I'm Leaving Las Vegas

I’m leaving Las Vegas in April.

The longest I ever planned to live in this stationary gypsy camp - filled with entertainers, thugs, hustlers, whores, addicts, lawyers, gamblers, thieves, and Mormons - was two years. In April, I’ll have been here for two years and five months.

Wow, that went fast.

My first weekend here a friend told me not to lose my dignity to all the shiny objects of Vegas that would be dangled in front of me. “Ohh! So shiny! I want!”

I responded: “Nah, I can always get my dignity back once I leave Vegas.” Well, hell, the time has almost come to pick my dignity up, dust it off, and see if it still looks any good on me. I doubt my dignity will fit anymore, but once I break it in, I think I’ll be able to make it look cool enough when paired with my fancy, expensive, Vegas shoes. What’s that saying? “If you love something let it go…”

But losing my religion was worthwhile because: I wrote a book, of which I am proud, that’ll be out this month; went to Costa Rica to became a yoga instructor http://www.froglotusyoga.com/retreats/retreats.htm; went to three of the worlds best EDM festivals http://electricdaisycarnival.com/ http://ultramusicfestival.com/;  dated a Jersey Boy

 (which I’m pretending is as cool as having dated a Thunder From Down Under boy)

(It’s not.)

I was on a Penn and Teller Showtime pilot

And I took two road trips with my friends to the Grand Canyon.

There are other great and terrible things I did in the neon darkness, but you’ll have to buy my book if you want to know about those. I hope you do buy my book. I’m not very good at much else other than writing… and there’s still a long way to go to be as good as I’d like to be at writing.

These are the things I’ll miss about Las Vegas:

1)   The Facebook President of the World

He makes the crushing poverty of Vegas look like fun. He supports Palestine, Occupy Wallstreet, whistles, bicycles, and dry humping the air. I’m a big fan.

2)   Movie night.

Every Tuesday at 11:30 pm, I watch movies with a group of dirty silly bastards in a wicked cool mansion.

We tell horribly offensive jokes, eat food that’s really bad for us, and stand in a semi circle. I make the popcorn when Perry isn’t there. 

3)   My girlfriends.

They’re amongst the coolest girls I’ve ever met. They’re beautiful, crazy, hilarious, intelligent freethinkers… I love them so much. Anything I did in Vegas was made better by their existence.

4)   Tourists

What you do on your crazy once-in-a-lifetime vacation, I do on Wednesdays. Having the option to do whatever I want with people I’ll never see again with no consequences to my day-to-day existence is a terrible influence on my behavior, but also pretty amazing. I don’t know any of their names, nor do I care, and they think my name is Molly, but damn we’ve all had some really terrific times together.

5)   Pretending to be a VIP

Being a young girl in Vegas is better than being a rich old dude in Vegas… and being a rich old dude in Vegas is freaking awesome. During the week, I can go to any nightclub for free, or even get paid to go to a nightclub. People have even given me money to gamble. The amount of free stuff I’ve gotten is in the 10s (if not 100s) of thousands of dollars (Unfortunately most of that money is made up of party cabanas, bottle service, and other VIP meaningless glitter crap – I still have to pay my own rent).  
Don’t worry, I wont be young forever. Someday, I’ll need to have a good personality. But… not yet.

6)   My gym – LVAC

I’ve been a yoga instructor for almost two years now. I teach at LVAC. Yoga has changed my life in the most wonderful unexpected ways. I am a better person for my yoga practice, and I hope there’s never a time in my life when I’m not teaching yoga. LVAC is THE BEST. I love it there. I’m obsessed with the steam room. I go there pretty much everyday. I have a blog about the steam room that I need to start up again before I leave. http://todayinthesteamroom.blogspot.com/

Also, I have a free gym membership, free towels, and a discount at the gym smoothie/juice place. Namaste.

And these are a few of my favorite things. I’m sure gonna miss this stinky hell hole. 

Food Poisoning

In a white light, a tunnel reaching backwards through time, the hands fold over one another, fingers interlock, my head comes down to the ground.

“Thank you. For everything. For my health and my ability to do my yoga practice today. Thank you for everyone I love and everyone who loves me. Thank you for another day.”

I don’t know who or what exactly, if anything, I’m thanking. All I know is that I’m so grateful to be alive and well at this exact moment…

“Thank you,” I whisper. 

