I get up early the next morning so I can indulge in a bath before I leave. The Showgirl, Princeton and I have coffee and chat about events. The Showgirl tells me that Frog Prince is a "playa." I wonder at what kind of deranged necriphiliac would go after such a specimen.
Then I realize I'm looking at such a deranged person. Not only does she want to sleep with him but she was DENIED. Let me tell you this is not the kind of guy that should be allowed to turn down sex from Goodwill. This is what pure capitalism breeds people-that personality bereft toads can be "playas", and a girl like myself wakes up alone the majority of her life.


In college, I took Introduction to Psychology. Part of the course is participating in psych experiments. Often you are called upon to fill out long forms which ask questions like "Do you believe I'm more fun when you're drunk?" The question that is not on the form is "Do your friends tell you that you are more fun when you are drunk?" Princeton and I chat on our own. We decide that the Showgirl is only tolerable when she is drinking. Otherwise she is obsessed with monitoring every facial expression of the Frog Prince. We decide that she has a two drink minimum. We should have laced her coffee with Bailey's. The Frog Prince takes us to the Aladdin for shopping and brunch. Throughout brunch the Showgirl is quiet and removed.


After brunch, I manage to fulfill one of my Vegas goals. I buy a black cowboy hat with a few tasteful rhinestones. Afterwards I look in the hat to see what brand I have bought: Jack Daniels. No joke.


Princeton insists we all go to the Liberace museum before my flight home. Considering how much time time we have left, we literally run past the crystal encrusted cars and plumed capes. We quickly cruise through the gift store. I buy the Best of Liberace CD to listen to on the plane home.


Even up until the last moment, Daddy Warbucks keeps asking Frog Prince, "But what would be fun for you?" And he doesn't seem to get that the concept of fun for this guy is like trying to explain a desert to an Eskimo-at best it exists as an abstract concept.

Driving by Treasure Island on the way to the airport-I flinch. Again the lesson learned from Eric is the strange things that can induce nostalgia. My last night in Vegas, on the previous visit, his mother took us out to dinner there. She wanted me to see the staged pirate battle. She loved Vegas. She took me for cocktails at the Bellagio and to parties at Mandalay Bay. She taught me how to play video poker. The last night she took us all out to dinner at Treasure Island. They had a woman who comes around and takes pictures. She took our picture together. His mother bought it for me. I carried it around in my backpack. Even after he left, I carried it as a talisman almost. To remember that it was real, that it happened. To remember what he looked liked in case he ever came back. I forgot about it a couple of times, only to find it jammed at the bottom crusted with pencil shavings.

I though about calling her, his mother, the one who used to call me Eric's rock, the one who told me how happy she was her son found me. Of course, I wasn't going to. What would I say? Yes my life is a howling emotional wasteland where I continue to fail at EVERYTHING I've attempted to achieve in this life and only briefly populated by the hope of a peaceful death, and how have you been?


It's not exactly appropriate tea time chat.


At the airport, Princeton leaps out of the car to give me a hug. The Showgirl barely offers me her cheek to kiss through the car window. I take my bag and start to roll it towards my departure gate.


I'm finally leaving Las Vegas.

Upcoming Posts: Leaving Las Vegas and You Would Be So Nice to Come Home To-the conclusion of the Vegas Diaries-and also a very special Valentine's Day post