It's not you, it's where you are.

By the time my lease is up at the end of this year, I will have been in Vegas for over 3 years, which is longer than anywhere else I’ve lived since I was in high school. I feel like I have a pretty good grasp on this place - enough to have a very formulated opinion if nothing else, and lately I’ve been putting a lot of thought into my relationship with this city. Just like me, she can be a real dame and a real doozy, when she wants to be.

Vegas is the city that’s notorious for drunken 72-hour long marriages, one-night stands, gambling addictions, drive through chapels, and the “I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine” mentality. The dresses are too short, the heels too high, the alcohol too expensive, and the people just fake enough to make you question how living here can possibly be considered real life. But it is real life for those of us who have taken up residency. With the expectation of fake eyelashes, push up bras, and 6 inch pumps that murder your body from your feet to your neck, one weekend is usually enough for people to get a taste and then head back to whatever “normal” city they left behind for a few days of lavish extremities. Thankfully living downtown isn’t as extreme as what you might experience if you venture south down Las Vegas Blvd (enter: Fantasy Land). The Strip turns Vegas into a city of magic and mischief, which is both tempting and troublesome.

Vegas is the city that giveth and the city that taketh away. It gives you a platform for your wildest dreams to manifest because no dream is too big, too outrageous, too extreme. It’s the city that gives you hope for your future by planting the idea that you can do anything or be anyone you want to be (you want to be Tupac or a sexy cowboy? Head on down to Fremont Street and you've got yourself a gig). It provides an atmosphere of constant excitement and entertainment around every corner. There’s truly never a dull moment - unless you choose to spend your Friday nights on the couch with Ted Mosby and a glass of sangria (which there's nothing wrong with, by the way).

But it can also take that all away faster than you can say “what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." I’ve seen more start-up companies try and fail and come and go than I even knew existed. I’ve seen people get carried away having TOO much fun and end up at their version of rock bottom, which ranges from being blacked out over a strangers toilet seat to losing their home because they gambled it away. I’ve seen hearts get broken when it all just becomes too much to bear: lovers lose interest, sin city soulmates head home, and people you care about start to leave because they realize what comes next.

You’re constantly surrounded by thousands of people, all seemingly pulsing and buzzing like a choir in unison. Yet the loneliness of this city is palpable, and much like with every added drink on a Saturday night you can feel it coursing through your blood stream. You’re hardly ever alone, yet you’re always lonely. You’re out playing with your friends and laughing on the outside, maybe even drunkenly singing at the piano bar if you’re feeling bold. But deep down that last shot of Fireball represents the feeling in the pit of your stomach that your life is just missing something. You’re constantly told by everyone you meet to suck it up because you’re "so young” - as if that means you lack the ability to formulate a genuine opinion of your own circumstances. After one year and +15 pounds of beer belly, you begin to realize that this city is not sustainable for 20-somethings chasing after their futures. We can’t last. The expectations are not realistic.

Knowing you’re not leaving anytime soon (and face it, you don’t want to yet), you spend the next 6 months trying to make the most of where you’re at by not letting yourself get sucked downstream in a sea of booze. You lose the 15 pounds you put on, start focusing more on your career trajectory and feel confident about the upward direction you’re heading. Maybe you even start trying to date again in an effort to create some sort of normalcy in your personal life outside of work. But after you’ve been turned down 3 times in a row by 3 different guys via radio silence after inviting them to a UFC fight or out for a drink, you start to realize that it’s obvious why you feel so lonely and no one is able to find companionship here. You have to wonder, is it you? But before you start feeling too sorry for yourself, you're given some very valuable advice: It’s not you, it’s where you are.

A lightbulb goes off. You realize that sentence applies to more than just your love life. Maybe you’re not the common denominator here. Maybe Vegas is the common denominator. Maybe you’re the only normal thing about this city, and you don’t even realize it because you’re consumed by the unrealistic situation you're in. “Normal” in Vegas isn’t “normal” anywhere else in the world. It's entirely possible that everyone you’ve met has a glittery blindfold on, preventing them from wanting any sort of real, emotional connection with another human being (and you're pretty sure that anyone who says they don't want that is either lying or lives in Las Vegas). But not you; you've already outgrown that phase of your Vegas residency. It makes you wonder, maybe if you moved to a different city without all the showgirls, bright lights, and $50 cover charges things would be different; "real life" could actually start. Maybe Vegas is just a catalyst into the next phase of your life where things will start to level out. There’s no denying it’s been good to you though; you started your career here, inherited some of the best friends the universe could have possibly picked out for you, and grew into your awkward 20-something phase of life. Even though at times it feels like your career path is at a peak and your love life is a vast empty valley, deep down you love it here and your (nearly) 25-year-old-self wouldn’t trade it for anywhere else.

But you can’t help but start to wonder, what comes next? If you’ve got the job, the friends, the apartment, and the family near by, what is it that's missing? Why aren’t you the happiest you could be? You already know the answer but you’re too lonely to even admit it out loud. There's a missing piece of the puzzle that you’re confident won’t be found under current circumstances. Unfortunately you know that might mean eventually having to start the entire puzzle over from scratch. Then all at once you realize what’s missing. It's not another person, it's a decision, and one you're not quite ready to make. 

You sometimes feel discouraged, but deep down you still believe in this city because you’ve seen what she's capable of. You're not ready to give up on her just yet. You know it’s a gamble, but the perfect hand will be dealt in due time, right? So until then, you keep your fingers crossed, continue to roll the dice, and each night you say the old Vegas prayer, "luck, be a lady tonight." 

Then you stop and remind yourself: you own your happiness, not anyone else. And you keep pushing forward towards the life you've always wanted. Wherever that is, is still TBD.