I curl up into the fetal position and hope I’m going to die soon.      

      

I’d be okay with dying now, I think. I just finished a project that makes me proud of myself.  I could stop worrying about growing older and how to pay for things and if I’m meeting some fragmented standard of success.  Now would be a lovely time to die.

I don’t think I’m near death, not really. My future’s so bright… and hot.

I pick up the bag beside my bed and throw up.

I hope this bag holds. I can’t believe there’s so much liquid coming out. How is there any water left in my body? How are there still carrots in my stomach? It’s been over six hours since I ate carrots…  

“She’s morphine, queen of my vaccine…”

I stand and bleary eyed stumble to the bathroom to empty the contents of my stomach from the plastic bag into the toilet. I blow my nose and gag myself on the contents of my throat. I brush my teeth and rinse with mouthwash and nothing changes the texture of my distress. I wash my hands and scrub my face. My head comes down into my hands. I fall to my knees and look up past the blurred black mascara into the mirror of my desperate eyes.

I’m going to be so thin when this is over. Everyone will want to know what my secret is. All of the girls are going to be so jealous of me… so jealous… of me…

I laugh. I always laugh when shit like this happens… speaking of shit.

I get up off my knees and run back into the bathroom to take my 10^th liquid shit of the last hours.

On the bright side, if I was accidentally pregnant before this, then I’m definitely not anymore. I didn’t think I was pregnant, but it never hurts to be doubly safe is what I always say… this reminds me of mescaline… but worse. Rocky will think that’s funny.

I wipe, flush, wash up, stagger wretchedly, and fling myself onto my crumpled battle-lost sheets. I'm freezing. I put on my moose fleece and shiver violently, pulling my legs to my chest.

“Please, let it end,” I beg. I don’t know who or what exactly, if anything, I’m begging. All I know is that now would be a fine time to die… 

Well everyone, the secret to my girlish figure is kale! It was the contaminated kale, or some other murderous vegetable, but my money’s on the kale.

 Just one little salad, my envious twatwaffles, and in just one day you’ll have dropped five pounds! Your body’s desperate attempt to purge itself of the deadly toxins will have you as your sexiest self in no time! No dieting or exercise required! No actual will power or sense of self-worth necessary! You’re only days of agonizing, disorienting pain away from your best you! Only three payments of 29.99! I’m Billy Mayes is what Mr. Funny said…

“I love you,” I whisper. I don’t know who or what exactly, if anything, I’m telling "I love you." All I know is that it’s true.

I close my eyes, and I see the hundreds of times my hands folded, my head bowed, and I said thank you, and everyone, if only me, said namaste.

The feeling is white and the color is peace.

“Thank you.”

I sigh and fall asleep.   

For Jim, Wherever I May Find Him

written December 2009 

I’m sitting with Jim in his room. The walls are painted a deep orange. An alcove, in which his bed fits perfectly, is painted a light cream color. The alcove has two windows that provide the room with the sun’s natural rays.

 “I like this room. It has character. I’m painting it to reflect my personality; the fiery angry side and the peaceful and logical side, from where the light ultimately comes,” Jim wrote me this summer, while I was exploring a life of hedonism in Sydney, Australia.

Jim is the angriest, most violent, lover of everything in the universe. When you first meet him this may seem paradoxical, but it’s not. Passion is at the center of everything worthwhile.

On the far side of the room, across from the alcove “from where the light ultimately comes,” is a tiny door covered with a yellow and black checkered scarf. Jim meant for this scarf to be his replacement for a tattered keffiyeh, a typical headdress of Arab men, which Jim bought during a year abroad in Chile when he was 18-years-old. Jim’s original keffiyeh symbolized solidarity with the plight of the Palestinian people, but his replacement scarf was bought at a time when this once-symbol is a fashion trend in the United States. Because Jim can no longer express his solidarity without looking as though he's trying too hard, the black and yellow replacement scarf now drapes the tiny door in the corner. I can’t write about what’s behind the door, where a light glows brightly, because it’s one of Jim’s secrets.

Jim and I are very healthy people. We eat well and we work out constantly. We look in reflective surfaces often. How we look and feel is very important to us. Some call our behavior vanity, but we don’t think of it in such terms. Respecting our bodies is our way of expressing our profound enjoyment of our youth, health, and beauty. It’s important to appreciate these things while you still have them.

