Back from Vegas
◊ Las Vegas. Halfway through the second night there, I swore if I saw one more person holding a Bud Light and yelling "Vegas, baby!" I would kill them on the spot.
No such luck.
Oh, and I'm officially a moron. After hearing Owen rabbit about what the Nevada desert is like (and sure he meant Reno, but isn't the whole fucking state desert? Do I care if it's not? Right) I thought I was all prepared 'n' shit by getting myself some Chapstick. That's me, thinking like a goddamn Boy Scout. But hand lotion? Who the fuck needs that?
Now, in a desperate attempt to moisturize, I am obsessively rubbing hand lotion all over myself every half-hour. Ooh baby, how sexy. Except it's not sexy because my skin's all dried out. I didn't want to spend money on overpriced lotion at a shop on the Strip, and I didn't notice the little complimentary bottle of lotion in the hotel room until the night before we left. So, yes. Moron.
On the flight over, we passed over Death Valley. Two lines of mountains and between them a long sloping ditch I knew was full of smooth tan sand and the bones of doomed pioneers.
It was beautiful.