Californiacation

He thinks he is a rabbit. Small, young, jovial. Walking through fields, past lakes, hiding in caves. He thinks he will never die. He wants to look for something but doesn’t quite know what it is.

It is a big world. A huge, beautiful place. And even more, the universe, but one planet is more than enough for most of us, for a lifetime of adventures or of hiding in caves.

I have been old for many years. Since I was 10, knowing I was no longer singular. And now, 26, four or five gray hairs on my head, a candle flickering beside me, burning away.

I see you sitting there and growing old. I see your armchair is comfortable with you.

I know there are many different types of stories. What I don’t know is what kind mine is. How can it plot out a path if I keep moving? What if it never forms to anything? I’m not running away, just searching, running towards.

I had a dream last night that I was in school. I got good grades. I showed my grandfather. He said something like, “good, you can be a teacher.” And I replied with, “maybe when I’m older.” And he laughed, implying I’m there now.

When does youth leave you? What day? When do you become old and no longer young?

Count the days. Count the lines on your face. Count the moments of happiness. When does it happen?

So far it has been mostly the same. Wonderful days and days we wait out. Bunker down to hide from them. Seek the weekends. The two of seven days that belong just to us. The freedom.

I hear a door shut. I can hear my neighbors upstairs. I don’t know them. I never will. I am leaving and I will never have said hello.

I sit at the traffic light often, waiting, almost home, or almost to work, or almost to somewhere. I watch people drive by, alone, their turn to move. No more waiting. Still ignoring everyone except those who might cross their path.

We made this world. It has grown up with us. We raised it, taught it how to behave, how to drive, how to wait. We showed it what to care about, what not to. Together we ignore the man standing in the middle of the road with a sign. We tell ourselves he doesn’t need us. He’s a trick. He’s a lie. We can’t love him like we love our mother, we’d never get home to her. Maybe it’s human. Maybe it’s not.

I am not done searching. I haven’t found anything yet. All I can do is keep going and hope the world doesn’t ruin me. It hasn’t so far.

I love you.

spring of ’17

April 10, 2017

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I was laying in bed thinking about how I miss the sixties and also how I have practically no idea what the sixties were like but that my mom was born then and my dad was young then and my grandmother was alive then.

It is such a rush. We are all in such a rush. Where are we all going? There is only death at the end.

My grandmother died when I was 3. I remember her as a tall, thin, cherry of a woman. She looks elegant in photographs. I think about her a lot, though there’s not much to think.

I’m going to be 26 next month. That’s happening. I don’t know how. My mom called me old last time I talked to her on the phone. How did that happen? I wasn’t even rushing.

I have a cute apartment. I like it a lot. There’s lots of windows and sunshine and pillows and plants. That’s happening. I still want to run away from all of it; I still plan to. I still don’t want to be the person with a nice car and a nice, well-paying, boring job. I never want to be that.

My grandmother was that. She was a proper lady of the fifties, with lots of babies and a full-time job at a car factory. She was beautiful. I wear her jewelry now. She died of Leukemia.

It all ends in death or changes which is another death. All I want to do is fill up my life with colors and adventures and happiness and lovely people for as long as I can.

Happy Spring.

grimace

February 9, 2017

Californiacation, Musings, Topics

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He walks into his life with a nasty grimace on his face. He is tired of everyone already. It is all repetition with only a few beautiful moments. It is all time being traded for other things not as priceless.

He got a tattoo on his right arm near his elbow when he was about 23. It says family, even though he hates his family. He stole his mother’s jewelry and gave his sister a black eye for Thanksgiving. There’s more, but that’s all repetition and no beautiful moments.

In the Summer, in some places, there is light for 24 hours. It is hard to sleep. People get used to it. Then it changes. This is important but you can figure out for yourself why.

The man with the grimace loves me. He’s not very good at showing it. So instead we fight and give each other figurative black eyes that last for months and stop us from speaking.

My brain hates repetition. The same office chair, the same people, the same city, the same stop lights, the same food, the same love, the same words, the same good mornings, the same country, the same world. Everything gets better and then worse and never really changes. And we get used to it. The sun rises and sets. Bruises heal and we mostly forget them until the next one.

My memory is bad. Worse, I think, than most peoples. I don’t know why. It’s never been very good. Maybe my brain is bad. Too simple. It thinks simply. Uses small words. Is incapable of remembering. Doesn’t care about trying to sound impressive when the story can be told easily and simply and slowly.

