Dear Las Vegas,
We’ve been seeing each other for over 20 years now. I think it’s time we started seeing other people. When we first got together, you were fun. I could go to a hotel on the strip, stay for 10 bucks a night and play $3 per hand blackjack. The Sands, the Frontier, the Imperial Palace, the Dunes. All on the strip, all affordable and all a good time. What happened?
We started seeing each other in college, me making the 3ish hour drive from UC Riverside to Las Vegas Blvd. You didn’t mind that I was underage at the time, you were just happy to have me sitting at your tables, playing your games and drinking your drinks.
Over the years though, you’ve changed. Now you gouge my wallet every chance you get. You change the odds in blackjack. You jack up your hotel prices to rates that are completely unaffordable. You used to be fine with hanging out and having a good time, but now you charge me 60 bucks for a steak (albeit a really, really good steak), velvet rope me at clubs (since I’m the wrong gender, am not a fist pumping juicer and did not just take a bath in Axe Body Spray) and won’t even give me a free drink unless I’m betting $100 or more at the sportsbook.
Seriously Vegas. Remember how much fun we used to have playing “spot the hooker”? We’d scan the bar, looking for all the telltale signs – the pancaked makeup, worn out vibe, the mid 40s pretending to be 20 lady sitting alone at the bar sipping a drink through a stirring straw to avoid being chased out as a loiterer? Thanks to your aggravating (but completely brilliant) “What Happens in Vegas” campaign, now everyone looks like that mid 40s pretending to be 20 lady.
I know, we have to be realistic about this. You and I run in the same circles, so we’re bound to be forced together. I know we’ll be seeing each other next month at PUBCON, but let’s agree to keep it civil. I’ll stay away from the places that all the beautiful people hang out if you agree to keep some random 7 For All Mankind jeans wearing, collar popping Situation wannabe from shoulderchecking me and drunkenly slurring “yo, my bad bro”.
I’ll always remember the good times we had fondly, but at this point, I think it’s best if we just keep our relationship professional and platonic.
Regards,
Mike
