Vegas Chronicles Part 2: The Pre-Concert Spiral
Bestie wanted luxury. Craig wanted Logan Crosby. I wanted unconsciousness.
Readers, imagine, if you will, lying peacefully in a bed made of clouds.
A Tower bed, no less. The kind of bed that makes you briefly believe in healing, luxury, and the possibility that your body might recover from a Vegas weekend with Craig and Bestie.
You are asleep.
Finally.
Maybe you’re dreaming about tacos. Maybe you’re dreaming about sleeping in for once in your adult life. Maybe, for five blessed hours, your nervous system has stopped drafting its resignation letter.
And then you feel it.
That first tiny scrape of facial hair against your cheek.
Not enough to fully wake you, but enough for your soul to whisper, danger.
There it is again. That scratchy little brush against your skin, like sandpaper pretending to be affection. His face is too close. You know it before you open your eyes. You can feel the warmth of him hovering there, his breath brushing your lips, that annoying smirk practically radiating in the dark.
And Readers, I hate the facial hair.
I want that noted for the historical record. Craig is lucky I tolerate it, and I only tolerate it because, tragically, it makes him look cute. This is not approval. This is a hostage negotiation with cheekbones.
Anyway I keep my eyes closed because I believe in denial. Maybe if I stay still, he’ll go away. Maybe if I pretend to be asleep hard enough, he’ll remember I am a human woman and not a 24-hour audience for his emotional emergencies.
But no.
Because this is Craig.
And Craig has never met a peaceful moment he did not want to body slam with enthusiasm.
His breath hits my mouth again. His facial hair scratches my cheek one more time. I can feel him grinning.
Then it happens.
“WAKE UP, SARAH.”
Before I can decide whether to answer him, shove him off the cloud bed, or fake my own death, he continues.
“LOGAN CROSBY IS GOING TO GO ON TOUR AGAIN. I CAN FEEL IT.”
I swear to God, Readers, if anyone knows Logan Crosby personally, please tell him my boyfriend is his number one fan. Not casual fan. Not “he likes a few songs” fan. No. We are deep in the trenches. The man is receiving spiritual tour alerts in a Las Vegas hotel room before coffee.
The number of times I have been ripped from sleep by Craig screaming about Logan Crosby at unholy hours is honestly concerning.
Anyway welcome back to the Vegas Chronicles Part 2, Readers.
Apparently, rest was never actually part of the itinerary because by the time I was coherent enough to locate my phone and remember my own name, it was 7am.
Seven. In the morning.
Readers, who voluntarily wakes up that early in Las Vegas after going to bed at an hour usually reserved for bad decisions?
Certainly not me.
But there was Craig, fully awake because he saw one TikTok and now firmly believes Logan Crosby is about to announce a new tour due to “new music coming soon.” Does he have proof? Evidence? Sources? A single shred of confirmed information?
Absolutely not.
This is simply Craig’s brain operating at levels of delusion and optimism the scientific community should probably study.
Meanwhile, I was determined to remain in that cloud bed until at least 10am. Maybe noon if God loved me. But unfortunately, “the boys” had other plans.
And by plans, I mean breakfast downstairs at DJT.
Why?
Readers, we have stayed at the Tower multiple times. MULTIPLE. Do you know how many times we have gone downstairs for breakfast?
Zero.
Because normal people order room service, eat pancakes in robes, and avoid public interaction until their body stops vibrating from alcohol and emotional instability.
But no, Bestie was suddenly insistent. According to him, we needed to “fuel our souls” after the night we had and “prepare ourselves” for Morgan Wallen that evening.
Prepare.
The preparation I required was sleep. Medical grade sleep. Possibly an IV drip and emotional support hash browns delivered directly to my bed.
But like I always do, for reasons still unknown to me and likely tied to unresolved psychological issues, I agreed.
So there I was, dragging myself out of a heavenly bed against my will, showering, getting dressed, and preparing to go downstairs and have breakfast at the dang Tower restaurant like I was some kind of functional adult instead of a woman running on five hours of sleep and pure resentment.
