So about two weeks before Halloween, a couple girlfriends of mine from work said to me, "Come to Vegas." I replied, "I'll be the friend that dies."
Much like an away match against the shit-eating Sounders, the probability that I will end up in jail or the hospital in these situations is exponentially increased due to my consumption of alcohol, lack of self control, and an inability to filter what comes out of my mouth. Nevertheless, I half-heartedly checked prices on flights for about a week, before remembering that I have nearly maxed out my Southwest Airlines credit card (mostly thanks to the Bitter End Pub). Turns out I had a free flight because of it, and if that's not a sign cock-slapping me in the face, then I don't know a dick from its balls. I left rainy, shitty Portland for 80 degree, dry heat in Sin mother fucking City.
The first hour in Vegas was akin to much of my time in Africa; uncomfortably close to sweat-stinky people, in a ridiculously hot climate, and finding it hard to locate alcohol when you have a big, lesbian, tourist backpack on. It was, hands down, the most difficult time I've ever had getting a Taxi. (And this is coming from a classy lady who used to get Fist-Pumping-Friday drunk at local douche bag karaoke joint the Boiler Room, and who's morals decline at about the same rate as her intoxication level increases.) After finally procuring a cab (cash only?), the driver gave me a nice little foreshadow to my trip, as he told me stories of the night before when all the girls on the Strip were "inappropriately" dressed and "sloppy" drunk.
All my friends were on a separate flight than I, so when I got there they'd already been drinking liquor in public and enjoying the heat and porn cards. (Yaaay my friends!) Planet Hollywood, the biggest building I have ever stayed in, is designed to confuse the fuck out of you. It's a labyrinth of bars and boobies and gambling that, when you are too drunk to figure out where the fucking elevators are, you'll shrug your shoulders and throw money at a soul-sucking slot machine and spend $10 on cigarettes. Gambling in the form of human contact like Blackjack and Poker are these magical games where they make money look like Monopoly coins. Alcohol is free, and therefore the loss of inhibitions is too. Money? What money? It's not money if it's these pretty little coins that give my fingers so much pleasure when I play with them... It's not ten dollars if they remind me of quarters.
I plunked myself down next to a group of nice looking Spaniards, (who were smoking, inside!!), and ordered a shot from a waitress who was noticeably acting like she'd had a few herself. I'm sorry. What I meant there was 'trashy'. What's my total? Eleven dollars. For one shot??? No wonder everyone gambles, it's so you don't have to get ass raped by outrageous bar tabs. Now, I had decided not to drink for about two weeks leading up to Vegas. My rationale? I was going to be in a swimsuit. In reality? I got fucking hammered after one shot and a Bud Light at one in the afternoon. Thankfully, when my friends found me they had been hitting the bottle like good alcoholics, so we were on the same level of giddiness.
The six of us checked into our hotel room, which consisted of two queen beds. We tried to work out some sort of least-awkward sleeping situation, (the trip contained a couple), before realizing that in all likelihood we'd all be too blacked out to care. We then visited the most awkward and poorly designed pool I've ever been to. You walk out of the doors to a DJ booth blasting techno remixes of LMFAO (P-P-P-Party Rah-Rah-Rah-Rah) and a 100 foot long catwalk of dirty red carpet flanked by hundreds of deck chairs, all of which were eerily empty. A giant building in front of us seemed to at one point contain a cafe, but it had long since been abandoned. There was one pool to the left and one to the right, which I think existed because at any time of day, at least one or both would be in total shade due to the skyscrapers surrounding it. If you've ever wanted to listen to Party Rock Anthem on repeat, you'd be right at home in this twilight episode of hungover life. We got in the pool, and it quickly became obvious that everyone else was there to people watch in the sun, not to swim in the disease-ridden waters. Also, because of our pasty white skin and non-tribal tattoos, we were wildly out of place.