I love him, I think. But we will always keep hurting each other. We don’t get used to it. We don’t have the words to get along. Most things are not tattooed and permanent. Love isn’t. People aren’t. Repetition might be.

the feeling of a plane taking off

December 31, 2016

Californiacation, Musings, Topics

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I am a fucking child of snow.

I flew into Detroit the day before Christmas eve and saw the blanket of white covering our bit of Earth. Veins of streets that had already been plowed and salted and driven over fearlessly. Strong winter people.

I had a window seat and as we landed I watched the world tilt and wrote poems in my head about the lines and the white and the snowy trees; “Thin but sturdy mother fuckers who hold their weight in frost every year.”

No wonder we are better at living our lives than those sunny Californians. Not living through seasons seems like the equivalent of being an only child.

I would like to tell him to stop listening to the songs I sent him. I would like to tell him to forget me. I would like to pretend none of it ever happened. Cover it with snow and let it melt away in the sun a few weeks from now.

I am a strong person. And weak. I am a snow-covered tree.

Seasons are reliable. Unreliable weather is reliable. My memory is bad. My sight is getting worse. I am old and still have no idea where I’m going and it’s getting harder to see.

I love you but it is cold and California is far away.

sweet and salty

September 8, 2016

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I am almost in tears standing in the cereal aisle staring at the price tags on the granola bars. Three dollars. Three fucking dollars. I grab a box and tuck it into my basket, because everyone needs snacks. Even me, even for three dollars.

Wandering around the store, and out of it, I wonder what everyone does for a living. I want to ask them, I want to walk up to them and say, ‘excuse me, I see you’re looking very well put together, how do you manage to make money in this city?’

I don’t do it, but I keep thinking it, keep wondering. On my walk home I pass a cardboard sign that someone has taped to a streetlight. It is large and written with black marker. It says, “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.” Some homeless man took the time, and the ink from his marker, to write this and post it up for all of us people walking by to see.

Walking home with my granola bars stuffed into my backpack, I nervously spin my phone in circles in my hand. I need a job. I need a job. I need a job. There are so many stories of people who went to a city almost penniless and made it. But how did they make it? How do I make it? There are so many people here. There are so many people walking with me, crossing streets, running, biking, rolling along on their skateboards. Driving. They all have a place. There must be a place for me. I have to be able to contribute to this. It’s been a week of looking. A week. I can’t tell if a week is forever or no time at all. It feels like both. My phone spins in my hand as I turn the corner.

The street I’m staying on is nice. Somehow there is always parking, even in the middle of Los Angeles, and there are trees and plants along the sidewalk. A lovely place to walk, and a lovely place to be. There’s this huge, leafy palm plant that catches my eye as I walk toward it. It’s very green and calming somehow, just sitting there, growing. The trees are pushing up the sidewalks as we walk on them, going wherever it is we’re going.

I feel a little bad for being afraid or being worried, because I’m fine, really. I have friends to help me, and a family who cares about me, even if they are across the country. I have plenty of access to cardboard and markers. I have a roof to sleep under. I have time. I have some kind of place already. I have granola bars. But I no longer have that three dollars.

dear california

May 5, 2016

Californiacation, Musings, Topics

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hi, want to be friends? i don’t have many here. we could get in n out together, if you’re down, even though it’s really not that good. yes, i said it. i should tell you, though, i’m not very good at being with you yet. especially driving. all these u-turns are confusing and sometimes i get distracted by the palm trees. also, i use too much of your water. i’m sorry! i’m from michigan, that one state literally surrounded by water, so forgive me, ok? you just keep having nice weather and i’ll keep trying to be a good resident. now, let’s go to the beach.

on flying

June 15, 2013

Californiacation

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The jet engines roared and I was pushed further back into the uncomfortable aisle seat of the plane.

We’re going into the sky, people! Wake up! The sky! We’re freaking flying!

The flight was to be almost four hours long, headed East, gaining three hours as we flew. It was dark, midnight, and the flight attendants asked for the window shades to stay down, as the sun would soon be coming up. For that reason, I couldn’t watch, even from my aisle seat, as we left the ground. Instead, I closed my eyes and felt my body tipping. We were flying. There was no longer such a thing as “level” or “up” or “down”. If you’ve flown before, if you’ve looked out the window as the plane tilts, you know what this means. Flying. It’s very different from anything else.

