Strip Clubs and Nature

This is where I woke up today. Presently, I’m sitting in the dining room of the lodge at the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, realizing that I’ve been in the same clothes since Thursday and I haven’t eaten anything since Friday night. So far, I’d say the trip is going well.

I arrived in Vegas Friday night around 12am, with the intention of grabbing a couple drinks across the street then getting some sleep, and as anyone who’s been out with me knows, that is not what happened. I got an Uber to wherever the Uber driver thought I should go – downtown in this instance. After meandering around for a bit, and a few more drinks, a strip club sounded fun. “I haven’t been to a strip club in forever,” I thought, so I went to a place called Cheetah.

While there, I spent the vast majority of my time learning about the life and aspirations of “Erica,” who grew up in Ghana and has dreams of opening her own restaurant someday. At some point, I got a phonecall from my dad warning me about a place he had a particularly bad experience with – Cheetah. I pshawed, and continued pouring money out of my bank account. Pro-tip: don’t show the group of strippers you’re hanging out with your bank account balance as justification for your shock at a declined card – it just gives them a goal. Anyway, about $1100 later my uncle rescued me from their clutches around 11am, and I promptly passed out on his couch until 8pm. Not feeling like I could survive another night in that fine city, I made the four hour drive to the Grand Canyon.

Apparently when you arrive at 2am, and are packed up again by 6am, the “Campground Full” signs aren’t as important. The Taylors – the group the my space was reserved for – certainly didn’t seem to mind. Today will involve a challenging hike to purge myself of toxins, and a much-needed shower to purge myself of the stripper smell. Happy Sunday!

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