And we're not talking about Grey Goose with a splash of cran. On an average Friday night, that might do the trick. And by "the trick," we mean get you shitty-drunk enough to dance, flirt, and either get laid or vomit on yourself trying. But this is the apocalypse, people! We're talking cosmic calendars, ancient civilizations that disappeared, and fucking pyramids. Cataclysmic times call for cataclysmic inebriation. So pass the Soviet infantryman boot filled with Grade-Z swill distilled from potatoes by a peasant Babushka in the Russian countryside. We thirst, comrade.
No, we haven't seen Molly, AKA pure MDMA. So quit asking. And hey, when we're a day away from, like, blinking out of existence, we wouldn't bother holding out. Instead, why not roll the dice (LOL) on some pressed pills loaded with, well, who the fuck knows what? You are that much more likely to draw the attention of the party photographers hanging out at the End of the World, because you will be that much more of a sweaty, teeth-grinding, obviously-on-drugs, beat-freaking pookiehead.