And now, back to our regularly scheduled story:
"What the hell happened in Vegas?" That's the phrase my cohorts and I have been screaming at each other ever since we began the six-hour drive back over two months ago. I'll try to tell you what the hell happened in Vegas, but I can't guarantee that any of the following events did or didn't happen as I describe them because...it was Vegas.
First, let's talk about how Katie, Deanna, Euliza, and I decided to go to Vegas. Sitting on the patio at Sharkeez, getting drunk off margaritas and fat 'n' happy off nachos, somebody declared how much fun we would have in Vegas. Whoever said it was met with a chorus of, "Yeah, we should TOTALLY go to Vegas! A whole weekend of therapy! We would kick that town's ass!" (Therapy is what we call our get-togethers, as they are no-holds-barred bitchfests.) While three of us assumed it was one of those "What a fanfuckingtastic idea when we're drunk but notsomuch when we're sober" things, Deanna texted all of us the next day asking when we were going. Alrighty then! We were going to Vegas! We decided on a weekend, got together to book a hotel room, realized that weekend wouldn't work price-wise, and rescheduled at the last minute--literally seconds before I made the reservation for two weekends later--for the weekend of July 6. See? I wasn't supposed to be in Vegas that weekend. I wasn't supposed to be in Vegas at all. And it is so fitting that it came down to money as to how I ended up there.