Vegas. Club anniversary party. All of the best people will be there! Yeah, I’ll come for the weekend. Yeah, I will dress like a Pro and blow on your dice. I will dance on a banquette to gangsta' rap 'till 4am and even go to an after party in a mall basement till 6. But, on Sunday? I WILL read my Sunday New York Times. I will rationalize my whole weekend, as I do every weekend since I was fourteen, while I tap into the finest mainstream news in the nation and collect my thoughts. It is MY ritual.
But, ha ha, not this particular weekend, ho.
Whilst perched high above club poolside in a "VIP" bed, with my girls, and 45 other VIPs, the pool manager approached me to say, "Um, hi, ah, yeahhh, THERE IS NO READING AT CLUB POOLSIDE. You can...dance...have another cocktail...layout topless...but, yeah, noooooo, this paper in your face looks 'boring, bored, uninteresting', haha, you catch my drift?"
Whoa. Like, whoa. This is the beginning of the end.
The "drift" at club poolside, VIP edition, is to be a "ready-to-party' glamazon at ANY HOUR, regardless of your interests, priorities, or rituals.
My beloved paper was removed from my person while my jaw dropped and (what remains in) my brain spun. VegASS. Don't get it twisted.
"I DIDN'T FLY YOU OUT HERE TO DO THINGS LIKE BE YOURSELF."
love- strategist jem girlfriend
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