I wanna sleep-in hungover and pay for room service with Food Stamps. I wanna flush magical paranoia powder down the toilet after mainlining fear. I wanna leverage my lack of self-awareness on the roulette table, Red 19.
Spent the weekend in Vegas, Baby!
It’s never what you think it’s gonna be. Whatever gets you there isn’t the thing. You think it’s the thing. You look forward to the thing. But I’ll tell you this, if the reason you sold yourself on going ends-up becoming the best thing about Vegas, you overslept.
Nelson Mandela was laid to rest, I seem to remember. At the dedication ceremony for Madiba, there was a performance artist doing a sign language interpretation dance, I seem to remember. On the Apartheid Channel (otherwise known as Fox News) there was a white woman racial profiling Jesus and Santa, I seem to remember.
You reclaim the center of the universe where the moral arc doesn’t bend, it breaks. Second hand smoke tastes like chocolate fog. Slutting around isn’t shameful, it’s as God intended, joyful. Bad ideas are a stamp on your passport to Redemption. Future generations are lost forever in the cum soaked foam of jacuzzis while orphans cry-out for love.
If the person who returns is the same person who left, you missed the point.
The day before I left, an unhinged shooter armed with the words “sad and pathetic” fired those words at me from point blank range, I seem to remember. There were allegations and confrontations by fingers pointing from the Mountaintop of Holier Than Thou, I seem to remember. A friendship detonated, a friendship wrapped in explosives, a friendship stretching back to the earliest memories of childhood, where metaphors of red wagons foretold the illusion of forever, I seem to remember.
I wanna sing along to a Neil Diamond impersonator, reveling in the anger of his failed dreams, “They Comin’ To America.” I wanna flirt with the girlfriend of a sleight of hand artist and snatch the coin of love from behind her left ear. I wanna navigate a field stretching all the way to the memory before the very last memory, riddled with hallways merchandising bath bombs, riddled with roller coasters going over the edge of rooftops, riddled with land mines masquerading as slot machines and come out on the other side with all my limbs, and financial stability, intact.
If you don’t know me, consider yourself forewarned. If you know me, read the previous sentence and pull back your bets. The person who left isn’t the person who returned.
Edward Snowden didn’t win Time Magazine’s Person of the Year. Wish it was something “I seem to remember.”
But the magical paranoia powder won’t let me forget.