Electronics turned off, forced into the 1800s by the man over the speaker, you lose track of time. You almost forget it exists. You want to, anyway, because the seat is uncomfortable and you don’t want to know that that nap you just took that seemed like it lasted for hours was really only fifteen minutes, and you are really not very much closer to your final destination, as they say.

No such thing as time, or space. And surrounded by strangers. The man in your row who couldn’t stop talking before take-off sits by the window, leaning against the side of the plane, dozing. The man who wore a cowboy hat on the plane — is he a real cowboy? — who sits in the middle and is made of only arms and legs and keeps knocking his foot into your foot as he adjusts his sleeping position, attempting to make himself comfortable, and failing, and making you uncomfortable, too. All the rest of them, the boy with too-large muscles, the latino couple across the aisle who made polite chit-chat with the weird older guy who boarded the plane late with too much luggage, the group of three young brothers who are spread throughout the back of the plane, passing around bags of food and making the other passengers laugh with, “Marcus! Marcus! Can we eat yet?” Somehow you’re all not really strangers, at least while in the sky.

Long hours, what seems like hours, anyway, pass, and the voices over the speaker tell you many different things, things you’ll forget afterward, but remember again when you board another plane, even if it’s a month later, or four years: “The captain has turned off the seatbelt light. The captain has turned on the seatbelt light. We’ll shortly begin serving free drinks and expensive bags of pretzels. Please make sure your tray tables are stowed and your seats are in the upright position. You may now use your cell phone, if it is within reach. We thank you for flying with us today, and hope to see you again soon.”

The plane touches down, and you feel it, but you can’t watch the ground as it quickly grows larger. Someone opens a window shade rebelliously, and the plane is filled with light. Only then does everyone remember that’s morning, that time has passed, that we have just crossed our country in the air. Phones are immediately turned on, time is checked, people jump up to claim their bags and then stand, waiting. Gravity has returned, time has returned, and once again we are a group of strangers, ready to head to our final destination.

But flying is different. And although travelers part ways, although the man with the cowboy hat takes his cowboy hat and goes about his business, there will always be those strange hours when hours did not exist, when one day became another and we were in the sky and didn’t notice, and didn’t know. When time did not exist, and the only way to know what time it was was to look out the window and wonder what state, exactly, was that tiny car driving in? And where was that person going? And did they see the other tiny car on the other street, not far from them? And would they ever meet that person they passed by, so closely? Would they ever know how close they came? Would we?

Things To Do When You Are Bored In An Airport

June 3, 2013

Californiacation

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I’m in California. Again.

You can't tell, put this picture contains the head and backpack of the British boy I met at LAX and temporarily planned on marrying.

You can’t tell, but this picture contains the head and backpack of the British boy I met at LAX and temporarily planned on marrying.

I’ve been here for two days now, wandering around the scary-busy streets of Los Angeles and getting a sun burn. It’s been fun, though, if that previous sentence doesn’t prove it. I’m staying with a friend, and her friend (who’s from England), and her friend (who’s also from England). It’s turned into a USA vs. England competition, which so far has brought a lot of humor (not humour) to the dinner table, phone conversations, etc. Basically everything.

We’re staying in L.A. for four days at a hostel/hotel. Because it’s a hostel/hotel, there are tons of people here from elsewhere (read: not America) and the poolside hangouts we’ve been having quite frequently are even more entertaining because of it.

But, before all of that, there was the trip here. The four of us were set to meet up at LAX – which was fine, except for my flight landed at Long Beach air port. I left from Detroit, got another plane from Phoenix, and booked a shuttle bus from Long Beach to LAX. During my layover in Phoenix, I got bored, and typed the following useful information on my Ipod:

Things to do when you are bored in an airport:

Stare. At people. Out the window. At the T.V. on mute and is so far away you can’t see what it says anyway.

Play “Guess the Air Marshall”. Consider every man in a suit. The Asian girl. The man who ran up to the terminal late. The old guy reading a newspaper. The toddler?

Fiddle with every loose belonging you’ve shoved into the side flaps of your carry-on bag, Laptop bag, purse, etc. Fiddle for at least thirty minutes.

Closely examine everyone around you in a stealthy way, glancing away right before they catch you looking. This skill takes some time to develop, but that’s fine, because all you have is time.

Examine your surroundings. Take note of every electrical outlet – not because you need to charge your cell phone (although you might if you’ve been playing large amounts of Tetris) but because you’ve got nothing better to do.

Read. Wait, what? You didn’t bring a book? Don’t worry, crappy magazines are available for $8 in your nearest terminal convenience store.

