Over spring break my friends and I spent some time in the most ridiculously ridiculous place in the world (or at least my not-so-well-traveled one). Some tidbits:
What happens in Vegas doesn’t stay in Vegas (unless, of course, it’s your IPhone).
In the age of Insta-Invasion and muploads galore, I can honestly say that this saying no longer applies in the year 2013. To make matters worse, my cell phone decided that Marquee night club was just too good of a time, and that it wanted to stay there permanently. I think it’s safe to say that it has a bit of a drinking problem, and perhaps a personal vendetta against me, as it rid me of my bikini-pic-untagging-capabilities for the entire trip. Bitchy.
When you call your parents to tell them that “something bad happened” after your first nightly excursion, they will not automatically assume that you lost your cell phone.
They will assume that you are dead. Or married. Sorry, Dad.
When some unsuspecting male buys your friends a $1,000 bottle of Grey Goose at his own bottle-serviced booth, you probably shouldn’t spill it.
But if you do, you should run away. Fast.
When you try and steal one of Lil’ John’s tequila shots as he is performing two feet away from you because you snuck into his D.J. booth, you will not be very well-liked.
In fact, one of the “Lil’ East Side Boys” and a Cee Lo Green look alike (donned in a brown and red Gucci-logo suit…yes, not kidding) will show you to the exit sign. Whatever, there were like twelve of them. Cool ya jets, people.
Sometimes “Beach Clubs” require you to wear a shirt upon entry, even if their ultimate goal is to rid every female of any stitch of clothing, period.
But if you’re lucky, it’s Saint Patrick’s day, and the cheesy “Las Vegas” tank top you’re forced to purchase comes equipped with a free (green) beer. Who’s the real winner here?
She’ll love you for complimenting them, and continue to serve you first. Ha!
A friend may become uncooperative after a long day-turned-night.
Until a security guard offers her a piggy-back ride back to your hotel room. Classic.
Midwestern accents become increasingly more irritating when your layover goes from the expected 25 minutes to three (excruciatingly painful and sleepless) hours.
No explanation necessary, “Dontcha know?!”
If you’re as lucky as I am, you’ll have the absolute time of your life, with the absolute best people in the world.