In a wilderness, ascertain my general location using the stars, the sun, remote or nearby geological elements, or any other visual suggestions short of a large and easy-to-understand map or sign; whistle (orally); speak without gesturing; uncouple present mental states from a mawkish muddle of regrets; die with dignity; live with dignity; sleep uninterruptedly for longer than three hours unless golf or a parade is on television or someone in the room is talking about their family; cultivate an easygoing demeanor that doesn't resemble drug-induced narcosis; assume the appropriate level of intimacy with new acquaintances (too personal and suffocating or too distant and seemingly disinterested); refrain from laughing when someone earnestly asseverates their spiritual beliefs; contain my outrage when anyone laughs at my deeply-held personal convictions, especially the ones I make up on the spot so as to appear to possess deep personal convictions; stay in the room when someone is totally bombing on a talkshow (excruciating); get into a bed when there is any kind of bug walking on the ceiling above it; tumble or somersault without severe spinal damage; convincingly pretend that I'd rather be "respected" than liked or admired, since I've only ever faked knowing what respect actually is, in the sense people mean it when they disengage it from admiration or affection or regard; keep myself from imagining jumping from the roof of a tall building; maintain a minimum baseline level of poise in the presence of a sexy boy who smiles at me, even if it's a meaningless professional or otherwise strategic type of smile; ever, ever forget how painfully alluring my ex-boyfriend's classmate Dan Hale looked one day when he rode up on his bicycle and sat on the grass with us, years ago; generally figure out what's to be remembered and what forgotten, and why, and how; accept and embrace good fortune without succumbing to a warped spasm of fear and apprehension and lurid paranoia.