I’m all for living your life to the fullest (like Bon Jovi says, “I just wanna live while I’m alive”) but there’s something about putting your dreams and aspirations in a bucket that seems just plain wrong. Maybe if it was called the Silk Purse List or the Safety Deposit Box List or the Goody Drawer List, I could choke down the idea. But bucket? Can’t we find a worthier receptacle for our unfulfilled desires?
I get it. Kick the bucket and all that. Riiiiight. What does this saying even mean? When I’m in my death throes, am I expected to seize up and randomly punt a bucket that just happens to be sitting next to my deathbed? What, was I just digging up potatoes or mopping the floor? When I’m about to buy the farm, I don’t envision myself as an indentured servant.
Fuck the bucket. Live each day like you were dying. No, don’t lay in bed, don’t ask for ice chips, and don’t check crap off a list. Go out, eat your way through all the lobster in Maine, have a lot of bomb-chica-bom-bom sex, be present in every single fucking moment, and lose the suck-it list. If you don't, I'll have no choice but to fulfill my lifelong dream of clocking you nine ways ’til Sunday. It's right up there with skydiving.