I think it's probably fucked up that I enjoy living in my shitty studio apartment more than the high roller suites they comp me at Caesar's and the Bellagio. Is that fucked up? I vote yes. But there's something about the grotesque opulence of a hotel suite that would normally cost about a kajillion dollars per night that just makes my skin crawl. There's the way that the plush carpeting matches the velvet drapes which match the color scheme of the dust ruffle on the bed - ugh. What exactly
is a dust ruffle for, exactly? How does one ruffle dust? Anyway, I digress.
It's the whole package that just creeps me out. There's something much more soothing about coming home to a mattress on the floor, a stack of books instead of a giant headboard made out of teak or mahogany or something other fancy kind of wood that I wouldn't be able to identify if my life depended on it. I like my bare white walls. They're simple. Easy to understand. No fuss.
I prefer my tiny little kitchen, even if the last occupants chose to paint it the most truly awful shade of pink that has ever existed. At least it's functional. Practical. I've got everything I need, I know where everything is without having to fumble through a dozen dimmer-fader-clapper light switch settings before I can just turn the fucking lights on to take a piss at night. No fancy claw-foot tubs to stub my toes on, or chrome bathroom fixtures polished to a blinding sheen and reflecting my pores to the size of dinner plates. No nosy maids rap-tap-tapping at ten in the fucking morning despite the very obvious 'DO NOT DISTURB FOR THE LOVE OF GOD' sign swinging from the door handle. Just peace. My space. My stuff.
And my cat. She's the best part of coming home to that shitty hole in the wall on Fremont Street. So maybe it is fucked up, but I'll take my cat and my own boring life over the five stars of the Strip pretty much any day of the week.