Vegas: A lesson in love

You guys! (‘You guys’ is still just me…gahd Lucy, start reading my shit. You will like this one; it’s a theory). I’ve figured out love. I’m kidding, duh. If you can figure out love than you can figure out life and if I figure out life at 24 years old then, well…fahck, that’d be nice. But my newest theory, taking the form of an analogy, settles my stomach more than coke in a brown bag settled Dill’s during the trial. To Kill a Mockingbird, people.

My relationship with Vegas taught me more about love than love itself. Mostly, because the two are the exact same experience; but it seems topless girls surrounding Jose Conseco is easier for me to understand…which puts in grave perspective just how confusing love can be.
Like love, most people highly anticipate their inevitable -essential to the human experience- first trip to Vegas. I, of course, was not most people (the amount of satisfaction I feel when saying that, by the way, is disgusting). My parents smugly brought me in 4th grade and I assume successfully told child protections they were simply teaching me how to do Vegas right. I went to an all you can eat seafood buffet and don’t remember anything. One mercury dose too many. One too right.
So blacking out on a seafood binge put me right back into high anticipation for an age appropriate Vegas experience. I had no idea when or why the reason for indulging in such a phenomenon would occur– but the experience was inevitable…just like love.

I get to Vegas and never have I ever had more faith in the ability of sequins to unify human beings as one: this was not real life. They pump oxygen into the casinos for goodness sakes (yes, I’m sure your significant other pumped oxygen into your lungs as well). You can smoke in the casinos! I didn’t, of course…bad for my lungs. Actually, I don’t even know if you can smoke in the casinos but I’m going to say you could because it simply sounds cooler. Glorifying the memory. Sounds like love.
And the adrenaline rush at the war table was incomparable. Think I’m kidding? I’m not. But it’s worth noting my life’s most breathless thrills of great risk for great reward are summed up with Megabus rides. $70 on one hand of war? Sure. Considering the bank account, it was like I was putting my retirement on the line. But the high, if delivered, would be worth it. And it was. I rode that high with an un-phased haze and made decisions like an idiot who didn’t realize it yet.
In love Vegas, time ceases to exist. One big blur of fantasy life. My judgement, needless to say, was shot and blind to any consequences of my fiscal and dignified future. I sit at the blackjack table. Pissed because this 80 year-old woman in a sparkly visor playing penny slots just won it big. How long did it take her to do that? Sure, she significantly lowered her chances at the real deal but she never truly risked it all. And now she wins big TOO? Her sequined visor arguably related to my never again gold glitter dress prove no love method is better than the other. They all lead to the reward.

I leave the strip and the heartbreak hits immediately. I feel bad for myself over a hangover and a case of the empties. The idiots who couldn’t get over a heartbreak airport Chili’s I looked down on before gets the last laugh. Don’t tell me you know how I feel because no one on earth has ever experienced this pain, ever. My experience in love Vegas was above yours, therefore my fall was harder than yours too. I truly believed that…actually, part of me still does, whatever. How could anything compare to that. Love Vegas, you are a true one and done. Got that necessary human experience, won’t do it again. Too exhausting. The high, worth the vulnerability before, is not worth this accute physical and psychological pain of leaving it all behind now.

Are you still reading?

Thanks to magic or as the less dramatic call ‘time’, the memory of my hangover is dissolving. It chooses to ignore the fact I dined at a Denny’s with a boy who resembled a lego and focuses on the fun I enjoyed eating $12 hotdogs by the pool with best friends. I’m embarrassingly giddy, itching for the chance to return to love Vegas because I should have known- my seafood black out experience didn’t eliminate my next Vegas anticipation so why would the more appropriate (depending on how you look at it) black out eliminate the anticipation this time. And this time I know what I’m in for (Jose Conseco hosting a pool party). I understand the risk involved (Jose Conseco hosting a pool party). I know the expense of the experience(Jose Conseco hosting a pool party? Not as expensive as he thinks). So, yeah, I’ll crush on the first invite back to love Vegas, calculate my situation, dip out, and save the investment until I absolutely know that passing on the invite will be a rocking chair regret. Who makes a Vegas sized investment with mediocre company, anyway? Then, I’ll go back and eye-roll the feck out of the war table because I pretentiously and purposely believe I’ve matured to the craps table and its own, vulnerable route to the same glorious rush.

Well, it made sense in my head.


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