Lost story, Sawyer's POV. Lost belongs to all those people, this story isn't to be distributed without my permission. Thanks. Enjoy.

Lost – To Do
By Mystic
January 2005

People used to ask me what I wanted out of life. I'd shift my weight, give a smirk and say, "Don't really matter, so long as I have fun getting it." I wasn't lying, I'd never sat down and made a list of what kind of wife I wanted, how many kids would be good or what kind of house I'd like to fall into after getting plastered on a Saturday night. It didn't matter because the minute a person made a list like that, they doomed themselves not to accomplish anything on it.

At least that's my theory on to-do lists.

So it's surprising to me that as I sit on this stinkin' island, staring out at the endless waves and clouds, I find myself making a stupid list of everything I want to do when I get back to land. Number one: get laid.

I never thought I'd spend this much time without a woman wrapped around my little finger. Maybe if I gave in and hit on that blonde twit... scratch that thought, girl's probably been around too many blocks to count - not that I'm some saint, but I doubt little Miss Priss is much better.

Maybe if I'd soften up on ol' Freckles. I'm laughing before I even finish the thought, is that wrong? Girl's so hung up on the doc, she can't see straight. I thought I'd use that to my advantage, but it seems to backfire each time. So that's why it's number one on my list. First thing I'm gonna line up when I hit the mainland. Won't be too hard, just lay on the charm, let the hair fall into my face and watch 'em fall all over me.

Damn this tree is rough. I try to stretch, to rub in and find a soft spot, but it's no use. Maybe that'll be number two on my list: Get a Lazyboy. I know if I get off, they'll pay me thousands to write some half-ass book on what happened here. I know I'd make the most money and get the most attention. No one wants to listen to doc's moment by moment documentation. Probably end up sounding more like a History Channel Special than anything else. People'd probably think he made it up.

And Freckles. Oh Lord, I can't imagine what that girl'd get up to if she started writing. She'd probably get more attention than I would just 'cause she's so dang pretty. And there's the pesky matter of being wanted by the law. So her book'd be written in jail. Yeah, she'd be on the Best Seller list alright.

Number Three:

Can't think of anything. Ain't life grand? My first to-do list and I can't think of a single thing I'd like to do. I mean, there's the partying, the playing, the fuckin' around, but what do I really want to do with my life. Never thought actually thinking about the question would bother me, but now it does. What do I want?

I wanna get off this damned island. Don't wanna listen to the kid shouting after his stupid dog. Don't wanna listen to kid's pop shouting at the kid. Don't wanna worry about the Arab stabbing at me whenever he gets his panties in a bunch. Don't wanna know what that Locke guy's like when his panties are in a bunch. Don't wanna look at that girl one more second and see that contempt on her face.

Fuck Freckles, give a guy a break.

Someone's shouting down the beach, sounds like that half-wit Charlie. Can't believe that midget punched me, and good too, right on the sore spot that'd been burning all morning. Maybe the pregnant chick came back, that's all the moron cares about anyways. Then he can give her back her precious diary and pretend he didn't read it. I didn't. Got more respect than that. 'Sides, who wants to read what some frilly girly wrote about the bumping in her stomach.

Sounds like it's gonna start raining. Weird how I'm startin' to recognize it. It's almost like a low growl somewhere in the jungle that makes my bones freeze. Lookin' around, I'm kind of surprised to find I'm alone. Usually someone's out making a campfire, usually her, trying to pretend someone's coming.

If I got off this island, I'd never make a fire again. Everything'd be electric, don't care how much it costs. Don't care if I gotta get an actual job to pay for it. Like I said, I'd write a book. Tell everyone how annoying Korean's can be with their yapping constantly in ting-tang tones. Tell everyone how you can hear a fat guy's stomach rumble from a mile away. Tell everyone how much one girls laughing at another man's jokes can make your chest tighten with hate.

I gotta get off this island. That's what I want to do with my life. I just don't know how.