I am home from Las Vegas, not religious, arrested, or married. (I did agree on the airplane to marry a fellow with an excellent villain-in-a-western mustache if we ran into each other, but we didn't.) I danced and doubled down and drank and kissed boys and looked at very bored lions and tigers. I smoked too many cigarettes and napped at the spa.
The whole weekend was excellent, and proportionally superb--of the approximately 50 hours I spent in Vegas, I spent about 30 of them laughing, half of one gambling, and about two in a hot tub with six Swedish guys and one of my favorite ladies. (Do we need an ambassador to Sweden? I'll volunteer.) We even managed to do a little bit of sleeping and swimming in a circle.
The trip was really perfectly timed, like cutting the right wire to defuse a bomb at the last second. It turns out that I like Vegas a lot--there's no love there, only boredom and lust and flashing lights. A few days away from feeling anything but amused or tipsy was perfect, since I've been feeling a lot of sad and broken lately, and my ladies are the best company. We skipped lines and drank champagne and ran away from gross dudes and wore very small dresses. I had a vacation from being me, and I really needed it.
Pictures look like this.