Californiacation, pt 9

August 1, 2012

Californiacation

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Waking up in Vegas…

Did that Katy Perry song pop into your head just then? It was in mine at the time as I woke up, as they say, in Vegas.

Without the glitter.

Las Vegas is an interesting place. Or, more like, it’s an interesting strip of road. That’s most of it – a least, that’s where most people hang out. (Downtown Vegas is just as cool and interesting, in my opinion, but not as popular.)

So, let’s be honest – Vegas is a strip of road. With really fancy, expensive, glitzy hotels. And lots of people. All sorts.

“Vegas is the perfect location to host your mid-life crisis” – Me, via Twitter

Did I just quote myself? Anyway.

After the whole waking up in Vegas thing, I checked out of my hotel (the Tropicana!) and then stayed at my hotel.

Why? Why, you ask? Because outside of my hotel was 110 degrees (F) and Nicole and I were not about to set back into that at 11 in the morning. Some things you have to slowly ease in to.

Like a pool.

Like the hotel’s pool! Did you like that transition?

When in the middle of the desert, one searches for water. Luckily, the Tropicana has a rather large amount of water that they allow their guests to swim in.

Unfortunately for me, I had just become a non-guest of the hotel minutes before attempting to swim in their guest-only pool.

This caused a problem when I tried to get a couple of towels – from the people working in what can only be called the “towel tent”.

Me: Could I have two towels?

Girl: Sure. *hands me two towels*

Me: Thank you!

Girl: Sure. Do you happen to have your room key on you?

Me: Umm… no….

Girl: Could you go get it?

Me: Umm… I don’t have one…

Girl: Are you staying with someone who has one?

Me: Umm… no…

Girl: Are you staying at the hotel?

Me: Umm.. well, we stayed last night, and we wanted to check out the pool…

Girl: Oh, so you’re already checked out?

Me: *assuming police were going to jump out of the nearby bushes and arrest me* Mmhmm…

Girl: Oh, ok. That’s fine.

Me: ok. ….. bye.

Ok, maybe it’s hard to show the tenseness that was happening in that conversation. Awkward silences are hard to capture in text form. Just picture a situation you’ve been in where you got caught doing something you weren’t supposed to be doing and were confronted and you attempted to tell the truth without telling truth…. simple, really!

After swimming and using the towels (illegally), I lounged on a pool-side lounge chair and read some dirk gently’s holistic detective agency by my dear friend Douglas Adams. As good as that book is and was, I discovered that I am very bad at lounging.

I just wanted to do something! It was so frustrating just sitting there, because I knew that I had to sit there (because we had something like 5 hours until we could head to the airport), and because I wanted to go do something (even though it really was impossible to go do something else, because – uh, it was hot! – so walking around outside was a no-no. And what else is there to do in Vegas? Gamble?! Nah.)

I’m an explorer. I don’t sit! It was outrageous! But, I sat. And, I read. And, I kept checking the time.

Finally, finally, finally, enough time passed so that we could go do our next planned activity – froyo!

froooooyooooo.

I love me some frozen yogurt. I really do. And self-serve is where it’s at! None of that girl-behind-the-counter-makes-it-for-you crap!

Strawberries, kiwis, mochi, little bit of oreo crumbles, and some gummy bears on top! Mmmm…

Anyway, enough of that. (Even though after I had finished my cup I wanted more! It was good, ok? Don’t judge!)

We managed to spend about an hour nom-ing on our deserts… and then we still had hours and hours to wait.

(Note to self and others: late-night flights kind of suck! And if you’re in Las Vegas in July with nothing to do… you may as well book another night at a cheap hotel and stay inside and watch TV in air-conditioned comfort until it’s time to go to the airport! Ah, the lessons you learn.)

So, I will ask the question once more: “What does one do with hours to go until their flight home?”

You, with a knowing look in your eye, “Go to the movies!”

Me: “That’s right!!”

Yes, I went to the movies. Again. For the second day in a row. Whatever.

