I'm going to hell.
This is where those of you who know me laugh at the fact that I just figured that out. First of all, very funny. Second, I don't mean the eternal hell, although I have no doubt that pitchforks and lakes of fire and brimstone are down the pike for me.
I mean the thank-goodness-it's-less-than-a-week hell.
This weekend, I'm going to my least favorite place on the entire planet: Las Vegas. I am being subjected to this particular brand of hell because my sister lives there and she is getting married Sunday.
The whole fascination with Las Vegas escapes me. It is hotter than my eternal destination, and if you don't gamble, there's nothing to do. If I drank, I could buy a six-pack right here in Youngstown, Ohio; I certainly don't need Sin City for that. And prostitutes just aren't my thing, thankyouverymuch.
I will admit that the casinos are beautiful and I love looking at them; however (and this is probably something I should never tell anybody), I always get trapped in a random casino and can't get out. When I manage to find an exit door (two hours later), I take two steps outside and have to go back inside because it's 115 degrees outside! ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN DEGREES! And then the vicious cycle starts again.
One of the last times I was in Las Vegas, I called Danny from inside the MGM. Of course, I was stranded in there and my feet had blisters on them from the aforementioned escape attempt. On the verge of tears, I told him, "I hate this place. It's the most boring place on earth. There's absolutely nothing to do here!"
Seriously, why would anyone go to that hell hole voluntarily?
If only my sister lived somewhere good, like Gettysburg.