There's still some beach in my car.

There's absolutely nobody to hold me accountable to this, but I've got a list of 50 things I'd like to do the year I turn 50. And even if there were somebody to mark the list, it's not like they can take turning fifty away from me, because I already did it back in July. (Though I suppose they could keep me from turning fifty-one if they were a real stickler about it. I guess I better think about that.)

I've been accomplishing things. 

For instance, I went to Vegas. I had never done that before. I played some slots, but my friend who went with me made me stop, so now I've still got $70 of "slots money." Maybe I'll drive up to Guymon next weekend and get rid of it. I won't take the same friend. I'll take somebody who doesn't give a shit how much money I lose.

Went kayaking and later went to the ocean, and just after that went floating down the San Marcos River on a tube. I think I might only be happy on the water. Let me win the lotto and buy myself a houseboat.

Escaped an escape room on the USS Lexington, the one based on missing ghost hunters. Lights flickered, ghosts howled, voices whispered, and I screamed.

I forgot to say I got flashed in Vegas when we were walking The Strip, but that wasn't on my list of things to do, it was just a surprising bonus. We went to MeowWolf while we were there, Omega Mart. I like the one in Santa Fe a bit more. We went to a burlesque show and sat next to a grumpy old man and his joyful wife. We barely drank. 

I got a pet, a black molly who promptly got sucked up into the water filter, so I replace it with another black molly, and then another, and then one more. That final one lasted a bit longer than the first three, but two weeks into it, I packed up the entire aquarium and went back to being a no-pets household. Anything more than four would have been idiotic and cruel. 

I entered a writing contest - short story, but I didn't win. Now that I recall, it was flash fiction that I wrote in less than a day, so no hard feelings. Typically, I'll sit on a story for a while, nurturing it until I think it's ready for the world. This story never stood a chance. It might as well have been a black molly.

I've eaten at more than 50 separate restaurants with more than 50 unique people. 

I've created 50 pieces of art, but I haven't written 50 poems yet. I've almost done fifty little projects around the house. I've definitely read 50 books. 

I created a playlist and listened to my favorite songs from each of the 50 years of my life. 

I tipped $50 to a server and donated $50 to a good cause. 

The list goes on, and I've been having a wonderful year.

I've got all of October, November, and December to tackle whatever's left.

November I'm going to deep dive into NaNoWriMo. I've only ever committed to it once before, but working crazy hours in the stores held me back from being able to dedicate as much time as I'd like to the cause. And even when I did transition to a desk, the fucking pandemic had me tied to it. This year, I don't have any excuses. 

50,000 words in 30 days. What's the math on that? (Doesn't matter. Ima do it, no matter what.)