Dear 43 Things Users,

10 years after introducing 43 Things to the world, we have decided we have met our last goal: completing the incredible experience that has been 43 Things. Please join us in giving one last cheer to all the folks who have shared their goals with the world, as well as all the people who have worked at The Robot Co-op to build this incredible website. We won a Webby Award, published a book, and brought happiness to a lot of people.

Starting today, 43 Things users can export their goals and entries from the site. Starting August 15, we will make the site “read only”. 43 Things users will still be able to view the site and export their content, but we won’t be taking any new content from users. We hope to leave the site up for folks to see and download their content until the end of the year. Ending on New Year’s Eve takes us full circle.

It has been a long ride (one of our original goals was to "build a company that lasts at least 2 years” - we beat that one!) While we wish the site could live on, it has suffered from a number of challenges - changes in how people use the site, the advertising industry, and how search engines view the site. We wish the outcome was different – but we’ve always been realistic about when our goals are met and when they aren't.

As of today, you will be able to download your goals and entries. See more about that on the FAQ page. Thanks for 10 great years of goal-setting and achieving.

- The Robots.

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<'))){ in Melbourne is doing 3 things including…

write more poetry

1 cheer


<'))){ has written 20 entries about this goal

Of the Beautiful, Liberal Girls of Ashland, Oregon:

The beautiful, liberal
girls of Ashland…

I’ve taking to wearing
my helmet – it’s hard
to keep my eyes on the

The beautiful, liberal
girls of Ashland…

boy, do they know
it, too – noses high
but watching stealthily.

The beautiful, liberal
girls of Ashland…

I’ve died, I think, sitting
here in a coffee shop
quietly appreciating all
these gorgeous young women.


a cup of sadness

it always seems half
empty even when it’s
half full

and I end up waving it
over and over in the
molecular agitator for
a minute at a time

forgetting to drink it
so it gets tepid and the
bag of earl grey tea
floats lonelylike

a swamped raft on a
pacific ocean of tea
with no answers
and unsounded depths


for T

the remodernism

I wanted to ravage you.

Hey, you asked first with
your yes/no eyes; eyelids
blinking negation, blinking
affirmation, y-yes dilated


_Attack me like Picasso
coaxing sensualcubism out
of empty canvas with a
sure grip on his brush,
she says._

Ha! The poor crazy Spaniard!
How pissed he’d be to see
a surge of figurative art
en vogue.


All right. Here I come,
momma; you can rake
your nails up my back
and arch yours – my
fingers in your hair.


Peter McArdle’s Despite Anonymity


Three quatrains and a couplet for La1retta

Half Pinay yet wholly wishful
For another smell of spice land
Adobo, please, one more dish full
A clutch of Piso in her hand

Half Pinay but a quarter less
Wouldn’t stop her dreams of white sands
And green mango, she’ll confess
How to get back? She schemes and plans

_Places we go impress on us
Our eyes; our minds and yes, our soul
Some more than others, it is thus
Parting we pay a spirit toll_

Half Pinay she will always be
Smiles under a coconut tree



and a-slink
I hunch-shouldered

out the door

expecting a frying
pan in the back

but this poem is
about love

so I straightened
up outside and took

a deep breath
adjusted my
book bag and

left the school of
tough love
and went off
towards the
school of



Finial: A Pantoum for Chewingfoil

_“Like a cherry on top,
that’s what a finial is.”_
She grinned at her analogy
like an obstreporous dolphin.

That’s what a finial is.
Ornamental, sitting there,
like an obstreporous dolphin,
firmly lodged in your pool.

Ornamental, sitting there;
then swimming in circles,
firmly lodged in your pool
and whistling at you.

“See, how it is?”
She grinned at her analogy:
a finial is piece de resistance;
like a cherry on top.


on pure days shot through with alacrity

We walked down
to the beach.

Surf-sorted conglomerate,
some basalts with xenoliths.

It was beautiful;
vying and striving to
match you.

And that’s when the breeze
lifted your hair
and haloed it around
your head—you, spitting
strands of red/gold out
and smiling.

That’s all it took.
There was no way
for you to know
how hard I fell
for you then.

..but I did.


a letter to the wendy-bird

Dear Wendy,

You are such a good girl. The boys and I miss you. I made them promise not to try to look down your nightgown when you kissed them goodnight on the forehead in the future or I’d thrash them soundly. What was the deal with the thimble? The boys keep laughing at my ignorance and threaten to disabuse me….

P. Pan, Esq.

Postscript: I ran into you-know-who today. He blocked my way as I was walking along the brow to the shore. “Pan,” he roared, “your atmospheric antics are over!” And he brandished that nasty old hook of his and shook it in my face. “Look out!” I shouted, finger pointing, “the Goodyear Blimp!” His jaw dropped and he rolled his eyes upward and my-finger-pointing-ward and I leapt over the side and glided away on my back thumbing my nose at him.


...and the little girl stayed up as late as she could

Yet, sleep you did,

eventually dropping off—no
philosophical arguments invading your dreams.

The moment of your sleep was like a just-falling
feather in which you drifted and spiraled down into
the morning, alighting upon the day where
you stretch and rise slowly, or not at all,
depending on the level of your tiredness.

Except for today, where you shake awake the
sleeping sister, lightly snoring under her
immense pile of hair, and here; she’s finally
up with her little piping-contralto voice and
the rest of the morning is what you both do
with your hands and feet and bright young minds.

Later, you step out into the cool breeze where
sunlight flashes through branches, through

There’s a faint odor and smudge of dog poop
on the sidewalk before you and you nosewrinklingly-studiously-gracefully
avoid it, like a ballerina reaching
for a cup of tea behind a plate of doughnuts.


Pedes per astrum

Our walk through the
starfield was satisfactory.

There were no complaints
about the weather for it
would never rain.

You laughed like small
bells pealing when I

tripped over a brown dwarf
tiredly sputtering out
and singed my pants.

We played connect the
magnitude using familiar
main sequence stars; shying
away from the supergiants,
which were blast furnaces
in the deep night.

Later you grew tired
watching the hypnotic
strobing of a pulsar:

lonely call…lonely call… response. Forever.

I carried you back to
cislunar space and woke

We had to step carefully
through the stratosphere
so’s not to bump into
any commercial airliners
or dirigibles.


<'))){ has gotten 1 cheer on this goal.


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