THINGS TO DO - I should get a wriggle on, not many days left.
Get another piercing, only forget the ears and eyebrows this time, choose somewhere... different.
Play a role in a Quentin Tarantino movie. Even if I'm just a dismembered corpse.
Find the exact source of the smell in my Son's room and nuke it.
Hurl Alan Jones, the Kardashians, and all copies of 50 Shades into an abyss as sacrificial offerings.
Put in a swimming pool. Hey, if I'm going up in flames, I'd like to be cool while I'm burning. Umm...
Flick the switch that makes the London Eye go round so fast it flings off into the Thames.
Have the honour of naming William and Catherine's baby. I'm leaning towards Reginald or Kylie.
Get a tattoo of my kids' names in another language. Misspelled, so that it means something rude.
Do a Playboy centrefold. With my clothes on. Just showing my mind. SEXIEST. CENTREFOLD. EVER.
Pass a law enforcing all celebrities to wear underwear so I won't have to see Wardrobe Malfunction headlines in my dying days.
Make sure Eddie McGuire isn't around to host the live broadcast of Countdown To The Apocalypse:Who Wants Be A Zombie?
Slash the tyres of certain cars in our street.
Ignore housework. We all know I'm going to Housebitch Hell anyway.
Walk up and down the Mall, screaming "LEGGINGS ARE NOT PANTS".
Get Jamie Oliver to cook a meal for me, and not one of his 15 minute cheats, but a gourmet feast.
Buy a REAL Jimmy Choo handbag instead of a Hong Kong genuine imitation.
Find a unicorn, because I know they're out there.
Sip some Penfold's Grange and watch the wine connoisseurs' faces when I say "Meh, piss is piss". Again.
Approach every woman wearing gaudy floral-printed jeans and say "You know, if you survive the apocalypse, you'll look back in a few years, see yourself in photos wearing those jeans, and say 'What the fuck was I thinking?' You know that, don't you?"
Track down the first person who thought playing The Chicken Dance at a wedding reception was a good idea, and train a thousand mutant chickens to peck him to death.
Get a boob job. BWAHAHAHA. Kidding. My boobs are magnificent.
Get a tummy tuck. Wish I was kidding.
Convince Dumb Dog it is possible to sleep past 7.15am on weekends. Maybe that way we can sleep through the apocalypse.
Read all of the books. Except any biographies by politicians, because bullshit.
Tell that one guy what an arsehole he is. Oh, two guys. Wait, also.... yeah, this could take a while.
Get to the last page of the Internet. That means I win, yes?
I could go on and on and on.
What's on your silly list?