“By the grace of God go you,” Jim always says.

He means that we only get to have the things we have, live the way we get to live, and love the way we get to love because of the unfathomably complex workings of the universe which, currently, are in our favor. All of these beautiful things which are so easily and often taken for granted can be gone in a second. “Only by the grace of God, the cosmic design of everything, go you."

For now, Jim and I go together.

I’m in love with Jim, and he’s in love with me. We’re in love with each other. And it’s that crazy, wonderful kind of love. The kind where everyday I wake up, and Jim is the first thing on my mind. The kind where I spend everyday waiting to get done with my work and chores and errands so I can see him again.  The kind where to not have him creates a hole in my life that only his life can fill.

But that description doesn’t do our love justice. Not really.

What I’ve just described any couple in the world can have. You can love someone without knowing or caring why. And you can miss someone without really loving them at all.

"Love" is usually the word people use for "Addiction."

When we fall in love, when we make love, our brains release chemicals. The chemicals make our brains go wild with pleasure. You can come to despise someone, but if they’re the one that cuddles you at night and fucks you in the day, then you still need them. The chemicals have you – same as pain killers, heroin, or methamphetamine. It’s all you can think of, it’s all you want, and in having it, you find bliss… happiness... Nirvana.

But at what cost to yourself? At what cost to “the ghost in the machine” we so lovingly refer to as “the soul?”

 I watched a documentary about heroin addicts that showed a couple who spent their days on the streets of Denmark selling magazine subscriptions. Once they’d gathered enough money to shoot in their veins, they’d head to their dealer and help each other inject the venomous opiate.

Writhing around on the ground, eyes rolled up in their heads, gasping for breath - the couple held each other - in beauty, in peace, and in love. 

Not to say I’m not addicted to Jim. I am. And he’s addicted to me. The thing about our love which makes it different than your run-of-the-mill chemical dependency is that we know why we love each other.

I love Jim in the same way I love music, good literature, and the summer sunshine warming my skin. I love him for the sake of what he is and how his existence complements and inspires mine. If he were to stop loving me today, it wouldn’t change the fact of my love. I love him, because his energy is the sort of energy that creates, arouses, and changes the world. I love him, because his passion is all-consuming.

“I can't wait to have you back again to experience this messed-up universe with me. And maybe help me mess it up a little more,” Jim wrote to me while I was in Australia.

One of the things Jim enjoys most in this world is thinking of new ways to kill people. He’s even invented some weapons which he wants to patent, but he worries, maybe, the Israelis will use them on the Palestinians. Despite Jim’s new affection, or at least respect, for the Israeli people:

“You need to be as mean as a rattle snake to survive in a place where everyone around you wants you dead.”

Jim still has some moral qualms with his weapons being used to kill people who he once wore a scarf very often, even when it was not stylish, to support.

Jim loves knives, guns, and weapons. He sleeps with a large knife on the windowsill at the top of his bed in the little alcove. He explained to me once that he loves death and violence for the same reason I love comedy. The duality of man. We can desperately want peace at the same moment we inflict death. And the most powerful thing we can do in the midst of a great tragedy is to laugh. 

Jim’s life up until now has been comprised of chasing down all of the questions of the universe until they become unanswerable. Jim says every question you ask will ultimately and inevitably lead to the same unanswerable “Why?”

Jim constantly ruminates over how to best kill his enemies, such as the boys who talk to me when he’s not around. I can’t deal with any serious issue that hurts me without making it into a dark, twisted joke. We are the next generation of free thinkers. We are philosophers. We are artists.

Maybe this is just another way of saying we are college students who do too many hallucinogenic drugs.

But for now, Jim and I still cling to the belief that we will be able to help recreate the world in our image. 

Maybe if I can only write something good enough, then Jim will love me forever. I want to make him proud of me, and I want him to think I’m amazing. I want to always be the most worthwhile, stunning woman in the world in his eyes, even as my hair turns grey and my skin begins to sag and my face becomes lined with the marks of worry and laughter. I want to ensure his love will always be mine, and I hope that maybe, if I make him proud enough of me, then he’ll always want to be by my side.

In turn, I am Jim’s biggest supporter. I want to lift him up so high so that nothing in this world will have the power to tear him down once I’m through. I want him to know that he can have any girl he wants and still not be able to wait to come home to me at night. I want to make him so big that if I ever stumble or lose my way it’ll be no problem for him to catch me, to carry me, to help get me back onto my path.

