Water? Do not even talk to me about water. You will need so much water out there that your bladder will be having a non-stop make-out session with your kidneys. You want to consume so much water you rinse all toxins away and “piss clear.” This is the mantra of Burning Man. This is the requirement. (It was also the name of a scrappy, playa-only newspaper back in the day, printed every morning right there in camp and delivered around the entire site by beglittered women in leather and tasseled nipples. But never mind that now).
Out on the playa, you will need to hydrate more than you ever have in your life, because your body is working overtime to keep you alive as the leering sun whisks away moisture like the GOP whisks away hope. Also, all those hallucinogens and MDMA can make you a little thirsty. Goodness, did I say that out loud? Go ahead, pretend to be all shocked.
Speaking of hallucinating, no one will believe what you’ve seen out there. No one back home – particularly your nervous relatives, particularly those friends who won’t even see R-rated movies much less venture anywhere near nipple-pierced, flame-throwing festivals, particularly those Americans who sleep with Bibles or guns (or both) under their pillow for fear of attack by zombie Mexican drug rapist liberal dubstep DJs – no one will understand what the hell you mean when you say you’ve seen a 10-ton neon cruise ship carrying 200 revelers float across the desert floor at 3:00AM, lit up by 4,000 LEDs and shooting fire twenty stories high and bouncing lasers off the moon.
Here’s a tip: Plan your Burning Man vices like you would a very classy, very debauched wedding. At Charlie Sheen’s house. On Mars.
And you thought "Green Goddess" was just a salad dressing, eh?
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