Stay Up Stupid Late Tonight, Pick Some Apples, Make a Pie

I'm back from Vegas. I didn't like it that much at first. "Why are all these old people here?" I asked myself as I attempted to power-walk the strip on Sunday night. "Don't they know this is Vegas? What happens here stays here, they won't even take full advantage," I snorted to myself as I pumped my fists in time with my iPod shuffle. 

The second night I went to a fancy cocktail party at an expensive Vegas bar. "I hear the girls here hang from the ceilings," one of the men told me, pointing to the rafters while suggestively cocking his eyebrows. "That would probably hurt," I replied.

By the third night I was bored. "Fucking Vegas," I thought as I worked the hotel gym's StairMaster. "If these people would just pay an extra 35% for their goddamned vacation they could actually go to real Paris. Seriously, people, Venice is a real place. You can actually go there for reals." 

But then I met Emily. Emily was my age. She was there for the same reason I was. She was English. But most importantly, she was staying at The Four Seasons. Yes, I hung out with her. Yes, I fancied the pool. Yes, I fancied a mimosa. Yes, I fancied a cute little frozen melon ball on a real bamboo stick. Yes, I fancied a browse at Chanel. Yes, I fancied it all: a topless Vegas show. Dancing at a trendy nightclub that seemed to have been named after an illness that afflicts puppies. An espresso martini while watching the fountains at the Bellagio. 

And then I left. I flew Southwest: not known for service. At home I have to make my own mimosas. I would never freeze a tiny melon ball and I have no bamboo. We don't even have a Chanel store here. Topless shows? I am not that flexible. And I wish I was back in Vegas.