Jim is going to be a rock star, and I am going to be a famous writer.

Jim and I are going to help each other become great.

This is the beginning of our story together, and this is my love letter to Jim. I wanted to write an entire story for us where we go on great adventures together and conquer great evils, but I suppose, for now, I’ll have to be satisfied with an introduction. 

Bikram Yoga - Like Dying but in a Good Way

           “It’s a lot like dying.”

           “Good, I’ve been meaning to try that. Let me know if you get your hands on some DMT too. I’m tired of waiting.”

             I’ve only done Bikram once, which isn't nearly enough to have a real opinion, but after my first time, these are my feelings about Bikram:

Cons:

1)            “This is [not] supposed to hurt!”

The instructor yelled things about how different positions were meant to be painful.

“Ignore the pain and push yourself harder!”

No yoga instructor in his or her right mind would ever say this to a class. Our mantra is, “Listen to your body. If I instruct a position that doesn’t feel right, don’t do it.”

2)            It’s a cult.

            I hate the feeling of being manipulated, and going through my first Bikram class was a hazing ritual meant to make me suffer enough to cognitive dissonance myself in to loving Bikram. 

            Additionally, I was the only new person in class that day, and the instructor said my name easily over 50 times. AND he had everyone clap for me at the end of class for having survived.

While my vanity was temporarily satiated, I hate the feeling of being manipulated.

3)            It’s like dying.

            Bikram has a rule where you aren’t allowed to leave the hot room once you’ve come in to class. You can lay there and not move, but you’re not allowed to leave. This is because my fight or flight instinct kicked in around minute forty and my brain screamed in terror

“Get out of here or we’re going to die! What the hell is wrong with you! We’re going to die! Stop doing tree pose because YOU ARE GOING TO FUCKING DIE UNLESS WE GET OUT OF HERE!”

Once it was over, I felt as though I’d survived a terrible fever. Bikram wasn’t so much of a workout, as it was successfully staying alive.

Pros:

1)   “This is [not] supposed to hurt!”

        Bikram is not for the weak, and if you don’t want to challenge yourself mentally and physically than it’s not for you. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I did every movement the entire class; I won a battle of wills against myself.

         It’s the runner’s high – the body and mind scream for relief, to give up, and then you keep going, and then you prove yourself stronger and braver than you ever imagined, and then you feel just fine, and then, in that moment, it all feels so easy and beautiful.

2)            It’s a cult.

            I’ve always wanted to join/ lead a cult. Bikram successfully actualized a childhood dream of mine - that glorious bastard.

Also, they clapped for me. I like that.

3)   It’s like dying.

For the rest of the day, I felt invincible. I had survived a near death experience in the morning, and the rest of my day’s obstacles felt impotent against that intensity. I felt I’d lived my entire life in that hour and a half.

           I had a mentor in college who is now in his 30s and owns a successful advertising agency. He has a lovely wife and two cerubin children. When he was in college, he took acid every day for a year and painted paintings and filmed everything with his camera - the world's next great artist.

How did he not go crazy from all that distortion?

The blissful essential existence of the experience of nonexistence while we still exist.

“I learned to accept my own death one day. It’ll happen. Just let it be. It’s all okay.” 

A Depressed Person’s Brush with Death

                “Are you okay? For some reason, I woke up feeling like something bad had happened to you. I wanted to make sure you're safe.” I texted him.

                “I’m fine. I’m glad you were concerned,” he texted back.

                “Good. I love you. Take care of yourself.” I wrote back, a bit confused but relieved.

                “I love you too. Please be safe.”

                 The next day, the car he was in crashed in to a tree, and he almost died. And the thought of the world without him makes me cry.

                  He’s not supposed to be my boy anymore. I don’t call him or talk to him, and he lives far away, and sometimes, I don’t even think about him.

                  He’s crazy and too much and too broody, and he doesn’t understand people and their motivations, which is about all I seem to understand. He waves his arms around, and talks like an angry, old, Italian man, and he never knows if he wants his hair to be long or short. But he challenges me, keeps me passionately furious, fights with me, and for me. He would do anything for me.

He flies airplanes; and he writes long poetic prose; and he plays beautiful, well-rehearsed guitar; and speaks Spanish with a Chilean accent; and he has a piggy bank that says “New Car Fund” that almost breaks my heart to see; and he is electric like me. He bullshits more than I do. He understands parts of the world that I cannot comprehend. I’ll always want to know what happens next in his story.

