It's possible that I'm staying another night in Vegas. Eight days.

Happy birthday Eric Philps.

I've done good at blackjack, so I can almost justify the extra day.

See you on Sunday(?)

goochout.

at an internet kiosk using the last of my minutes.

goochout

Oh, my... God.

hung over. major. It's 8am and I got drunk early last night. A couple responses to some comments on the last blog:

QBall: You got a 'B' in Communications? One of our beloved strippers actually made fun of me because I had a degree in communications. Her stage name was "Rachel." I asked her if her real name was "Porsche."

Gregster: It took me eight years to get that degree in communication. I'd be pissed if you got yours in a year. Unfortunately, you probably could.

Woke up to "Saved By the Bell" reruns this morning. I'm impressed I got back to my room. I actually looked around to see if I was in my room.

Drunk Gooch had Nathan's Hot Dogs last night. I can taste it... Dammit, why can't I eat salads when I'm plastered?

People Magazine lists Hottest Bachelors. Thank God they spelled my name right this time.

Also, I've encountered more than one friend that has either found Jesus or quit drinking and has said to me (during the course of this trip) "Oh... you're probably drunk" or "Gee are you drunk?" or "I quit drinking [within the last week], but you're fucked up aren't you?"

Lick my fucking balls. I've spent five days in Vegas right at this point. That's like a month in real time and I'm still alive. "Vegas" is an old Mohican Indian word for "Bender." A lot of people don't know that. Last night was the first night I got shit faced and the worst thing I did was hit on a fat chick. Actually I hit on her hot friend, too. Actually I hit on them both at the same time. In front of each other. I guess that's a breach of etiquette. We ended up having drinks for a while but I was too inebriated to continue on with the evening.

Going back to bed. goochout.

Mmmm... no adult supervision. No Father, no Stepmother, just a room in Vegas, a pint of Smirnoff, a couple of overpriced energy drinks, and little fucking hotel glasses from which to drink my self-mixed beverages.

I think I found my soul mate in the girl who bell hopped my luggage to my room. I told her that I was in to dive bars as she rolled my luggage to 19-233 at the Monte Carlo and she told me "yeah, I hate paying $18 for vodka/Red Bulls." Vodka... Red Bulls... the staple of my alcoholic diet. Her skin glistened from hauling my baggage. I have a hard time hitting on girls while they're working. I think it's because the environment in which a girl is working is one that they're essentially paid to be nice to me. My degree in communication has served only one purpose: getting me laid... never missing the signs. Well, almost never. When a girl is working it is very hard to tell if they like you or they're acting like they like you for tips. Waitresses, bellhops, strippers, bartenders... all very hard to figure out. Fodder for discussion, indeed. It's odd because every girl I've dated for an extended period of time since 1998 has been a bartender, stripper, waitress, etc. How do I do it?

Alcohol. Lots of it.

I'm buzzed. Need to stop the blogging now. Booze, an ATM, and a single deck blackjack table. Recipe for success, or disaster; but definitely fun.

goochout.