Find out what January #drinks @PureLasVegas

Thank god for Vegas. Seriously.
A lobotomy wasn’t as effective as a weekend three hours of Red Bull away (from LA, not Pismo) where I wore the thinnest pinned stilettos, gambled like a sweaty degenerate mobster in black loafers, drank like Amy Winehouse and Charles Bukowski’s baby, and snorted throat-dripping lines of coke in a Hard Rock Hotel bathroom with four new best friends. I’d giddily rub off any one of those from the to-do list I wrote in eyeliner on my hotel bathroom mirror.

Mr. Z sat across from me.
“Z, Pure tonight?”
“Definitely, I’m calling the guy now, put his number in your 
“Pure? You’re going to Pure?” Someone was standing behind me.