Lizzy's Vegas

 Speaking as a somewhat reformed partier, the only proper time to go to Las Vegas is when you don’t have anything left to lose. Some tragically lost people go to gamble, which is just a way of pretending you have luck when you already know it ran out the one or two times you hit it big. Others go for the pool parties and clubs so they can try to forget the terror that comes from being young and not sure how or if you’re gonna get by. Many people make the mistake of making the trip out to Sin City with a fat wad of cash and a lot of pain buried in their souls that they can’t seem to access from wherever they call home. They have dreams of turning that petty cash into millions, whether that’s in dollars or in memories is no matter. They wanna stay out all night at strip clubs, chain smoke cigarettes at slot machines, bring girls, guys, or simply whoever’s willing back to their hotel rooms and have a grand old time drinking vodka they can’t really afford. They wanna get married by an Elvis impersonator and drive off into the bright lights of the night in a rented Mustang convertible. Everyone who goes to Vegas wants something. The air of greed is palpable. 

It’s really no surprise Instagram girlies love Vegas just as much as creepy old degenerates at the craps table do. All on one street you can find very expensive cigars and elegant ladies who know how to cut and light it for you in the same store as disgusting, fruity drinks that are filled with massive amounts of alcohol and sugar. The showgirls wearing those heavy crowns of feathers and jeweled bras beckon to you whether you make eye contact with them or not. The city is glittery, trashy, sophisticated, the ugliest, most classic parts of our culture. This is a combo that is highly distressing and weirdly comforting. I find the juxtaposition alluring, like the streets are letting me know that they can accommodate all of my vices, which to me is a way of saying they can accommodate all of the parts of me, even if they’re unsavory. Cigars smell bad and will rot your teeth. Sleeping around might lead to STD’s. Wearing revealing clothing makes me look unhinged and uncouth when everyone else is in jeans. What a tempting world to dive into. 

Photo taken by some weirdo who liked my butt and said he wanted to shoot porn with me and his pet snake

My Vegas is for when I’m heartbroken, when I’m kinda lonely, when I don’t have that much money in the bank and I’m feeling a little displeased with where my life seems to be as I inch closer to 30. It’s for when I don’t have anything else to do so might as well just head to Vegas, see what it’s all about. I have work experience, but certainly not a career. I give my whole heart to men who aren’t interested in staying. I live in a city I don’t feel at home in. I’m holding onto my sobriety by a fucking thread. I don’t have a crew of friends I’ve known for years and years. No one and nowhere I can say we go way back with. Everyone always leaves. I always leave, too. I didn’t really want anything when I flew 6 hours to Vegas with my best friend. I’ve never really wanted anything from Vegas. This time, I just wanted to be with my ex-boyfriend again but I certainly wasn’t going to find him in a cheap hotel at the end of the strip. He made it clear that there was nothing left between us, and he always thought there was nothing between us to begin with. When I hopped on a plane back to Boston I found out what I need right now, which is nowhere close to what I want. 

I think it’s time for me to really be single, I typed to my friend when she sent me all the photos she took during our trip. Hoe it up, recapture my energy. Keep smoking cigars on random streets filled with things that don’t make any sense but somehow fit perfectly together. I’ll hit up men I haven’t talked to in a year who say they could never forget me. I’ll wear a dress I got at a sex store. Viva Lizzy’s Vegas. So much for a by the book recovery. Find me by the slots, by the pool, at the club, dancing when there isn’t any music playing, holding onto my friends when they get too drunk, getting home late and going to bed early. Give me a minute please, so I can scatter the pieces of my heart on these busy streets, and the rest on his bed sheets. I don’t really wanna party like it’s forever, but nothing else seems to be.