1. Reenact Act 4, Scene 1 of Macbeth.
2. Reenact the entire shooting script of Hocus Pocus.
3. Follow Ina Garten’s recipe for something that she promises will be delicious as long as I use “really good olive oil”. It’s called “Jeffrey’s bath”.
4. Google things like: “How to convert cauldron into panic room nyc apartments”, “Can you teach a cauldron to write English words?”, “Famous cauldron owners”, “Cauldron porn”, and “How to erase images from your mind”.
5. Probably end up spending way too much money on cauldron accessories like sticks, flames, and a travel charger.
6. Wake up every morning and shine it. Then clean my cauldron.
7. Be the lead story on Fox News in the wake of any more popular legitimate news stories that don’t align with their politics.
8. Nap inside it when no one is around. However, if strangers ask me if I ever nap inside it, I will get very haughty and say things like, “How dare you suggest that I nap inside my cauldron! Don’t you have any respect? This is a cauldron. Cauldron.”
9. Post one hundred thousand pictures of my cauldron on Facebook. Potential photo album titles: “Falldron” for when I take my cauldron apple-picking; “What’s Cooking?” for when I make dinner in my cauldron; and “Someone’s in the Kitchen With Cauldron” for when we have guests over and I take their pictures with my cauldron. Get very annoyed at anyone I think might be passive-aggressively “liking” my cauldron photos to get me to stop posting so many cauldron photos.
10. Get really, really offended by cauldron jokes. Except for the ones I tell.
11. Invite people over to my apartment for stone soup. Provide the stone. Ask them to bring me dessert, bread, beverages, ice, cups, bowls, spoons, beef, noodles, vegetables, and spices. Also, ask them to bring me water. Also, ask them to bring me a Herman Miller Goetz Sofa.
12. Spend two full years thinking of a name for my cauldron. Temporarily name it “Frank”. Explain to my family that Frank is only the temporary name. Get really used to calling my cauldron “Frank”. Find out my cauldron is a girl.
13. Tell my cauldron all of my secrets—especially, the one about always wanting to own a cauldron. Hey, wait a second! You’re not my cauldron! Ugh, it’s so hard to have any privacy these days with social networking, the Internet, and forgetting that random people aren’t my cauldron.
14. Win a lot of games of HORSE against my cauldron.
15. Promote fire safety by teaching my cauldron to stop, drop, and roll. Unteach my cauldron about fire safety after it rolls away in the middle of my stone soup party.
16. Allow my cauldron to date other people because if my cauldron wants to date other people that’s totally fine. We’re not exclusive. Also we’re not a couple. I am a human being and it is a cauldron.
17. After exactly [redacted] glasses of wine, talk my cauldron into making me a bubble bath. Pour a ton of lavender bubble bath and water into my cauldron, light a fire underneath it, and jump in with my [redacted] glass of wine. Worry that I’m taking advantage of my cauldron, but then think, “Nah, this is okay.” Worry that I am technically cooking myself. Look around and make sure I’m alone. Lick my right hand just in case I’m really delicious; find out I taste a lot like lavender bubble bath. Make my cauldron swear never to tell anyone I just did that. Get out of the bath while I’m still rare.
18. Get really excited when my cauldron auditions for a role in STOMP! Tell my cauldron I will buy season tickets. Regret doing so after going online to find out how much season tickets cost. Console my cauldron when two overturned paint tubs get the part instead.
19. Finally allow my cauldron to get a Twitter account only to learn that the tweets are all quotations of me with the hashtag #shitmyownersays and #cauldronproblems.
20. Get into a physical fight with my cauldron about Obamacare. Injure my cauldron. Take my cauldron to the ER. Discover that my cauldron’s injuries are not covered by the terrible and greedy medical insurance companies. Finally understand irony.
21. Make a lot of stews.