Anyway, it took me a while to get ready because contrary to what these men believe, I cannot simply roll out of bed looking emotionally stable and camera-ready. By the time we finally made it downstairs to breakfast, it was around 10:30.
I ordered eggs benedict.
It felt safer.
What I wanted was the french toast. But I knew if I ordered french toast, my body would interpret that as permission to crawl directly back into bed and enter a medically induced nap. Meanwhile, those boys already had “adventure” in their eyes, which unfortunately meant I needed protein, hydration, and at least one more Starbucks before whatever nonsense was coming next.
I told them immediately that whatever they had planned better not involve walking the Strip.
Readers, one time Bestie made us walk from New York New York all the way to Caesars Palace and I genuinely considered leaving him there. Why do that to another human being when Uber exists and you have adult money? That man is deeply unwell.
Thankfully, this time he agreed.
He had apparently seen the same TikTok horror stories I had about the amount of walking required at Allegiant Stadium, and for once, self-preservation won. We needed to conserve energy. Hydrate. Stretch. Possibly train like athletes preparing for a sporting event instead of three emotionally unstable adults attending a Morgan Wallen concert.
But before we could decide what flavor of chaos we were getting into before the show, Bestie announced that he NEEDED to go into the Tower gift shop.
Readers, you must understand something important here. Craig does not care for the man the Tower is named after.
He calls himself Republican. “Conservative, actually,” he corrects me constantly, like that somehow changes the chaos of this situation. But regardless, he does not enjoy political merchandise entering their shared household like cursed artifacts from a haunted museum.
Unfortunately for him, Bestie runs on a simple life philosophy: if I want it, I’m buying it.
And once Bestie decides he wants something, it’s over. The discussion has ended. Craig immediately enters the silent stage of marriage where he starts mentally calculating the cost of divorce versus how often he’d realistically get custody of the children.
Usually, he chooses peace.
They really do love each other, Readers. I promise. Their marriage just occasionally resembles a hostage negotiation with health insurance benefits.
Anyway, into the gift shop Bestie went.
And yes.
He came out with merch.
But more importantly, he came out with a Trump hat and immediately attempted to place it on Craig’s head like he was crowning him at a deeply cursed political ceremony.
Craig was not pleased.
Now normally, Bestie HATES having his photo taken. The man acts like the federal government is actively searching for him at all times. If I post a picture with him, his face is blurred, distorted, hidden, covered with emojis, edited into witness protection. Usually it’s the poop emoji.
But THIS time?
This time he WANTED me to take the photo.
Readers, the man edited it himself.
Blurred background. Blurred face. Rooster emoji instead of the poop emoji because, according to him, “the poop was covering too much of the hat.”
The level of seriousness with which this grown man edited his own anonymous Trump hat reveal photo in the middle of Las Vegas is something I will never emotionally recover from.
Honestly, if you are still reading my stories after that sentence, I think you may need to reconsider your life choices.
Because I certainly am.
Anyway, we hauled the merch back up to the room and decided the next stop on our emotionally unstable Vegas itinerary was the Bellagio Conservatory spring display.
And Readers?
It was BEAUTIFUL.
Like offensively beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes you temporarily forget you survived on Starbucks, poor decisions, and approximately five hours of sleep. I genuinely think it may have been my favorite display yet, which is saying a lot because I am deeply emotionally attached to the fall display with the pumpkins. You all know how I feel about pumpkins. Fall owns me spiritually.
Now historically, Bellagio used to be the place we stayed in Vegas.
Elegant. Fancy. Peak “we made questionable financial choices but at least they came with marble countertops” energy. The rooms were gorgeous, they had the in-room whirlpool tubs, and most importantly, Bestie could walk through the lobby pretending he was Vegas royalty returning to inspect his kingdom.
And Readers, years ago Bellagio had a dress code.
A DRESS CODE.