Guest Post: A Single Angeleno in Sin City

I'm so excited that my best friend, Cory agreed to be my first-ever guest blogger - especially on the theme of "Single in Sin City." Hearing her experience on the subject is compelling to me - mostly because of the giggle-filled phone calls we often share, reminiscing of the crazy nights we've had on the Strip. From turning 21, to my eventual move here, we've had quite a few nights being Single in Sin City together. And even though it's now my hometown, I can still relate to being a non-local - from before I moved to Vegas, and sometimes still when I venture down to the Strip, mostly whenever Cory's in town. Anyways, I'll let her do the talking this time from a different angle: A single LA girl in Sin City.

I am so honored that my oldest friend Chels would even consider allowing me to write a guest post on her newly revamped blog: Single in Sin City. As a SoCal native and LA local, being a guest of Sin City makes me the most run-of-the-mill type of girl walking the Strip these days. I'm in town for a night or two for several purposes. Nope, not work or relaxation, really... I'm there to party, to have girl time, to meet guys, to relax, sure (while looking cute and taking seemingly carefree Instagram selfies)... and to be the girl that I am not on your average weekday.

Mind you, I am entirely stereotyping AND generalizing at the same time. This is the Vegas I've experienced as a SoCal girl... it's the one I've seen since I was underage and adventuring there with a fake ID on a frat bus full of shit-shows. It's the Vegas that I have done while freshly single, while LONG-single, and while partially-pseudo-single. Never have I been when I wasn't single, I don't think. Hence: Single in City City. It's the only way to be there.

What is it about Vegas that allows us to act the way we do? Is it a similar phenomenon to Halloween, in which the standard is so outrageous that we feel comfortable being any form of our real or imagined selves, in whatever costume we can get our hands on? I mean, there's no dress code; there's no way to be sleazier than some you'll see on the Vegas Blvd street corners. There's no one there to judge your appearance (who you'll never see again after that weekend), and there are no parents or bosses who you might accidentally run into.

There's no pressure to meet the one or act a certain way, because there's no need to impress the dance partner or one-night stand you'll find on the dance floor in Vegas. No one wants to marry the one they met on a Vegas weekend. Right? There's no limit to how high ones dress can hike or high ones heels can spike, because the outfit is only for one night and there's only one place in which you can get away with wearing those things.

You pull out the dress, the outfit you chose for a night out in Vegas because it's too tight and low cut to wear at your average weeknight happy hour. It's too hot to ever throw away, too slutty to ever donate and too expensive to not save forever in the back of your silk-lined underwear drawer. You wear it because something about that hotel room lighting makes you feel like you look like a million bucks; I mean, your friends told you so and the guys you passed on the way into the cab clearly liked it (according to the whistles). You wear it because it's hot as hell outside if it's summer and the short dress is the easiest to dance around in, even if it's winter.

After a few conversations, a couple strong drinks and maybe even a duck-out from the wrong guy for your ideal evening, you spot the hottie that may end up being your Vegas hook-up, otherwise known as the Sin City Soulmate (as only I would call him). You look over until he makes eye contact because when ELSE has your makeup, your carefully penciled eyeliner and thickened mascara, ever looked this good? You twist and dance and shake it shamelessly because the music is somehow perfect and the booze is now pumping through your bloodstream. You even nonchalantly inch toward his corner of the dance floor because you want to be close to him -- to share this excitement with someone on your level.

You consider how the night will end, and you realize that you don't want it to. You may have mixed friend groups by this time, and you also may have lost all of them by now. You glance at the time according to your iPhone and cringe at the hour, only on the inside. Outside, you're grabbing his hand for another round on the dance floor because your heeled feet are numb now and you may as well capitalize on your adrenaline rush, or at least get a quality workout in. You ask yourself: will I go home with him? Could I do that? He is making you feel like the hottest girl in the room -- hell, in all of Sin City -- holding you tight and keeping his eyes locked onto you even when you flip your hair and pretend to look away. So you'll swiftly exit back to the Strip, hand in hand, and notice that the sun is coming up already with both the promise and the inherent tragedy of a new day. 

You may jaunt back to whomever's hotel room with a skip in your steps, in the anticipation of stretching your wild night into the depths of a late morning. Perhaps you'll meander back without a deadline in the world because you'd rather share a few drunken stories about your Vegas weekend between kisses, watching that unrivaled desert sunrise over the cheesy, jagged landscape. If you're as lucky as me, you might even make it upstairs in time to watch said sunrise from the penthouse balcony of the Cosmo, wrapped in Egyptian cotton. 

The best part of it all is is the too-true saying: What happens in Sin City stays in Sin City. At least, it probably should stay, according to most modern history of Vegas debauchery. Hasn't anyone here seen The Hangover? Snapchat should always be the social avenue of choice on a night like the one described above. Why is it then, that the aforementioned Sin City Soulmate can't get out of my head... nor out of my recent text history?! It all begins with the morning-after text; before you know it, it's become bed-time FaceTime dates spent wallowing over the distance between you. 

I know I shouldn't waste a second entertaining the possibility; I mean, in most cases of my Vegas luck, the lover-boy has turned out to live in some far off land like Canada! But I can't help it... my mind can't help but journey back to that fateful night beneath the flashing lights at XS, alongside the sparkling shallows at Surrender and Marquee. There was the way he snuck his fingers across my dress hem as we danced, and the exasperation in his voice when he whispered in my ear: Where have you been?! Maybe there was something just devastating about the innocence in his questions, his genuine curiosity, and the pure absence of any suggestion that I come back to his hotel room. You know you're in trouble when a Sin City Soulmate leaves you wanting more.

As it turns out, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas -- most of the time.

(Side note from Chelsea: ...Unless you live here.)