Sexy Little Things bras. Would you like to try those too? I'll get those too.

(Salesdemon exits dressing room, leaving me with the leopard bra and panty set)

Me: I wish I had a penis.

Eventually I crumbled. Plus the bra fit so well I can now hold a full champagne flute between my tits without spilling.

Here's hoping my slutty new snow leopard bra and matching thong help my nether-regions operate with all the grace and agility of an over-sized house cat....or at least a Stat Rat.

A Decent Proposal: The Second First Date Experiment

He's upping his game, big time...And I'm now tuned in and watching the game.

By way of an intro: When you leave a lover (or job, or friend, or any kind of relationship) behind, for any reason, you always do it with the assumption that you know them--or enough about them in one area or another--to have made that decision wisely.

Example A:
"I am going to stop banging you because I know from personal, agonizing, chaffing experience that you couldn't find my clitoris even if it lit up and played the Mets game in HiDef."

Example B:
"I am going to end our relationship because you cheated on me with that girl from Applebees...and know that no matter how much you apologize, if you could do it again, you would. Also, I'll never be able to enjoy the boneless wings there again, and I'm really upset about that."

Example C:
"After dating you for half a decade, I know everything there is to know about you. I have a Masters' Degree in Studies of You. During my intense study of You, I've collected enough data to conclude you'll never be able to give the style of romance/attention/perfection I want, because if you could, you would have by now. As a result, I must terminate our mutually loving and respectful relationship because we'll never make each other entirely happy due to this unfortunate incompatibility."


After many years of life experiences, obstacles, disagreements and domestic randomness with our mate, most of us monogamers start to take for granted that we know everything about them. "I know you'll order corned beef and hash with two pieces of American cheese as your hangover breakfast, because you ALWAYS do."

Alex and myself, pre-Hitch List, were no different. And aside from the big, "I gotta go be my own woman" moment of insanity that sparked the move and List movement, a contributing factor to my leaving was knowing that this sweet, sexy, loving guy, despite all the good, just wasn't all that romantic and was a passive partner...which was something that didn't always make me happy and that I didn't want to comprise on.

I've heard of instances when the person you thought you knew blows the cover off your Masters Study in Them thesis paper, presents new evidence which disproves your entire body of research and then wipes their ass with your bibliography page (and I'm talking about good instances of proving you wrong, not the more standard ones where your upstanding husband is discovered having an affair in Argentina with a 20-year-old and has taken to sobbing in public).

SO: Alex blew the cover off my thesis, and I'm totally intruigued by the new research that may unfold.

After some time apart, living seperate lives and doing the individual Hitch List thing, he showed up and gave me one of the most film-worthy monologues since the Jerry Maguire "You Complete Me" speech, something that went sort of like this:

"I'm here because I love and miss you. I understand you have to be independent--I want you to do that, with or without me. However, I think one of the reasons you left is because I never had to win you and I didn't work hard enough to keep you. I never courted you, and you deserved that, and I'm sorry. I know you're dating other people, and that you can't just come home. But I'd like to throw my hat into the ring and at least be in the running for the title of Guy Who Wins You.

I want to start from scratch and take you on a first date, knowing there's no guarantee you'll call me after, knowing you probably won't sleep with me because it's the first date and knowing that it is, regardless of our history, a first date and nothing more. If I start over and win you back over several dates or the next several years, I'll know I finally did it the right way. If someone else makes you happier, at least I know I tried this time. You have no obligation to say yes, but I'm still going to ask: Will you go out with me?"

I tried to play it very, very cool...which sounded something like this:

"Immcherm...uhm..heeeeeeeee..ahem...bzzzzzzzzz."

(Okay, not just like that, but it was inarticulate and embarassing and entirely in character for me. The speech itself was entirely OUT of character for Alex.)

I'm always skeptical about couples who break up and "start over." Won't they just fall into the same pattern of bullshit as always? And can anyone with a history "start over?" America can't very well stroll over to all 1200 remaining Native Americans left and say, "Hey, guys. Wanna start from scratch?"

However, Alex's was and is a VERY DECENT PROPOSAL.

I've granted other people first dates...so it seems wrong to discriminate against Alex just because I think I know him.

So, in the name of my thesis only, I will grant the first date....A TRUE FIRST DATE WITH ALL THE REGULAR RULES IN PLACE...

....for research purposes, of course.

Quarter-Life Crisis Management: Revisions, Analysis and Sufjan Stevens

So I’ve admittedly been delinquent in writing, posting, listing, etc. This is because of a sudden (but not entirely unexpected) surge in quarter-life-crisis-related panic that essentially frapped me in the face. And yes, I feel “frap” is the only adequate verb that can be used in instances of assault by your quarter-life crisis, especially given the vulgar nature of quarter life crises in general.

The only solution was some “Walden”-esque (minus the pond, minus the cabin, minus the musings on colonial sociology, plus one box of incense and entirely too much Sufjan Stevens) sequestering of myself and abstaining from outside influences, which included blogs, Facebook and any printed or digital periodicals save for the food section of New York magazine.

