I had no idea that damn High Roller was so far, but I have reached my limits. Oh sweet Jesus. Stairs? How is the escalator out of order? In Vegas? Don’t the gamblers pay for this shit? My arches are on fire and my calves are so tight a musician could likely strum them into a country song.

Nooo. I can’t. There has to be at least 25 stairs. Down. My knees won’t have it, they haven’t had it in six years. That’s it. Don’t care. I am done. Mid-flight, I plop down, and laugh to my husband, “Call an ambulance.”

 

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