LII. My Last Chance
5:27 A.M. - August 18, 2007 - Las Vegas International Airport
It's nearing 5:30. My flight left an hour ago, and I have no means of getting back to Washington.
My life has spun out of control in the past 48 hours as blurred vision and drug-induced altered mental states drove me to lose every cent that I have acquired in 23 years on this planet by chasing the green spots on a red and black soaked roulette table and consoling with a Slovakian prostitute named Jasmine ($2,000 per hr). The smell of alcohol is the only identifying feature I retain.
The homeless man that lives outside of my building, Dirt, used to tell me the that Las Vegas is the city that makes dreams come true. You may be asking yourself why I took the advice of a homeless man on this matter, and as of right now, I'm wondering the same thing. However, over the past several weeks, Dirt has become the only confidant I have left.
I've never been a superstitious man, but ever since I came to Vegas, I've been doing everything I can to get an edge - wearing different color socks, carrying a lucky penny, spitting on the cocktail waitress - but nothing has worked.
Someone once told me "bad luck is better than no luck at all." I consider that man to be the dumbest I've ever met, much more so than Dirt.
So here I sit. Vegas Airport. An expired boarding pass. Soiled pants. No money whatsoever. And now my computer battery is dying.
I'm eyeing an old lady from 25 feet away. She seems senile. My mind is running at a thousand miles an hour. I know what I have to do. I will convince her I'm her grandson, borrow $10 from her, put it in the slot machine, and buy my way home with my winnings. It HAS to work.
It's always worked in the past.
It's nearing 5:30. My flight left an hour ago, and I have no means of getting back to Washington.
My life has spun out of control in the past 48 hours as blurred vision and drug-induced altered mental states drove me to lose every cent that I have acquired in 23 years on this planet by chasing the green spots on a red and black soaked roulette table and consoling with a Slovakian prostitute named Jasmine ($2,000 per hr). The smell of alcohol is the only identifying feature I retain.
The homeless man that lives outside of my building, Dirt, used to tell me the that Las Vegas is the city that makes dreams come true. You may be asking yourself why I took the advice of a homeless man on this matter, and as of right now, I'm wondering the same thing. However, over the past several weeks, Dirt has become the only confidant I have left.
I've never been a superstitious man, but ever since I came to Vegas, I've been doing everything I can to get an edge - wearing different color socks, carrying a lucky penny, spitting on the cocktail waitress - but nothing has worked.
Someone once told me "bad luck is better than no luck at all." I consider that man to be the dumbest I've ever met, much more so than Dirt.
So here I sit. Vegas Airport. An expired boarding pass. Soiled pants. No money whatsoever. And now my computer battery is dying.
I'm eyeing an old lady from 25 feet away. She seems senile. My mind is running at a thousand miles an hour. I know what I have to do. I will convince her I'm her grandson, borrow $10 from her, put it in the slot machine, and buy my way home with my winnings. It HAS to work.
It's always worked in the past.
posted by Max Rays at 10:37 AM
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