Why would you need to hold a grip on yourself? There’s no need. You’ve got bikinied floozies to the left and to the right, countless wasted cups floating around in the pool, and 16 ounce margaritas that cost ten dollars.
It’s a flat desolation
In a sea of double-D fake tits and tan asses half-covered by the skimpy bikini bottoms.
Reminding me of college Fridays and Saturdays on the street
Where you’d go to get drunk and yell at strangers
Where the insanely beautiful and ugly collect on the slot machine alleyways
Merging to a mood of tempered contempt
Shuck dollar bills from leather folds, deep in empty, unemployed pockets
For a summer fling
An overpriced crepe
and every time I see a poster for the Donny and Marie show, I punch it fantastically until the plastic merchandise and surgically altered smiles shatter.
I almost choke on a bag of Cooler Ranch Doritos as one of the two girls in our party who were sporting the little black dress was taking a piss in the middle of the parking lot, trying to use us as a 4-person wall. I didn’t watch for 5 seconds and the puddle streamed over to make contact with the bottom of my right heel, still trying to catch my breath. Later they’re kicked out of Excalibur because they were having sex in the handicapped stall of the Ladies’ bathroom. I had to go pee, too, so I laughed and snorted at the moaning from across the room. They laughed, too, once they heard, although I don’t think it was funny enough for him to pull out.
Walking down the strip at 2am, 3am, 4am until 5 when we’re back in the car, racing the sunrise before we get back to refuge, throw water on our faces and sink into the fluffy hotel pillows.
I’m floating down the MGM Grand moat in an inner tube, getting doused by salty, piss water and reminded over and over how much I like home. But I was wet, tipsy, in a bikini for the second time, self-conscious about my recently cottage-cheesed thighs, and generally having a pleasant float down stream.
I notice an obese black mother, sitting poolside waiting for the rest of her family, maybe thinking some of the same resentful things I am.
Old couples leaning over video poker slow my step to a mortal halt. Do they live here? Where is the rest of their family?
Every teenager I see I feel sorry for, because I know they’ll come back soon and drink their minds silly, slapping cocks against asses and tits into faces, in that particular swagger and stupor akin the conscious fuck it all to their emotional well-being.
Viva Sin City
For being useless but necessary
Before the 5-hour drive back to all things conscious.
good to be back, fee.