Las Vegas

Whether cheering on busty strippers at the Kitty Kat Lounge, taunting children poolside while six drinks deep, gambling away student loan money at the slot machines or stumbling into the Flamingo with a head full of acid in an attempt to channel Hunter S. Thompson, there’s no place like Vegas to bring out the freak in all of us.

The grueling five hour drive from San Diego is well worth the brightly lit moment you descend upon the Strip. Roll down your windows to let the arid desert heat blast your skin and sit back, mesmerized by the bright neon letters that will have your head spinning long after the ecstasy has left your spinal cord.

Be prepared to make it rain, even if it is a shallow downpour. Other than gazing in awe at the Fountains of Bellagio and pretending you’re from the cast of “Ocean’s Eleven,” cheap entertainment is hard to come by in a city of big spenders. But spring break isn’t the time to be worrying about such trivial matters — you’ve passed the whole quarter eating Ramen noodles and choking down Popov, so don’t hesitate to throw $40 on the Bellagio Buffet or stuff a couple Lincolns down Cheri’s thong.

Go ahead, indulge. Hot-box your car in Barstow, throw up on the Nike statue and shake your ass both on and off the dance floor. Just be careful not to crouch down too low — a bad case of crabs is one souvenir you don’t want to take home.

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