                  I’m so very happy he’s okay. I don’t like the idea of a world without him in it. The world would impress me far less if I’d never known a boy like that could exist, that he could love me, and I could love him back - so beautiful and strange and intense and wonderfully weird.

                 Maybe my unexpected text, a day before, caused the accident, or maybe it’s what saved him. 

I have a disorder :(

I’ve wanted an Adderall script for years.

But I thought my obvious lack of having ADHD would affect my ability to obtain this precious, peculiar pill of productivity.

But then, there came along Adam Levine - sexy, cocky, Jane lover, Adam Levine. OMG so hawt!

He let me know that the pharmaceutical companies are paying him to promote adults having ADHD! What a happy coincidence! I’ve been seriously considering having ADHD for years! Adam Levine finally tipped the scale of my personal responsibility in favor of medicating myself in to a flurry of productivity. With Adam Levine on my side, there are likely hundreds of doctors paid, or at least strongly encouraged, to give me Adderall! Adderall must be easy to get!

I talked to my mom and told her the good news:

“Thanks to Adam Levine, I can definitely get Adderall, and then nothing, but my heart exploding or going insane, would be able to stop me!”

“Leah, are you sure it’s not dangerous?”

“Well, it’s not “good for me” per say... It is a highly addictive amphetamine salt that is easily abused… but Ayn Rand took a similar amphetamine salt for thirty years and she wrote Atlas Shrugged then died a bitter old lady! So how bad could it really be for me?”

“Didn’t Ayn Rand go on some really long-winded, speedy rants in Atlas Shrugged?”

“Probably just a little touch of amphetamine psychosis. A small price to pay for changing the world.”

“Do you really think you need it though?”

“Yeah. I’m a writer. Which is probably one of the least natural things for a human being to ever want to do. Adderall makes it so I don’t go all Sylvia Plath sitting alone all of the time. It makes writing about the most fun activity I could ever engage in.”

“You really have trouble focusing?”

“Oh yeah, absolutely. It may seem like laziness and no sense of personal responsibility, but I’m pretty sure it’s actually a medical condition.”

“You were always so good at focusing. Remember the snowflakes you used to like to make? You’d spend hours just cutting new snowflakes out of paper.”

“Yeah, until I Iost complete interest. I’m always obsessed until, suddenly, I couldn’t care less. Have I told you about the new guy I'm seeing?”

“You were always much better than your sister, Sheanna, at focusing.” (Suck it, Sheanna!)

“Elaborate on how I'm way, way better than Sheanna at everything I’ve ever tried, please.”

“Well, that’s definitely true. That’s why I always snuck in to your room at night and whispered that I love you more than her. But one example, of the thousands I have right on the tip of my tongue, is tying your shoes. You just kept at it ‘til you got it, and Sheanna gave up.”

“Yeah, Sheanna still just wears those velcro shoes everywhere. You’re totally right that I’m the clear, obvious favorite. Don’t worry, Mom, once I have the Adderall, I’ll spend all of my time writing and cleaning, and with all of the time I’ll save by not eating or sleeping, I’m sure to be a success!”

With my mom’s obvious approval of Adam Levine, I went to www.ownyouradhd.com and took the quiz and, just as I suspected:  I may or may not have attention deficit hyperactivity disorder! Yes! I'm being encouraged to see a doctor! 

Now, if I could only focus long enough to find a doctor listed and make an appointment. Next week, it is! 

Useless Super Powers

            The best answers:

            A: “I’d be able to fly, but I’d always crash land.”

            A: “I’d be able to piss gasoline.”

            A: “I’d be able to make paper money in to change.”

            A: “I’d be able to make change in to paper money. Obviously, we’d be mortal enemies.”

            A: “The opposite of being a chameleon - I’d be able to make myself stand out really badly whenever I'm in danger.”  

            A: “I could summon a mariachi band whenever I want, but they’ll only play when they feel like it.”

            A: I’d be able to transport to Duluth, Minnesota.

            A: “I’d be able to control the weather, but only what is occurring directly over my head.”

            A: “I could shoot confetti from my hands, but never in front of more than three people.”

            A: “My body can act as a wifi hotspot, but only for desktop computers.”