I Partied in Vegas and Woke Up in a Bathtub at Caesars Palace
- By: Amanda Coscarelli
This story has been submitted by a LOOP reader…
I told myself I was going to have a “chill” Vegas weekend. That was my first mistake.
My best friend had just gotten a promotion, and we booked a last-minute trip to Las Vegas to celebrate. We checked into Caesars Palace on a Friday afternoon, already buzzing from airport mimosas and the kind of delusion that only exists between landing and your first lost blackjack hand.
By 9 p.m., we were in full glam, taking mirror selfies in matching metallic dresses, telling ourselves we’d “pace it.” By 10:30, pacing was out the window. A promoter we met near the casino floor promised us a VIP table at Omnia Nightclub. All we had to do was show up and “bring the energy.”
Energy we had. Memory? Not so much.
Omnia is a fever dream even when you’re sober — the chandelier spinning overhead, the bass vibrating through your ribs, lights strobing like you’re inside a sci-fi movie. I remember screaming the lyrics to a remix I didn’t know, champagne appearing out of nowhere, and my best friend disappearing with a guy in a silk button-down who kept calling everyone “brother.”
I remember dancing on the banquette.
I remember someone chanting my name like I had just won a Grammy.
I do not remember how I got back to our room.
We checked in, already buzzing from airport mimosas and the kind of delusion that only exists between landing and your first lost blackjack hand.
What I do remember is waking up at 7:12 a.m. in a cold, porcelain bathtub, fully clothed, one heel still on, the other heel floating next to me like it had given up before I did.
For a solid 30 seconds, I didn’t move. I just stared at the gold-accented ceiling and tried to piece together what kind of Roman Empire cosplay had landed me here. The tub faucet was dripping. My phone was on the counter, screen cracked but alive, 3% battery, 40 unread texts.
The first text was from my best friend at 3:30 a.m. “ARE YOU IN THE ROOM?”
The second, “WHY IS THERE A MAN ASLEEP ON OUR COUCH?”
My heart stopped.
I launched myself out of the tub so fast I nearly slipped. I tiptoed into the suite like I was in a horror movie. The curtains were half open, bright desert sun slicing across the carpet. And there, on the couch, was a man I did not recognize. Shoes off. Shirt wrinkled. Snoring peacefully like this was a Marriott in Omaha and not a luxury suite in Vegas.
I checked myself for signs of disaster. Dress intact. Zipper up. Phone in hand. Purse accounted for. Dignity? Pending review.
My best friend was face-down in the bed, dead to the world. I shook her shoulder.
“Who is that?” I whisper-screamed.
She groaned. “You invited him.”
Apparently, Couch Guy was “Ethan from San Diego” (possibly) who had helped us get back to the hotel because I “refused to get into an Uber unless it was playing Rihanna.” At some point in the elevator, I had declared that he was “trustworthy” and should come upstairs for “room service vibes.”
I have no memory of this vote.
The bathtub, according to my friend, was my own idea. She said I dramatically announced I was “overstimulated by capitalism” and needed a “sensory reset.” Instead of the bed. Or, I don’t know, a pillow. I climbed into the tub and insisted it was “grounding.”
There, on the couch, was a man I did not recognize.
Couch Guy woke up around 8 a.m., confused but polite. He thanked us for “a legendary night” and left before things got too awkward. We locked the door behind him and just stared at each other.
“Did anything bad happen?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “Just… chaotic.”
We ordered greasy room service and did the sacred Morning After Scroll through my camera roll. There were blurry selfies with strangers. A video of me lecturing a security guard about “aura alignment.” A slow-motion clip of me attempting to start a chant that never caught on.
But nothing scary. Nothing tragic. Just pure, unfiltered Vegas excess.
By checkout, we were laughing about it. The bathtub had already become lore. “Remember when you tried to spiritually cleanse yourself in a Roman soaking tub?” my friend kept saying.
Here’s the thing about Vegas: it magnifies whatever version of you shows up. Confident you? She’s unstoppable. Emotional you? She’s crying in the club bathroom. Dramatic you? She’s fully clothed in a $700-a-night bathtub, declaring war on capitalism.
Would I do it again? Maybe not the bathtub part. Hydration is now my religion. But there’s something about Las Vegas — the lights, the chaos, the permission to be slightly unhinged — that makes you feel like consequences are a Monday problem.
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