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Why not move to Las Vegas?
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You’ve just spent a few days with a couple golf buddies in Las Vegas. You were the last to leave and now you sit at McCarran International waiting for your flight.
You look back upon the last three days and two nights. During the four rounds of golf at insanely beautiful courses all three of you recall stunningly laser accurate shots and staggeringly tragic blown shots. At night, you ate at some of the finest steak and seafood restaurants in the country, followed up by drinks at the hottest nightclubs dancing with some strange exotic women and much later on you gambled until two or three in the morning, winning, losing, winning.
In a few short hours, you’ll be back in XXXXXXX, facing another day at the salt mines. At once you are terribly saddened by the fact that you are leaving this earthly paradise of golfing, gaming and gastronomic excess. So sad. So sad. It would be at least several months before you could return here and those months seem so bleak. You wallow in a melancholy stupor for a few minutes and then you are struck with an idea that seems so. . . impossible . . . unspeakable . . . unthinkable. . . so elegantly seductive, that you know you need to talk yourself out of it. Someone better talk you out of it.
But you know that it’s not possible to talk you out of it because you already made the decision to do it. You made the decision by cumulative fractions; by sinking that twenty two foot putt with two breaks, by saying to hell with it and ordering that large Kobe Beef steak, by saying yes when asked to dance by those two drunk women, by pressing your bet again and hitting that third blackjack in a row. The more you think about it, the more it seems so right. You’ve decided to move to Las Vegas.
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