I used to think Las Vegas was fake.
Not fake like the wigs or the silicone or the guy on Fremont selling “signed” photos of Elvis with a Sharpie still in his hand.
I mean fake like soulless. Like someone slapped a glitter filter over a parking lot and dared you to believe it was paradise.
And for a long time, I did.
Vegas? A city built on illusions, for people too tired to face the truth.
It was easy to judge when I was just passing through, sipping watered-down cocktails, watching bachelorette parties cry in stilettos.
But then I moved here.
And the joke turned around and stared back.
Vegas isn’t fake.
Vegas is performance art.
The kind that runs 24/7, doesn’t break character, and charges $18 for a vodka soda.
At first, I tried to keep my distance.
Stay grounded. “Don’t become one of them,” I whispered to myself as I walked past a grown man in a diaper holding a sign that read “Will Craps for Cash.”
But over time, I stopped pretending I was just observing the show.
Because baby, I was in it.
To be continued…
🎭 Next up: Part 2 – “The Smile Factory”
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