Stop myself after noctural emissions-ing 29 times.
Eulogize our 29th President, Warren G. Harding, on Twitter because HE NEVER HAD THAT LUXURY!
Coin the precursor to “dirty 30”: “The matter of my cleanliness is just fine 29.”
Weep.
Bring back the bialy.
Sit in a chair like crazy!
Keep reaching for the stars with my terrible, borderline offensive British accent.
Think of another way that Eskimos can say “snow.” Probs gonna go with “snowe” but not totes sold.
Check Google Wave inbox.
Count my blessings! JK there’s no God.
Use my Bar Mitzvah money to buy a sweet pair of Oakleys and a Stüssy shirt.
Mad RTs and faves.
Do my first ever pull-up.
Finally remember that word I keep forgetting that means, like, something that doesn’t really do anything on its own, but it enhances things around it. It’s not “conduit,” which is what I always think it is. But what’s that word again? It’s like Ando’s power from Heroes. Jesus, this is really going to bother me.
Do something Pinteresting.
Give love a bad name.
Look at myself. No, really, LOOK AT MYSELF!
Sing karaoke to a piece of fruit.
Figure out what I meant when I wrote a note in my iPhone that just says, “Night of the sharks.”
Invent the cotton gin.
Relax, unless I’m awake or asleep.
Write a letter to the editor of Nintendo Power about failing to review TMNT: Turtles In Time in their latest issue.
Wangle my balls a few more times.
Call me, maybe?
Realize I’ve abandoned the whole “29” theme a long time ago.
