Partygirl Law #1:

If there is a drug addict in the vicinity, he or she will seek me out.

Las Vegas. That town and I fight like welter weights every time. I'm not sure who wins, but I think the town does.

Today, trying to keep the molecules that form my body constricted into a mass rather than a puddle while at breakfast, a speed freak sitting alone at the table in front me, swings around and initiates conversation.

I'm dressed conservatively. Reading a newspaper. I am telling you, there is no fucking *way* she could have known that I am a partygirl. She swings around none the less.

Died orange hair with blonde roots. Wearing a vintage 70's yellowed polyester shirt with palm trees on it over tight, dark denim jeans, flaring long at the ankle, barely covering feet covered in glittery white socks and slid into clear jellied sandals with moonboot soles that were at least 4 inches high, she stared me right in the face and says, "Have you ever seen a group of nerds like that group of guys???"

I can't see her eyes because she's wearing brown tinted shades. I look at her for 3 seconds as I prepare to reply and I hear a voice in my head, "Speed Freak." It's 10am, in a crowded diner and this chick who is tweaking her face off, finds me.

Of course she does.

But to confirm my suspicions, I throw it out there. "Guess they wouldn't know anything about the 10 tons of pseudophedrine confiscated this week."

I thought her neck was going to unscrew the way she whipped around at that. The next thing I know, Tweak Central, her mimosa and Capri's are joining me at my table.

The beauty of a speed freak is, you never have to make an effort to talk to them. They'll run with the entire conversation and are just happy to have someone to direct it toward. They'll even insert their own laughs.

I humored her for a little while, because it looked like she'd been on meth or something better for a few days and I know how it sucks to be alone and trying to come down.

Turns out she was a make-up artist for "adult films" in LA, but she moved home to N.E. Phillie where she lives with her BF. Apparently, that living situation will be ending soon, and I suspect that has a lot to do with the little excursion they were completing on the West Coast. Love is a many splendored thing, but good drugs are way, way better.

Just as she was looking at me with skittish eyes and asking me to join her in a few rounds of video poker, my phone rang and I was saved by a friend who stopped by my hotel.

But, I didn't escape without the exchange of cards. I laughed as I watched her make a note next to my name on my card, writing the name of the diner we were in, thinking of these old tricks.

But the nostalgia ran cold as I shook her outstretched hand and felt the cold, loose skin of a speed freak.

It's been a long time, but not long enough.

Vegas is a bad, bad place.

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