Dear Hard Rock Las Vegas,
I want you to know how much I love you. I’ve pretty much been in love with you since I went to see the Foo Fighters at the Joint. There were cute boys who bought me drinks, cute boys to dance with, and cute boys who almost –ALMOST – made forget I was happily married. I had one of the best nights ever, which is saying a lot since just earlier in the day I was totally & completely hung over and not quite sure that I was going to be able to make it out alive.
Since THAT trip to Vegas, I’ve been back to visit you several more times. And I’ve had a blast every single time. But you know I can’t just come and visit you whenever I want. I’ve got a job, BILLS, a husband who doesn’t love Vegas as much as I do, rent…You get the idea. I can’t be blowing several hundred dollars a month messing around with you.
And yet, you mock me. You relentlessly and unfeelingly send me hotel deals for weekends in Vegas. You tempt me with concerts of people you KNOW I want to see AND you give me presale passwords, so I can get the jump on concert tickets. WHY are you torturing me? It’s not enough that I’ve been to Vegas 3 times already? That I just saw No Doubt w/ Paramore at the Mandalay Bay and I STILL managed to come over and gamble a substantial amount of money at the Hard Rock?
It can’t be, because this morning you sent me an email telling me that No Doubt is coming to the JOINT with Panic! At the Disco. Blink 182? Also? Green Day playing ON MY ANNIVERSARY WEEKEND? Wait..that's at the Mandalay Bay. But still, you know that I will end up over there drinking too much, flirting too much and gambling too much. Dirty pool, my friend.
Anyways, as much as I love you, I hate you. And as much as it pains me to admit it, it’s obvious that you hate me too. Otherwise why would you torture me with Stone Temple Pilots and Incubus tickets? Super cheap hotel rooms? Yes, I know I could totally see these people in LA, but everyone knows that concerts are more fun in Vegas. Especially you.
So I just wanted you to know, you’re a jerk. And I don’t appreciate you taunting me with fun laughs and good times (and gambling) when you know I can’t afford it.
Go straight to hell, do not pass go, do not collect (my) $200…
P.S. I’ll see you in the fall.