So I am not packed. I’m supposed to be leaving right this minute, driving down to Milwaukee to catch an insanely early flight (ever notice how everything here on Dumber than a Box of Rocks is either “insane” or “ridiculous” or variations therein… clearly I do not live in a French farce so why do I feel compelled to describe my life as such? The questions, they have no answers) to what is perhaps the modern day Gomorrah (the trendy suburb with the expensive lofts and hellish commute to Sodom) where I will inevitably do very inadvisable things and act irresponsibly and inevitably find myself in a very sketchy emergency room, as that seems to be the way. And even so, I know that it’s going to be deliriously fun and that I’ll have more fun than I have any right to have and when I’m flying out of the airport, I’ll look longingly back at the strip and the big ray of light shooting up out of my hotel and wist back on the crazy weekend that was. Or turn into a pillar of salt. One of the two.
Here’s a packing update: I have just conceded that I will not be able to cram all of my stuff into one suitcase and remain under the 50 pound limit, therefore will need to bring two bags. For a three night trip. Technically a four night, since I’m sleeping over in Milwaukee tonight, but still. Two bags. Over 50 pounds of stuff. That’s just so wrong on so many levels, and yet, I simply do not care. To par down my camel’s hump would require undo stress and at this point, I am not making any sudden movements lest I freak completely the fuck out with my normal pre-trip travel anxiety.
Delightful thing: at least three people have spontaneously tried to soothe me and telling me to not worry that if I forget something, I can always buy something or bunt in my own inimitable fashion. And that’s just sweet, because I wasn’t making any freak out noises (aside from a gentle tremble, perhaps) and they just know me well enough to remember my crazy pre-trip thing and tried to step in. Big awwww.
Ok, now I really have to pack. Man. I am so going to forget something important. Like my feet or something. Because how can you do Vegas without feet?
Anyway, there it is. That’s where I’ll be. Not dead. Not a whore. Just in Vegas. Which of these things is not like the other…
Until then, here’s the view from my front porch after one of the storms this weekend.
One Trackback/Pingback
[…] Esteban and I embarked upon our separate but equal trips to Las Vegas for a very neat adventure: the very same IT conference. It’s not often that our jobs have […]