Talk about an alternate reality. Alternating between nightclubs and strip clubs, pools of chlorine by day and sweat by night, starry skies as natural as the bulbs creating them, and sunshine as real as the tanning beds you’ll find it encased in. Curtains will curtail any attachment to nature’s clock, because nothing is really real in Vegas.
Thank goodness they have moving paths, because here I set my pace at dragging one foot behind the other one evening after another, as daylight becomes my nightlight and UV becomes just another arbitrary combination of letters. On any given day you can find me shuffling in slow motion when motioning for another motor vehicle to sweep me off my aching feet after falling head over heels for any reason other than what one might suspect.
It’s quite transparent how concrete the barriers of the city can be, despite the invisible lines of legality and morality doing anything but crafting limiting experience. This must be the only place you’ll ever see a solid gold bar 60 stories tall towering over the desert and suspect there might be people waging the equivalent within; where bills are covered by the wealthy and scattered about stage floors for women to both trample and be trampled upon.
What do you wager a weekend like this might cost you? I’ve been taught “big risk big reward,” but all I have to offer are my brain cells, my liver functions, my (debatably) respectable reputation. Here we have 4 days, 3 nights, and a complimentary bottle of champagne to get me bubbling over the edge of my comfort zone. Checking my morals at the door and hoping to hold on to enough spare change to change back into what I arrived as and in – here goes nothing.