flashback: hopefully-undead scott February 10, 2008
sitting in a cab, squinting without sunglasses, unable to stop smiling. 5 pm in vegas,
last night’s clothes, somewhere between the hard rock and the venetian - just me and
the cabbie who keeps checking the rearview wondering ¿qué droga (nothing; scott).
i hate las vegas; the cardboard pyramids, the clubs full of strangers; i hate Nine and
Pure, Jet, the Bellagio and all the too-drunk girls in their slutty-sister’s clothes -
the obliterated, bottle-serviced, party anthem flooded dancefloors.
scott was whispered confessions and the brownest eyes, full sleeves and unashamed
tears. addiction, suspicion and the voice of an angel. the most honest of connections:
osmosis. every few months i google him to make sure he’s still alive.
so far so good.