We saw Brave, which was actually really good (I love her hair!), although I wrote a better ending to the movie in my head. Tell me if you think it’s better than the actual. (And if you haven’t seen the movie, feel free to skip to the next paragraph! I’ll meet back up with you there.) Ok – so, you know that giant bear that everyone and their father wanted to kill? Ok. And you know how the girl’s mother wanted her to get married to one of the sons from the different Kingdoms? Ok. And you know how that witchy lady said that that bear was actually a guy that had wanted to escape from his life or something? Ok. Umm, hello, Pixar! Do I need to spell it out for you? My ending wouldn’t even have violence! What kind of Pixar movie kills off someone/something?! Here’s how you do it properly: Have Brave (is that the girl’s name? I forget.) get the witchy lady to turn the biggo bear back into that super-attractive guy that we all know he must have been! And then: ta-da! Brave has got her a husband, and the bear is gone (with no squishing), and they all live happily ever after! You’re welcome, Pixar. Feel free to contact me for any plot assistance in the future. Love, Jenni.

After the movie ended, we once again found ourselves in the oven-like heat that was Las Vegas. No, not again! We then ran back to our hotel that wasn’t actually our hotel anymore. Home sweet home! Nicole tried her luck at a blackjack table, which was pretty cool to watch. We even had the dealer teach us how to play – because neither of us had any idea how to play blackjack. Then Nicole lost $5. Then we left our hotel (so long!) for the very, very last time.

It was time, finally, to go home.

Home.

Before that, we had to take back our car. (No, we did not put that scratch there! Thank you very much, mr. rental car guy!) I snapped a picture of our silver Ford Taurus baby as we walked away from it and towards the shuttle bus that would take us to the airport. Fun Fact: Our trip mileage counter read 1,500. 1,500 miles! In a week and one day. What a week it was.

At the airport, I almost got through security without them stopping/patting/arresting me. But when they called “Who’s bag is this?” while pointing to my little red luggage, I claimed it quickly and without surprise. Now what? Apparently their machine only took a picture of half of it, so they had to run the bag through again. Or something. I just nodded and clutched my shoes while many of the people who had been in line behind me streamed past. Then I grabbed my luggage and (trying to be very non-suspicious) strolled along to my gate.

Home.

Before that, we had to fly to Phoenix. Again, the flight seemed to take only a few minutes. Well, apart from the very nice (talkative) lady who wanted to tell us all about her 7-month stay in Hawaii, and how she had already been on a plane for 5 hours that day, and how it was going to take her another 4 hours to get home, and how a gallon of milk costs way too much in Hawaii, and etc.

Here I’d like to mention how much I love flying. Every part of it. Even, and especially, the people.

Then, home. After an hour layover, we boarded our flight to Detroit, MI. Home. It was 11:15PM as we found our seats and settled in on the plane. It was 6:20AM as we got off the plane and found ourselves, finally, unfortunately, thankfully, wonderfully, terribly: home.

After one week and one day, we had returned. To the land of trees, it seemed to me. Trees and lots of green. Michigan. After a week and one day of exploration. After the first trip west.

Californiacation.

I don’t know how to sum up my trip; If I should, or if it’s even possible. When people ask me about it, I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to explain.

I went. I saw.

You should too.

Californiacation, pt 8

July 18, 2012

Californiacation

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This is it. This is the day I leave California. Leave LA, leave this beautiful ocean-bordered state and go back into the scorching desert.

Also known as Las Vegas.

Yes, all this is in the write-up for today, but we didn’t head back to Vegas first thing in the morning. Why? Well, one look at the weather forecast for Vegas gave us pause; it was 108 degrees there – at 10 in the morning – and it was only expected to get hotter.

Sure, that’s a dry heat, but, still, we decided it would be best to stay in LA’s cooler weather for a bit longer.

That was totally ok with me, because I really didn’t want to go back to Vegas at all. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to California. Not yet.

So, what does one do in the middle of somewhere in LA with a few hours to kill?

Go to the movies!

Which is what we did – after breakfast, of course.

Breakfast. We were used to having breakfast at breakfast time at this point in our trip, so I whipped out my handy-dandy phone and used Urban Spoon to locate us some foodstuffs.

We ended up at this place called Dinah’s family restaurant, and my pancakes had strawberries on top of them and I had fresh-squeezed California orange juice and I was a very happy camper.

LA seems to be hectically busy at all times. Dinah’s was packed from the moment we got there until the moment with left, with the wait-staff eager for us to finish as soon as they set us down with fresh silverware. (I realized later that it was a Sunday morning… in LA… so, understandable.) Very busy.

I wonder if there are ever empty roads in LA, like there are at home in Michigan. At 3AM, is there still traffic on the 405?

Again, though, I will ask the question – What does one do when they’ve got a few hours to kill? (You, enthusiastically: “Go to the movies!!” Me: “That’s right!”)

