Here We Go, Kids

Well, it's December 19. By 12:01 tonight, the TWU and the MTA will either come to an agreement or to fist to cuffs. And can I just say that I REALLY hope that the TWU doesn't strike because that will seriously mess up my life. As well as the lives of millions of other people. But mostly mine. So here's what I'm doing to prepare (take notes, Kids, this could save your/Amanda Lepore's life):
1. Stock up: As your average dealer travels by train/bus/the power of Ja, I suggest you pile up and hunker down with as fat a stash as you can acquire. Go in with friends to save money and you can always kill them and smoke their share if New York goes all "Oregon Trail" on our asses.
2. If you a.)live in Brooklyn, as I do, and b.)have to travel extra-burrough to get to work and c.)absolutely can't miss work, as I can't, then I suggest staying with a friend. Thankfully, most of my friends are still subsisting on NYU's bloody teet and I can crash on their crouch and hoof it to work in the morning. Since I've passed out countless times on that couch, and even draped it in my drunk girl vomit, it's like a second home. If you feel uncomfortable, though, it's probably best to pack an overnight bag with toiletries and various sexual toys because masturbation stops for no man.
3. Once you've secured your drugs and your lodgings, in whichever order you prefer, it's time to get sexy with it. We don't know how long this strike is going to last or if it's going to happen at all, but that just means you have to prepare for everything. After four days and we're all wearing the same stank clothes we had on at the beginning of the week, spirits are running low, as are the booze you vacuum-packed for such an occasion, the end might look rather enticing. But no, Sir, do not go gently into that good night. You can get through this. WE can get through this. We're better than the MTA and the TWU, dammit. We can rise above this. Sure, it's almost Christmas/Chanukkah/New Years and everyone travels, but you can't give up hope. There are such things as miracles. Miracles that involve you hopping on the back of the nearest hobo, breaking and branding him, then riding him all the way to California. They'll even name a Midwest Passage after you.

K, here we go, Kids. Snuggle up close to the bong and let's all tell camp tales to pass the time. We'll be out of the woods soon enough.