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For some reason I have a desire to start this entry with Billy Joel lyrics. Not any particular lyrics. Here’s three random snippets off the top of my head, that may or may not be correct.
option 1: You may be right, I may be crazy…
option 2: Heartattack-ack-ack-ack…you oughta know by now…
option 3: Wheel of fortune, Sally Ride, Heavy Metal suicide…
Now, if I analyze these three random choices from my subconcious, it would lead me to come to the conclusion that…
I have a hangover.
Isn’t that crazy. I’m right. I do have a hangover.
People, I have not been as drunk as I was yesterday, in two years. To refresh your memory, the last time was at a gay bar with my friends. I was demanding dollars and giving uninvited lap dances. I was drunk on Apple Pucker because that was the shot special. All night I was screaming in a slurred voice, “Apple Pucker! WOOOOOOO! Who wants a lap dance!”. I woke up that next morning fully clothed, shoes and all, covered in mud. I still have no clue as to the mud.
I digress.
I have to give you the background. The Magic Show is in town. Magic, is a convention for mostly urban wear…clothes for you peeps not in the know. When I had a “real” job and worked my brain to the bone for the man, this was the industry that I was in. I used to come to Vegas four times a year, for four or five days. I think I did this for maybe five years. Long story short, the man fucked me (not in the good way either) I became enraged at the corporate whore that I had become. I dropped out of site, went to massage school, found my long lost love of my life and moved to the one place on the planet that I never ever wanted to see again…Las Vegas.
I have been here almost three months, and have occasionally thought about Magic. What would I do? Would I run into someone I knew? Would I go to the show? I had/have mixed emotions on the subject because the clothing industry to me is somewhat like crack. I know that that job was killing my soul, but sometimes I miss the “bling bling”.
Last night we went to The Hilton so Mr. X could play video poker, and I could watch Mr. X play video poker. I see a girl sitting one person away from me at the bar that looks like one of a handful of people that I missed from back in the day. I tell Mr. X, while hiding behind his shoulder. He says, “go talk to her. I say “no”. “Go!” … “no” … “Go!” … “no” … “GO!”….”okay.”
It was her. We reminisced and I drank, and drank, and drank, and forgot my purse at the bar, and can’t remember the car ride home, and puked, and according to Mr. X, hyperventilated and had seizures all night in my half sleep.
Here’s to another two years of NOT doing that again.
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