Reality is that after the dizzying, wide-eyed declaration of independence that was the original moving out on my own, I eventually had to, and will continue to have to, take stock of the aftermath, and no one should have to read through those details (they’re far less interesting than breaking world records).

I also had to admit that the latest revision of The Hitch List, though jam-packed with items ripe with episodic entertainment potential, were straying from the original purpose of reclaiming personal identity, learning to stand in solidarity and practicing to be the best lover/mate possible. Like tribal lower-back tattoos, the last shot of Jager or drunk-texting that dude who disappeared into the Bermuda Triangle after you finally went down on him, some things sound like a good idea when you’re being drunkenly egged on by a collection of intoxicated female wingmen and gay male roommates…until you wake up two days later.

So a little revising was in order. Yes, the hotly debated #25 will be adjusted (Ethnic Sexcapades Bingo will not, despite the fact that I am already losing miserably to two far-more competitive and apparently worldly friends).

The coming week will also bring adventures in wingmanning, interesting developments from pseudo-lover-almost-fiance-not-quite-sure-what-the-status-is-now Alex’s Hitch List and a careful evaluation of some action over at 20-Nothings, where friend and uber-observant blogger Jessie Rosen is examining a subject which is the very basis of this blog (I agree with most, but not all of, her analysis, for very obvious reasons).

In the meantime, as Sufjan says, all things go.

Sugar Daddy: Sweet, or Just Sticky?

“Gurrrl, you on your own? You gotta try a Sugar Daddy on for size, for rrreal.” Then he dragged extra hard on a Marlboro Light...you know, for emphasis.

The Sugar Daddy Advocate was one of my new favorite archetypes, the Gay-Ghetto-Hipster, a mix of ‘hood attitude, BBW comedic line deliveries, neon American Apparel accessories and Alize. (No, I’m not being racist, he was really drinking Alize. The yellow kind.)

We were on the outdoor porch of a Bushburg (translation: the grundle of Brooklyn, a no-man's-land between the cock of Williamsburg and the anus of Bushwick) bar when he overheard a discussion I was having with one of my wingmen about leaving Alex, the desire to shake up my routine with some wild shit and the need for experiences which fall outside the boundaries of traditional monogamy. I was also bitching about how I couldn't afford shoes and was spending my days in seasonally-retarded suede boots as a result, which may be why Sugar Daddy Advocate (henceforth known as “Sugar”) bailed on the bizarrely mustachioed hipster hitting on him (seriously, what is with the mustaches? Has the Magnum PI look really worked for anyone besides Tom Selleck? I’m asking this seriously, responses welcome) and proceeded to give a drunk dissertation on:

• why my fleeing to the ‘hoods of Brooklyn made me a “fierce bitch” and not just a bitch
• why my need to leave was the result of a codependency overdose (totally accurate…more on that later)
• why I needed a Sugar Daddy

One hundred years of women's rights activism and 25 years of self-respect aside, the idea of a Sugar Daddy isn't awful. In fact, it's kind of awesome: You get worshipped as a sex goddess and showered with gifts, including body treatments which keep you looking like a sex goddess (waxing, mani/pedi), meals, seasonally appropriate footwear and the occasional coverage of rent, utilities, etc. The downside is sexual acts with someone who might repulse you (but if you get, say, a Richard Gere or Andy Garcia type, then burn your Hitch List and marry him) and the occasional feeling you're a whore for money (because, well, you are).

According to Sugar, there's real life lessons to be learned by "Daddying." His theory suggests that being the "baby" enrolls you in a crash course on how to separate sex from love-making, while giving you an open forum to play any sexual role you've ever wanted but haven’t for fear of opening Pandora’s Box (ha, box) with a real potential mate. Aggressive power-bitch by day? Find a dominating daddy and go submissive. Total pushover? Strap on those PBC stilettos and track down a Wall Street blowhard looking to get walked over.

Sugar, an experienced Baby, also stressed (he was slurring his words, but lets not allow that to discredit his thesis entirely) that the arrangement puts you in a position of power, one where you can learn hands-on how to manipulate and not be manipulated--a valuable life skill, especially for cynics.

I'm not sure how appealing or true any of that is outside of drunken conversation on a Bushburg porch, but I'm intrigued.

Also, this is depression-era New York and I'm strangely (read: alarmingly) comfortable with the idea of being a whore for money from time to time.

The Hitch List was created to foster independence and kill codependency; relying on a Poppa to pay your way is probably the antithesis of standing on your own two feet.

At any rate, sugar-babying is now up for debate as a Hitch List item, because who am I to doubt the advice of a Gay Ghetto Hipster without a little analysis first?

PS: Has anyone out there ever BEEN a "Sugar Baby?" Or a Daddy for that matter? And how do these pairings even meet? Match.com doesn't have a "I'll Fuck You If You Buy Me Those Dior Shoes" section, does it?

