Not long ago, a week to be exact, I was in the Hard Rock hotel and casino in Las Vegas, Nevada. There to celebrate my younger brother's coming of age, his 21st birthday. It was Sunday night, and we had been there two days, but it felt like two weeks. For anyone who hasn't been there, Vegas can be described as controlled chaos. A place of endless parties and police who look the other way. With enough money, anything is possible.
             The real attraction to the town isn't the gambling or the legalized prostitution in the next county over, it's that any average person can go there to party and live like a rock star for a weekend. Even the vacationer staying in the most modestly priced room feels like he got the royal treatment. The feeling comes from how hard the casinos work to please you and keep you coming back. From the elegance of the lobbies to the splendor of the pools to the quality of the cuisine, everything feels top-notch. So my brother, a friend and myself were slightly inebriated after spending the night at The Bellagio, The MGM Grand and a few other casinos where the drinks are always free.
             By 3 am, we had made our way to the Hard rock, and we were walking the casino floor, occasionally making conversation with fellow gamblers and partaking in a little blackjack or slots. Eventually, the alcohol ran its course, and I excused myself to use the restroom. Upon exiting, I was overwhelmed by a wave of perfume, and a small girl next to me squeaked out "Hi Paris". I turned to my left to see the queen of being famous for being famous, Paris Hilton. Her blonde hair was short and she was wearing a teal one piece dress, the kind that ruffle at the end and are so popular these days. She looked well-kept as always, her make-up was just right, she was tan and her skin had a healthy glow to it. She had on heels that I'm sure were designer and have some Italian name tagged on it, bu
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