I've been trying to find ways to kill myself since I was little.
I once got a subscription to Sports Illustrated that ended in collections agency calls to my parents.
Because I was twelve, and gave them my dad's name and a fake credit card number. That whole online credit check thing was a little looser those days.
My dad was almost charged for fraud, and ended up having to pay for a year of my subscription.
I only got it for the swimsuit issue, which he confiscated before I could see.
Online porn was kind of new in those days, too. I literally was more willing to wait for a magazine in the mail than wait for the pictures to load on playboy.com.
Although... I did that too.
I almost didn't make it to my thirteenth birthday.
For me, Vegas also fits into the category of 'possible suicidal tendencies'.
Probably the most responsible thing I did on my last trip was sky diving. And even then, I had to sign a form saying 'I have not consumed alcohol or drugs in the past 8 hours'.
It was more like forty minutes.
I can check off sky diving from my bucket list, though.
It was awesome. And I'd say anyone who hasn't gone should go at least once.
Cousin lost a bet to me, and had to go with me. She's so terrified of heights, I was really proud of her for getting all suited up and into the plane. But, she couldn't get herself out the plane door at 15,000 feet.
The adrenaline rush is crazy. The instructor told us to take it easy on the alcohol that night, because the heightened levels of adrenaline would make it effect us significantly more.
Challenge accepted. So, instead, I bought VIP tickets for a pub crawl, and drank my face off.
The alcohol hit me like a wave of awesome.
By the time we were done at the first night club, I already had a hard buzz going, and probably only downed like three drinks.
Second stop was Tao night club. Which, in retrospect, I think we should have stayed at. Can you say 'free pour'? But we paid the extra money for our tickets, so we were supposed to end up at PURE night club - which is amazing, and which was going to be even more incredible that particular night because of a celebrity appearance.
So we moved on.
Next stop was LAX.
At which point, I was thoroughly hammered.
I don't understand why the fuck-head who designed that night club was like: 'I know, let's put seventy three staircases for no goddamn reason all over the fucking place.'
On the way in, I felt like I'd gotten lost in a maze of hallways. Flashes of Hostel went through my mind, and I was definitely thinking I was headed to my demise. As I started to panic, Cousin had to herd me through the madness until it opened up again in to the actual club.
I've never been there sober, so in all likelihood, that hallway may only be ten feet long.
As soon as we got in, I had to pee, so Cousin helped me find the way to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, I came out surrounded by what appeared to be a gang of Asians, and Cousin was worried I was going to get my ass kicked. For about three seconds, until she realized I had somehow made friends with ALL of them WHILE PISSING, and they were all fist bumping and high-fiving me for reasons I don't recall.
Knowing me, it could've been anything. I may have shown them my penis.
PURE was supposed to be next. We didn't make it there, though. Because the organizers fucked up and put us with the wrong group.
I'm fairly certain it's because they were getting Alzheimer's. Seriously, they looked like something out of a penthouse-for-seniors magazine. Fake tits that pointed off in the wrong directions, blonde out of a bottle, bad plastic surgery and face lifts, lips with too many injections, tans out of a can, and porn star length fake nails.
I decided to point out their flaws.
So, the pub crawl, for me, ended at the twenty four hour MacDonald's in the Luxor hotel.
Still one of the best nights of my life.
And, considering I made out with the hottest Russian blonde I've ever met the night before... in a strip club... where she was working... I'd say that's saying a lot.
I told you: Vegas and me are buddies.