Do you understand how much that appealed to Bestie’s dramatic little soul? Nothing makes that man happier than being mildly inconvenienced in the name of luxury. He wants a hotel experience that whispers, you are important here.
But over the years Bellagio became too crowded. Too chaotic. Too many people wandering around in basketball shorts holding yard-long margaritas like escaped cruise passengers.
The magic faded.
No more royalty vibes.
Hence: The Tower.
Because if there is one thing you need to understand about Bestie, it’s that he LOVES pretending he’s someone important. And honestly? I support the delusion. Life is hard. If a gold-accented hotel with valet service and dramatic lighting helps you feel like a wealthy heir avoiding scandal in Monaco, then live your truth.
And the Tower absolutely feeds that fantasy.
The valet greets you like you own stock in the building. The bellhops act like you matter. The lobby smells expensive. Everything is gold and shiny and designed to make you feel richer than you actually are.
Now yes, the rooms are gorgeous. Yes, the views are insane. Yes, the hot tub overlooking the Sphere is life changing.
But you can technically get nice rooms and views at the Cosmopolitan too.
What you cannot get is a hotel slightly off the Strip with just enough bougie energy to convince Bestie he is a man of status and importance while simultaneously irritating Craig to his absolute core.
And Readers, those two LOVE irritating each other.
Honestly, half their marriage is romance.
The other half is psychological warfare with matching luggage.
Anyway, after we finished wandering through the gardens and stopped to admire the Bellagio fountains like the dramatic little tourists we are, we decided it was time to head back to the Tower and begin the official pre-concert ritual.
And Readers, this is not a simple “throw on clothes and leave” situation.
No.
This is an EVENT.
This requires outfit changes. Mood shifts. Panic. Music. Emotional instability. At least one person questioning all their fashion choices while standing half-dressed in front of a mirror.
I personally changed outfits approximately 20 times because I severely overpacked and suddenly hated everything I brought the second it was time to actually wear it. Eventually, I landed on my Morgan Wallen shirt that says “Last Night We Let the Liquor Talk,” which honestly describes Craig and I as a couple with alarming accuracy.
Meanwhile, Craig had to do his eyeliner.
Yes, Readers. Eyeliner.
(I did not take a photo of us in the hotel room but here we are outside the stadium)
So naturally we had Morgan Wallen absolutely BLASTING through the suite while Craig carefully painted on his little emo country boy concert eyes and I continued spiraling over clothing choices like the world was ending and not just a concert at Allegiant Stadium.
It was a whole production.
And in the middle of all this chaos, while Bestie and I were fully dressed and ready and Craig was still in the bathroom perfecting his face, Bestie casually picked up the phone and called reservations to change our room for two weeks from now into a THREE BEDROOM SUITE because Taylor’s mom was bringing the kids and apparently we now required additional space for whatever family-vacation-meets-concert-tour chaos is heading our way next.
Yes, Readers.
We will be back in two weeks.
For more concerts.
More chaos.
More questionable decisions made under the influence of “vibes.”
This is our life now. You’ll adjust eventually. I haven’t, but maybe you will.
Now part of the reason Bestie handles these things with such confidence is because he has a card.
And Readers, when I say “card,” please understand this is essentially just a glorified Trump Tower rewards card. Stay enough nights, spend enough money, and eventually they throw free rooms and the occasional margarita bucket at you like a hotel themed airline miles program.
But to Bestie?
That card is a symbol of STATUS.
The man treats it like it unlocks nuclear launch codes. You’d think he was carrying the American Express Centurion card forged by ancient kings instead of a hotel loyalty membership that occasionally rewards him with discounted luxury and poolside alcohol.
Anyway, I think I shall end this chapter here because the actual Morgan Wallen concert deserves its own post entirely.
And don’t worry, Readers.
We will eventually get to the part where the three of us somehow ended up at In-N-Out at 1am looking emotionally destroyed and smelling vaguely like tequila and poor decisions.
It’s a story.
A deeply concerning story.
Alright, until tomorrow, Readers.