If I happen to embrace rock-stardom this year, the great age shift of 2010 could mean trouble.
Because 27-year-old rock stars die.
So let's assume I have one year left. Because I'm practically Bon Jovi, remember? And considering I'll be a rock star for my final year, picture me as the image of pure awesomeness. But probably without tattoos. I'm too practical and indecisive. Even with the knowledge that I won't have to worry about wrinkly ink.
This is what I've gotta do before I join the 27 Club:
- Finish a screenplay. Preferably the one I just started. (I'm a writerly rock star.)
- Meet the Boy Behind the Wall. And neglect to tell him about this blog. When I'm gone, this url will be sent to him. It's in my will.
- Uh, create will.
- Get an agent. A literary one.
- Travel somewhere I haven't been. Maybe get a stamp on my passport.
- Play the piano. And sing. Because that's what rock stars like me do. And maybe pick up a guitar and pretend to be cooler than I am.
- Find a romantic lead for my biography. Tearfully confess that I can't marry him, as I'm about to die and have no interest in leaving the man I love a widower. He should marry someone who survives her twenties. Unless he's anticipating joining the same tragic club.
- Run a 5k for real. Just to prove that I can be a sexy, fit writer. And maybe to outrun impending death.
- Read a novel in French. I want to die a little more bilingual than I am today.
- Send fan mail. To everyone. And respond to all of mine.
- Take more photographs.
- Leave a fantastic pile of journals, notebooks and email drafts for someone to compile into the above-mentioned touching, hilarious, and exasperating biography. Scribbled hints at a life well-lived.
- Enter Club 27 with no regrets. No "what ifs." No hesitant tiptoeing where Nancy Sinatra-esque stomping should be.
- Be up for the adventure. Laugh a lot. Love without abandon. Take risks. Write it down.
- "Well done." That's all.
Twenty-six is going to be good, folks. It has to be. It might be all I've got.