I woke up so worn out that I wanted to cry. Vegas had sucked every last ounce of energy out of me. I was ready to go home to where nothing was dinging or flashing at me, where I could get back to getting up early and going running and eating normal foods in modest portions.

This, possibly, makes me a party pooper.

Very well. I’m a party pooper.

I had a great time, while it lasted, and I even thought that I was doing a pretty good job of pacing myself with some nice quiet time during the day to read and relax, but I just don’t have very much stamina for Vegas style entertainment.

There’s something about Vegas that bothers me. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it feels symptomatic of something larger. The strip feels so… glossy. Not all of it, of course, there are some blocks that are grittier than others, but on the whole it feels very… packaged. As if Vegas is a sales pitch for itself.

You don’t have to go far off of the strip to see the edges of the dream, but no one goes there, or no one pays attention when they do. It’s as if the force of so much willful self-deception is bending reality itself into a warped, glistening, glittering self portrait in which we see ourselves as beautiful and young and rich and magical when in fact we are just average, aging, cheap, and drunk. It’s like the reverse of the Picture of Dorian Gray: a place that stays forever young and beautiful in the eternal now while sending us home with new wrinkles and doubts, vowing to come again because next time we’ll do it right.

It’s possible that I’m overthinking this.

~ by Gwydhar Gebien on March 16, 2016.

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