Thank you Instagram for posting an advertisement on your phone app for the exact hotel I was googling on my home computer earlier this morning. Nothing helps me feel more at peace with eventually having to grow my own vegetables and harvest my own water when capitalism fails and the planet says fuck it than knowing you’ll probably still be there—rock solid, like a warrior—promo-ing go-bags and seastead homes.

Also, IG, we ended up staying at The Flamingo (not the Venetian, whose pool was closed) and seeing two drunk people have sex at the Go Pool so: suck it loser.

[Okay. About the Go Pool: that did happen. It was EDC weekend in Vegas—most expensive days to go outside of New Years and no: I had no idea that was the case—and there were many revelers and this couple started canoodling in the pool and then got out and went to rented Charles beer the pools edge, covered themselves with a towel and—while many of us sitting in chairs around the pool watched in shock—did the deed under the towel. One guy watching even got the lifeguards attention to let him know what was going on and the lifeguard ignored it. Vegas.]