We had to drive a whole 2 miles to the nearest movie theatre. Good grief, LA! We happened upon this cool little mall-sort-of-complex – with $2 parking! Hello! Will take!

Then, The Amazing Spiderman happened. During the movie, I found myself thinking: “Didn’t I see this movie already? Didn’t they just make this movie? Really, I’m supposed to believe that Emma Stone is 17 years old? Ooh, hello there, Andrew Garfield! Wait, he doesn’t shoot webs out of his hands?! WTF?” Etc.

It was a good flick, though.

Overall.

You know?

Yeah.

Ok – I’m just stalling! The next part of my journey is coming up and I don’t want to think about it let alone write it all out in excruciating detail!

…

Then we left California.

Nicole drove, so I got to sit in the passenger seat and stare glumly out the window as LA disappeared, and the entire state of Cali flew by. It was honestly kind of a beautiful life moment, though. While I was in California, I realized how much more there is in the world that a lot of people miss out on. I don’t know why they do. Voluntarily. I found myself thinking that, in a year, after I graduate from college, I could move out there – to California. Or, I could go anywhere. It was kind of a wonderful realization.

Yes, I had to leave behind California and all of the wonderful places I had been – but, I could come back. Or, I could keep going – to new places; see the world.

The world is as big as you let it be.

We drove East to Vegas, (while I booked a hotel on my, yes you guessed it, phone) and spent the night at the Tropicana hotel.

The end.

Wait, no. There’s more! A lot more. We were in Vegas, baby! And we weren’t ready to stop exploring just yet.

Nicole had never been to Vegas, though as this was my third time there, and I felt like a Vegas pro. So, we wandered out to walk the strip – and find dinner, of course! Who do you think we are?

Uh, Vegas is hot. Like, really hot. Yes, sure, it’s a dry heat – but that’s like saying the inside of your oven is a dry heat. That’s pretty much where I felt I was – inside of an oven – as we journeyed down the strip and snapped some photographs. After a half hour of baking, we decided to duck into Outback Steakhouse, and out of the heat.

I then proceeded to guzzle down three glasses of water.

Nicole got her steak, and I my burger and fries, and we sat there munching happily as the cute waiter guy came back every 5 minutes to refill our water glasses.

Oh – did I tell you the story about the waiter guy? No? Let me fill you in!

He was cute. And funny. And, it turned out, from Michigan! Just like we were! Was it a sign?! Also, he was pretty great at bringing us water. That’s how you know he’s a good catch.

Anyway, that happened, and we left Outback with very full stomachs – and my number on the receipt! Oh my god! That happened! Yes, it did!

It was kind of a big deal to me – I don’t give random guys my number! But, hey, I do now. Or, maybe I only do that in Vegas. (What happens there…)

He wouldn’t text me anyway, right? It was just a funny, exciting thing to do.

We pretty much ran out of that restaurant so we wouldn’t see him on the way out. So much for us being daring souls, right?

Then, back to the Tropicana. We were so tired! Stretched out on our (very comfortable) beds, we watched T.V. for a little while. It was getting late. Wait, no, it was late! It was midnight! When had that happened? Time for bed?

Then, I realized, we hadn’t had a drink yet.

When we first set off on this adventure, we talked about how one night we should go to a bar and have a drink. Newly 21, this sounded like an exciting idea to both of us. However, we found ourselves there, in Vegas, on the last night of our trip, with no drinks on our record. What? Unacceptable!

So, we went out. Again. Into the Las Vegas night.

And it was still fucking hot. 110 degrees at midnight? Really?

Nicole was on a mission to find an icy sort of fruity drink. What we ended up with was large cups of pink, icy, pretend-strawberry margaritas. Honestly, I have no idea what they were. We found an outside bar (with these cool fans that blew water on you!) that had some sort of pink business sloshing around inside a machine, and ordered two.

It was really, horribly strong. But I drank the whole thing. With lots of grimaces.

Then, we went back to the Tropicana and went to sleep.

Oh, wait! No we didn’t! I mean, yeah, that was the plan – but then waiter guy texted me!

I may have been a little too excited about the whole thing, but I’ll just blame that drink I had. Anyway, I then busted into the bathroom while my friend was in the shower and proceeded to cackle hysterically while attempting to explain that the waiter guy had just texted me.

It was a good night.

It was a good last day of our vacation.

And as I continued to cackle for the next hour or so, I realized that we still had almost an entire day left of our adventures before our plane ride home. The fun wasn’t over yet!