Going off with a Hitch (intentionally)

Okay, finally jumping into "the list." A brief disclaimer:

*Life is not a well-edited television series. As such, adventures in the list will not be delivered a la slick montages with a "Billboard's Top 100 Songs for Humans With Vaginas" soundtrack. The list is subject to a learning curve, is revised whenever needed and does not assume to be the most profound itemization of shit since the ten commandments (really, it's just a list). The list caters to MY particular brand of crazy (your particular brand of crazy sold separately).*

Another thing: the list was created to minimize my brand of crazy while raising the value of my Life Experiences 401K, and thus almost every item has a specific reason applicable to my life for going down on paper; anyone else's list would/could/should look totally different.

And always remember: What is insipid, boring or slutty to some is cathartic to others.

Good. Glad we're all clear on that. Honestly, I feel so close to you right now...

Since no one wants to read a 100-item+ post I'll put the list, as it stands, up in sections. The checking off of items goes up in individual posts.

As of today, numbers 1 through 25, in no specific order:

Things To Do Before You Marry, or The Hitch List:

(last updated on September 18, 2009)

1. Learn to comfortably fly solo.

2. Conquer lingering, irrational childhood fears (dark, fucking scary spiders, etc.).

3. Go on week long "Help Me" Detox--no asking for help from anyone, for anything. (This pertains to help carrying laundry from the laundromat, reaching items at the grocery store, holding subway doors, killing fucking scary spiders, etc., as well as to the obvious areas of financial, emotional and social assistance.)

4. Get lost in a major city alone. Find your way home.

5. Do something that scares the shit out of you.

6. Do something that scares the shit out of someone else.

7. Sleep in the WHOLE bed.

8. Go on an epic road trip. Must visit minimum of three places you've never heard of before Google mapping.

9. Start selfish, indulgent lifelong habit.

10. Get involved in doing ongoing good deeds for others.

11. Have wild night at the strip club.

12. Break one personal beauty law (i.e. no short hair, no red lipstick, no Lindsay Lohan leggings, etc).

13. Break up with the television, phone, Facebook and g-chat and live like an urban Emerson...temporarily.

14. Do post-mortem on past relationships for evidence of YOUR insanity at work (no blaming the ex).

15. Go on a date with someone who is not your "type."

16. Tattoo.

17. Restock your entire underwear drawer with new inventory.

18. Revisit an old fling.

19. Wingman your BFF a piece of ass.  

20. Have your BFF wingman you a piece of ass.  

21. Go on a 100% lesbian date.

22. Skydive.

23. Get in a fight.

24. Learn a new language. Must be able to order food, ask for directions, give a compliment and give instructions on how to make you orgasm in chosen language within 6 weeks of starting.

25. Learn from the "other woman."

26. Relocate somewhere you've never lived and don't know anyone.

27. Create "Ethnic Sexcapades" Bingo Card (Italian, Irish, Puerto Rican, African American, Japanese, etc.). Compete with friends for first "Bingo." (Winner gets bragging rights and a free trip to the STD clinic.)

28. Take a midnight train going anywhere.

29. Someone older.

30. Someone younger.

31. Break a Guinness World Record.

32. Get wasted and party with someone famous.

33. Smash out with someone famous (see 32 for assistance).

34. Play a player.

35. Threesum?

36. Visit the birthplace of your personal hero.

37. Read/view/listen to at least three of the books/films/albums your obnoxious ex recommended but you never touched (who knows, they may have been right aboutsomething).

38. Spend a day in someone elses' shoes...literally, swap locations, jobs, friends and lifestyles for a day and see what you learn.

39. Build something from scratch utilizing three tools you have no idea how to use.

40. Try something you would "never" do in bed.

41. Be the star of your own nude photo shoot and learn to love your naked self. (Pictures are for your eyes only.)

42. Start mixed martial arts and/or self defense classes.

43. Go on a vision quest with an experienced guide.

44. Travel somewhere exclusively for a famous local food item (must cross state lines). Philly cheese steaks, media noches in Cuba, Pad Thai in Thailand, etc.

45. Get arrested.

46. Experience a torrid, infatuated, complete relationship in one weekend (meet, flirt, fall in lust, screw, spend too much time together and breakup all over the course of a single weekend. Hard to do in small towns; happens all the time in NYC).

47. Read at least two books on the world history of marriage (better the devil that you know).

48. Experience parenthood temporarily with the assistance of friends/siblings/relatives who have small children.

49. Have a raucous ladies'/guys' night in a famous non-native party city.

50. Write own eulogy.

That's all for now. I'm pretty sure people some reading this (all three of you) will bristle at a few. But then again, if you're really looking for a guide to morality, perhaps you should try spending time with the upstanding compasses at Protectmarriage.com instead of on my blog of sin. Oh, and while you're there, be sure to visit their "Have You Thought About It" section for some of the best filmmaking judgementalism has to offer. Big laughs.

For the rest of you: what would go on your Hitch List? Over time, I'll be posting interesting list items from friends, lovers, strangers and readers, as well as their accompanying stories, so send all adventures and/or epic fails my way. If you're not quite ready to share with the world, please feel free to email me personally. I solemnly swear your experiences won't become public blog-fodder.