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RIPPER MECCA: THE FINAL FOUR DAYS

Jacq

Days 7-10 (or was it 11?) are currently a smear of self-tanner on my short term memory. I'm experiencing this unique form of jet lag where I wake up at 3pm feeling like this world is playing a joke on me, so I saunter to the fridge, chomp on some frozen cookie dough, and go back to bed. If you want to hate yourself and feel perpetually bloated with malnourishment, you should probably try this.  

In no specific order, here are some things that happened in the final 96 hours of Vegas, baby. 

Bunny arrived! She came to watch me do some stand-up (Thanks to these time-shared leather pants, I didn't suck). People laughed awkwardly, IT WAS AWESOME.

Step-and-repeats are everywhere in Vegas. They make you feel like a poseur in all senses of the word, and I like it. 

Step-and-repeats are everywhere in Vegas. They make you feel like a poseur in all senses of the word, and I like it. 

 Like any good friend, I proceeded to take her straight to the clink. 

Have you noticed this new acid wash denim jacket I'm wearing in nearly every picture? I found it at Target and we are in love. My wife is jealous and calls it 'cheap.' I call it my Nasty Jaxxet. 

After a baller night at the club, I put one whole dollar in a penny slot and felt like the optimistic loser Vegas wants me to feel like. 

Then Bunny noticed some babes sitting beside us at the bar, stirring drinks with a very familiar sort of blasé determination. 

"Are they following us?" she whispers, mouthing that she saw them dawdling outside the club as we left. (Read: full-service hustlers dawdle outside strip clubs in the wee hours for easy targets.)

Turns out they were trying to rob us. 

BUT THEY DIDN'T because we were about to meet up with some very drunk male friends that we know from real life. Once this became obvious, the aspiring thieves left. (Hos only steal from hos when the pimps aren't swarming.)

But really: WHO THE FUCK STEALS FROM STRIPPERS, MAN. Like come on, sex workers ,we are all in this TOGETHER. Don't take my hard-earned and chafey dry-humping dollars! Steal from the suits like the rest of us! 

ANYWAY. 

Valerie gave me the perm I've always wanted.

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It took an industrial sized bottle of conditioner to comb that shit out but fuck did I ever feel like a fine lioness in those tresses. I felt like I was ready to fight a bitch for the last pair of limited edition rhinestone kitten heels* at the Prada sample sale. 

Try me, pool boy. Touch those kicks and I'll jump right out of this Dean-filtered photo and fuck you up worse than your stepmother. 

Try me, pool boy. Touch those kicks and I'll jump right out of this Dean-filtered photo and fuck you up worse than your stepmother. 

Valerie got glam as fuck by the pool again and although we truly missed the appearance of Cheetos (I ate them all during the Showgirls Drinking Game), she carried her look with the panache of a four-martinis-in housewife hostess. 

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We made money! We did! Can't take photos of impressionable married men in compromising circumstances, though, so here is a photo of Valerie giving us pageant smile makeovers using photoshop. 

But really, though, nobody does Chiclet whites better than Britney. 

Bunny and I soaked off the stress of being drunk, dope and drunk by eating pizza rolls in the tub. 

I don't know how it ended, really. It's mostly a blur of junk food and cash in my panties... a blur to which I masturbate frequently. 

Thanks, Vegas, Valerie Stunning and Showgirls, I love you dearly and shall be back soon. 

Love,

'Heather'

 

*KIDDING. Unless you're 12, Kitten heels are fucking stupid. Go big or STAY HOME.