Almost a year ago, 

the company I worked for sent me to Las Vegas for a cheerleading competition. It was so kewl! The competition thing, I mean, NOT Las Vegas. I ended up having a nervous breakdown while I was there and got quite sick. I wouldn’t have remembered this event (my brain puts traumatic experiences into this little box labeled “Do not open, for fuck’s sake, or all hellz will break loose inside this mind!”) except that my husband just deleted my entire bloggy-blog, so now I’m going through an old folder called “crap I wrote” to see what material I saved, and I came across this little gem of an unsent email.

Las Vegas, An UN-Love Letter

Las Vegas is pretty fucking scary. It is also loud and annoying, crowded, expensive, and silly. There are slot machines in the fucking airport, I shit you not. Get off the plane and you can start losing your money before you even hit baggage claim. Most stupid thing I ever saw.

 All Expenses Paid?

This “all expenses paid” trip for work has cost me quite a pretty penny. I had to pay $21 to get from the airport to the hotel, and once I arrived, I was expected to put forth a $100 security deposit, which I only narrowly avoided by NOT having any money available on my credit card! Which is funny only in the sense that I do not HAVE a credit card on which money would or would not be available. The check-in clerk that dealt with me granted me an exception “this time”, warning that “next time” I’ll need to be aware and prepared for that fee. Right. I’ll go ahead now and get that on my planner for when I NEVER come back to Vegas, being the boring, non-partying, non-gambling poop that I am.

Song currently playing on my iTunes list:

Brittany Spears’ “Piece of Me”, as in, “Do you wanna?”

Perfectly fits my mood, ha ha.

Wi-Fi – A la carte

All signs describe this wonderful browsing service the hotel is equipped with… except they all fail to mention the $15 service fee which gets charged to my room. Except I can’t charge anything to my room for the aforementioned reasons. Fuck that. I’ll go sit at McD’s if I need to get online. But nothing is so important, really, that it can’t wait till I get home.

Song now playing:

Ace of Base’s “I Saw the Sign”.

As in, I saw it, but it sure didn’t give me accurate information.

Fuckers.

Score for Vegas so far:

Bright lights impress me not, and hotel rooms are the same across the country (trust). The bed is uber-comfy and the bathroom is decent (added bonus, it ‘s clean, too!). The desk is set up at an odd angle so my chair backs into the dresser, which is completely unnecessary since there’s such a large amount of unused space. The sitting room for entertaining guests is an unexpected bonus, except that I’m here alone and have no friends planning to stop by, so I just find it depressing. The ice machine is 500 miles down the hallway, with no pop machines in site (probably because I’m expected to head down to the casino for drinks)… hmmm… out of a 10 so far I’ll give it a 6, because I’m generous and well-rested. Otherwise, I’m thirsty and hungry and annoyed.

Song now playing:

Tom Petty’s “Last Dance with Mary Jane”.

As in, final opportunity for the City of Lights to turn things around.

Now I’m off in search of a tiny morsel of breakfast, or at least maybe a bottled water. Will report back after lunch.

Song playing as I sign off:

John Mellancamp’s “Hurts So Good”.

I’m going to disagree with Mr. M.

This hurt isn’t feeling too great.

It’s feeling pissy.

That’s all I wrote.

Sadly, after lunch I seem to have died and was unable to finish the email. Really, it’s just as well. This is the rest of what happened: I ate dinner with some of the cheerleading coaches and we all talked trash about the hoochies walking around all skankified in their leotards and feathers. I went to bed early that night, because I knew the next day would be rough (working the competition and facing mean people — there is no one more harsh than a cheer mom — they are some uppidty bitches, for realz!). And it WAS a rough day, but I got through it. Even though I showed up an hour late since I forgot to read the part of the memo that said what time staff had to arrive at the arena. That kind of shit always happens to me. It’s a wonder I never got fired.

That night I had dinner with the owners and directors.

I wish I had skipped out. It was so scary and pretentious. Those people think so highly of themselves and it was embarrassing to be the only one present in my job description. I kind of created my own title and forced my way up to the top, only to discover I no longer wanted to be there because they knew how to cut their steak properly and I didn’t. Also, somehow their glasses of wine stayed somewhat full, while I kept having to refill mine.

Now you are probably going to think…

that me getting sick the next day was a hangover, not a nervous breakdown. You may be right. I don’t know. While everyone else was flying home, or sightseeing, or whatever it is people do in Vegas on a Sunday, I was hiding in my room till the maid kicked me out. So there I was with my wheely-backpack and my laptop bag, with nowhere to go. I couldn’t leave the hotel because I was too scared to catch a taxi and also I didn’t know how to summon one and I hate asking for help. I was stuck. But I couldn’t bear the thought of all that noise-noise-Noise-NOISE! of the casinos in the lobby — ding-ding-jangle-woop-woop-ding-ding — enough to drive me mad. So I went to see a movie instead. Yeah, bitches, that’s right — my fucking hotel was so massive it housed a theater, along with a bowling alley. So I brought my luggage in with me and sat it at the front right next to the stage. Saddest thing ever? I was the only customer. An entire theater to myself, and I couldn’t even enjoy it because there were so many tears inside my eyes and barfs inside my stomach.

After the movie ended

(it was the hilarious Horrible Bosses in case you were wondering, and I know you were) I had to go learn how to get to the airport. Six hours before my flight. Because I had nothing else to do and was too scared to leave the hotel except to fly away home. It took FOR—EV—ER to get a taxi because they stay behind a line and don’t come forward unless you beckon them, which I did not know, so I kept just standing there pretending to read a book on my phone in order to play it cool, as though I couldn’t possibly care LESS if a taxi arrived or not. Finally one came up and the driver stuck his head out the window to ask if I was in need of assistance. He could tell I was a newb. I hate that guy. But he drove me to the airport and I sat next to a pluggy-plug for six hours watching re-runs of Felicity with my earbuds in place so as to more easily ignore the world. I made it home, safe and sound. The end.

PS. I will never go to Las Vegas EVER again. Just in case you weren’t sure how I felt about it.