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It was New Years Eve. I was in Sin City, you know that place where shit happens and it's supposed to stay there until you get the test results back and realized you've taken herpes with you and it isn't going anywhere. I started drinking while getting ready to go out. I was spending the holiday with three male volleyball players, a baseball player, a bubbly blonde & a woman in a wig. There was no way in hell I could get drunk enough, quick enough to be able to competently deal with any of the people I was with. I started getting ready around 7:00pm. It was around 10:30pm when we left to hang out on the strip. I had been drinking steadily for over three hours while I attempted to apply makeup. The end result, I did not look like Bozo the Clown after a 78 hour coke binge. It was a miracle. I was in a turquoise v-neck sweater. It had the same exact cut as the atrocity of a dress J-Lo wore when she decided to flaunt her navel to all of America. When I saw my tits hanging out I knew was going to be a total hit.
Every time I glanced at the woman in the wig, I wondered to myself‹or perhaps out loud‹VERY LOUDLY‹who exactly does she think she is fooling. It was quickly followed up with inquiries of its attachment. Mr. G, one of the volleyball players and my life long friend told me in strict confidence about the wig the night before incase I got "Sabrina Shitfaced." It was supposed to help me avoid ripping the BLANK off her head and waving it around my own, in some sort of Neolithic battle cry. Perhaps he should never have told me. Because of this I kept drinking in massive quantities while pushing my way through all the morons Middle America had to offer. I couldn't figure out why everyone was asking to take pictures with me. Maybe it was my super outgoing attitude, or maybe it was the fact that I had a giant plastic football filled with beer in between my tits. Who knows really? I drank that whole goddamned football and then I stole someone's water bottle filled with jack and coke.
Around this time I started to get super belligerent. Of the things I remember lucidly is my exchange with a college student from USC. He admitted that all he wanted to do was take pictures of my breasts. The blonde told him that it would cost him money or she would get to kick him in the crotch. I thought this was great and I think I might have shoved the guy. Or maybe not, who knows for sure. After that, the blonde and I got to talking about the fact that I have amazingly aesthetically perfect nipples. Despite the fact that my breasts are gigantic and the nipples should be ugly and deformed. I am awesome. Some other guy heard our conversation and came over. He said he needed to check out the goods. I told him to fuck off and then I bitch slapped him as hard as I could. I remember his friends making the international sound for, "You just got told by a girl." That ridiculous, "OOOOH!" sound the audience uses when they guest on Jerry Springer tells their significant other that they have been fucking the Beagle called Sam. When he got up off the floor (yes I hit him that hard), he was super pissed off and who could blame him? I think he slurred something that should have sounded like, "You think you are so cool, but you¹re a bitch." Which in a backhanded kind of way is still a compliment, but I was crazy drunk and ready for battle. Of course, the blonde had my back because usually she is the first to start a fight. Wiggy had run off, and I suppose this was for the best being that her hair could get ripped off in the process.
It was when 6'7" Mr. G. grabbed my shoulders from behind and spun me around did the potential fight end. "Leave her alone," I heard him bellow as I started to cackle. It was around this time that people start to announce there was ten minutes until midnight. Well, I decided to announce back that we had only ten seconds until I pissed all over myself. Mr. G, another volleyball player and the baseball player decided they should escort me to the lovely port-a-potties provided by the fabulous city of Las Vegas. Seriously, I could have crawled up inside a sewer pipe and not been quite as disgusted. I have my purse to the volleyball player and told him not to let anything happen to my port-a-potty because I was not going to lock the door for fear of getting some disease on my hands. File that under obvious foreshadowing.