The apocalypse isn’t exactly cocktail party banter.
Coming to grips with your own mortality is one thing, but fathoming our entire civilization along with all the bunnies, hamsters and every Lisa Frank inspired animal going up in smoke is too much to bear.
Logistically every living thing has two goals: to survive and procreate. Why? So your offspring can succeed where you have failed (don’t take it personally, we all eventually fail in the survival department) and continue the human race. Knowing that you are the last of your line leaves you in a tight spot, though some might say Generation Y already doomed us all when they started wearing leggings as pants.
All sartorial comments aside, the end of 2012 is looming and we are faced with the Mayan prophecy and now Dick Clark’s demise. I’m assuming the Mayans had a vision of Ryan Seacrest’s rockin’ new year and agreed it would be best to put us out of our misery now. Although to be fair they didn’t have enough foresight to see the Spanish coming.
But I digress, if I had a six-month warning to get my ducks in order and to enjoy my last moments here on Earth, I fear they would be more calculated than emotional. Manhattan has taken its toll on me.
1. STOP DIETING: It’s true that “dead girls are the skinniest girls” so why would I forsake my cheese steaks and buffalo wings now? I’ve forgotten what real ranch dressing tastes like, and knowing I was faced with inevitable doom could convince me to get back on the caloric bandwagon.
Plus, if there is a heaven I assume we would appear there in our best fighting form. Take the end of Return of the Jedi -- Vader’s ghost wasn’t horribly scarred from his past, he just had a ghostlike pallor that was very ‘winter runway collection’ chic.
2. STOCKPILE LIQUOR: In a perfect world, there would be no looting and rioting and general mayhem and that’s the one I’m envisioning for practicality’s sake.
And in that world, I would empty my checking account on the two things that make me happy: booze and shoes. Facing the end will come a lot easier if you’re liquored up to the point of apathy and look absolutely fabulous to boot.
3. STOP CARING ABOUT BIRTH CONTROL: One of my greatest fears is carrying some bastard spawn when I’ve done nothing but drink bloody mary’s on my deck and hit on Wall Street bankers all weekend.
That deep seated nightmare will never come to fruition if I won’t live long enough for the lil’ schmuck to come to term. On the bright side I probably drink enough now to kill anything that has the misfortune to end up in my uterus, but isn’t that what your early twenties are truly about?