The Darkside of Vegas
Maybe it’s fitting that I’m writing this at nine at night. That there’s a full moon in the sky. That my air conditioner in my apartment is broken. And that the faucet in my bathroom shower won’t shut off.
Four days in Vegas is too much. It makes you want to curl up into a tiny little ball and hate yourself. Suicide might not have been invented in Vegas, but I’m sure it was perfected there.
Free drinks. Free food. Free rooms. Free shows. They lure you in with the one promise that your indulgent fantasies can become a reality. All you need is money.
Vegas is capitalism at its finest. As long as you have money, the city loves you. Anything you want the city will provide.
If you want to buy a white tiger, Vegas has it. If you want to have sex with three hookers, snort a kilo of pink cocaine, and play with a monkey that can count a six deck shute, Vegas has it. But the second you run out of money, the second you lose it all, the city turns on you.
It takes away everything it gave you and reminds you that you’re nobody. That the fantasy world isn’t your world. That you don’t make enough. That all the girls you think love you, don’t. You are single and alone.
It is a cruel turn of fate, that a city that is built for the singular purpose to indulge our inner most desires and create within us our highest sense of mental gratification can just as easily amplify all our daily problems and secret fears. Stripping us of all hope and logic until there is nothing left but a mangled, self deprecating shell huddled in a dark ugly corner called reality.