Giving up on sunbathing, we focused our energies on going out for the evening. The two other girls had other business to take care of, so the three boys and I went to try our luck at Blackjack. We met a nice dealer named Vasco, who's name got increasingly fun to say as the free alcohol started flowing. Sitting next to one of the guys (read: unrequited love... awkward), I for some reason thought it would be a good idea to keep up with his alcohol intake. What this ended up looking like was me loudly conversing with Vasco about the story of his life, while he basically played the game for me. And smoking. Like, a lot. Eventually, like most Vegas stories go, we lost all our money and went to work on getting wasted. (Disclaimer: I already was.)
I had a hunch that I'd get too drunk and become that girl holding her heels and walking barefoot. You know this girl and may have been her too at one point in your life- taking one too many Jager shots at Dirty and is now too drunk to stay upright in heels and is also too drunk to care that they are walking barefoot on disgusting downtown sidewalks. The girls decided that before we went to generic nightclub, we'd all get out of our heels and into some sandals. What could go wrong? Well for one thing, even sandals won't keep you on your feet if you are blacked out and think you can dance better than the strippers. For another, just because they are sandals does not mean that they too aren't capable of being taken off and lost. We'll get back to that.
So, I'm a huge proponent of the theory that if you walk anywhere with confidence, people will usually believe that you belong there. Waiting in line to pay to get into the nightclub, I saw something on the ground just past the lady collecting money and handing out wristbands and cups. "Katie, follow me. I got this." I walked (ok swayed very ungracefully) past the lady, bent down and picked up whatever was on the ground, and announced loudly, "Oh thank god, here it is, Katie! We can go back in now," as I waltzed into the entryway like a celebrity and Katie followed nervously behind. To my surprise, no one stopped us, and thereby proving my theory correct. But there was one tiny problem. We were now on the inside without wristbands or cups to prove we had legally entered, and were thus forced to walk of shame back to the end of the line, as onlookers giggled at us. "Yeah, I thought I saw you guys walk by," (I didn't think judgement and apathy could work so well as a 'tone'). I did not even try to make an excuse, but looked at her with crossed eyes and a sloppy grin. I was like a shamed toddler who had just been caught stealing. Obviously, I had no reason to be drinking more, in any setting.
Inside the club, Katie and I are instructed to first drink some revolting watermelon drink, which I swear to god must have been roofie flavored, because that's when everything started getting blurry. And by that I mean my ass was White Girl Wasted and therefore had the confidence of a Frat boy doing a keg stand, and clearly thought I was the funniest person on god's green earth. In reality, Katie and I were laughing so hard at these poor boys dressed as the Queen's Guard we were clenching our legs in order not to pee. Then, a very tall, sexy black man came up to us and said, hey- you girls should go say hi to my friends, it's their birthday. (Probably because we were the most noticeably drunk girls at the party.) Maggie's drunken motto came out ("Why the fuck not?") and he pointed us in the direction of- dammit- the Queen's Guard morons. We lost our shit laughing again, and overly friendly man sighed, "They have bottle service," Katie immediately responded, "I'm in," and as I hesitated, the man gave me my end-all, "They're English."
Even while blacked out drunk, apparently this bitch can sniff out the only boys in the whole bar that had British accents, and thereby solidifying the fact that my early twenties should be renamed: The Seducing of the Foreign Boy.
I vaguely remember sitting with these boys, and screaming about how "I swear I can do a greeeat English accent", dancing and falling on the floor a lot, and that's it. As I had the story told to me the next day, apparently my friend Angie had decided to take me back to the room, but somehow there was a mix up with the elevator, and the doors closed (slow motion: Noooo!) and she lost me. Shrugging her shoulders, she went back to the club and they all danced and fist pumped the night away. In the wee hours of the morning, they returned to the room, only to find a naked Maggie passed out in the hallway. Ok, so I was wearing underwear, (geez Dad don't lose it), but they did have to carry me inside. Also, I guess they dropped me on my head multiple times in the attempt. Which would explain so, so much. Wallet and clothing gone, the story of how I lost all personal items before returning to the hotel remains a mystery. I would like to one day be a reviewer of hotel security tapes for the sole purpose of laughing at dumb girls like me. So, like any good Vegas Vacationer, we went downstairs, bought a bottle, and took more shots. And thus begins the story of how I lost all my money and pride in the most epic four day bender of all time.