Years ago I was in a long distance relationship. Although I was barely making ends meet with an entry-level job, monthly car payment and rent for an apartment sans roommates, I somehow found a way to fly to visit him as often as possible.
Logging as many trips as I did, I very quickly earned a free flight on Southwest Airlines. This included drink tickets. Ding, ding, ding, ding!!!!
We decided to meet for a long weekend in Vegas, as he had vouchers for a free hotel stay thanks to a gambling problem. As long as I kept my underwear in my pants, I figured this would be a really good weekend.
I am single, drunk and raring to go in Vegas with a girlfriend.
Thus far our weekend had consisted of the usual Vegas routine: lay by the pool all day, drink and dance all night. Wake up the next day, press repeat.
This was our second trip to Las Vegas together. The first trip we made the mistake of booking three nights. By the third night we were barely alive. We, of course, forced ourselves to go out, but I remember I literally did not want to move, let alone talk to anyone, and ended up telling some poor soul that if he did not leave me alone he was going to wake up in a bathtub filled...
I’ve been to Vegas on a multitude of occasions, but actually haven’t been back in many years, as I’m honestly still recovering from the last few trips. I’m the type of person who never wants to go home if there is fun to be had. Las Vegas is a deadly place because day or night, rain or shine, someplace is always open and serving booze.
Several years ago my good friend and I wanted to do a weekend getaway and decided on Vegas. She had never been and was recently single and itching for some trouble. (Itching in the non-pubic lice fashion.)