I'm about to get married. My chosen life partner is kind, smart, hilarious, sensitive, and wildly handsome. I should be happy. Feeling anything else wouldn't make any sense. I am not a sad or angry person. Not anymore. I've had lots of therapy. And now I'm good. Like, really good! Really, really good. Except for the fact that at the moment, it's 3:30 a.m. and I'm out of my mind on drugs, crying hysterically in an alley behind what I will later refer to as "the VIP Fuck Room" at The Spearmint Rhino in Las Vegas.
But maybe I should start at the beginning.
The story begins when my fiancé leaves for his bachelor party in Las Vegas. Something inside of me doesn't feel right. But I ignore those feelings. Because I don't want to appear "needy." That would be the worst possible thing. To have a feeling that is uncomfortable and then to express it. So I smoke a joint with some friends and try to ignore the five-alarm fire that has started inside me.
I have an incredibly overactive imagination, which is great for my work as a writer but terrible for my actual life. I once jumped out of a moving taxi while it was turning onto the FDR Drive because I thought I was being kidnapped. I was not. It was simply the fastest way to get to where I was going. But my mother had warned me that I should never let a taxi driver take me on the FDR Drive, because he could suddenly decide to drive to G-d knows where, kidnap me, and chop me up. She was a single mom in New York City and just trying to keep me safe. For this I do not blame her. She was in pain after my dad left.
I start sending my fiancé sexy photos of myself. I want him to remember what he has at home. I want him to want to come home. If he sees what's out there, maybe he never will. None of this is about him. I don't know that yet. "What happens at strip clubs?" is something I start Googling. I've never been to a strip club. So I honestly don't know. And down the rabbit hole I go, until I find the answer I have been searching for all along: YOU ARE NOT ENOUGH.
Ah, fuck. I knew it. I guess I just forgot. And now I will have to go through a whole lot of trouble to cover it up. So annoying. But I have done it before. Many, many times. The trick is to forget that's what you are doing. And instead put your focus on something else entirely. Like a competition. A secret competition!
It's one month later, and I am touching down in Las Vegas. My bachelorette party was supposed to take place at my mom's house in Long Island, where the plan was to chill, cook, maybe do some yoga, but I rerouted. The new plan is to DANCE and "do all of the drugs," which I have never done before. I mean, definitely not all of them. "And if not now, when?" is something I say to the group of confused but very supportive girlfriends accompanying me on this trip. I'm going to make it worth their while. My childhood best friend is a holistic nutritionist whose dad happens to own all the clubs in Vegas. Out of everyone, she is the least excited about the change of venue. But here we are, with carte blanche to be the absolute best of the worst.
On the first day, I eat one weed gummy, drink two margaritas, smoke half a joint, do two lines of cocaine, and taste three small sprinkles of MDMA. At the pool. I keep waiting for the "good feelings" to kick in. I pretend that they already have. All the drugs seem to have canceled each other out, and I go to sleep at a reasonable hour. At 4 a.m., I find myself dry-heaving for a full 20 minutes, and I contemplate calling 911 but then decide that "not knowing if I am going to throw up or shit myself" is an unfortunate mystery, not an emergency.