Dis-orientation — a chaotic, sun-drenched farewell weekend in Las Vegas — became the cohort’s final act together. Part celebration, part rite of passage, it blended recklessness, camaraderie, and nostalgia into one unforgettable send-off, marking the end of their academic journey and the start of whatever came next.

Disclaimer

• All characters and events in this chapter —even those based on real people—are entirely fictional.
• The following chapters contain coarse language and situations and due to its content it should not be read by anyone.

Chapter 34 “Dis-Orientation”

Our final MBA escapade was fittingly dubbed Dis-orientation – a weekend of organized chaos in Las Vegas, our collective farewell to academia and our last hurrah as a cohort.

The plan was simple: find lodging, drink relentlessly, and celebrate like there was no tomorrow. We opted for accommodations slightly off the strip – a nod to budgetary constraints – sharing rooms of four, our camaraderie outweighing any notion of luxury.

Vegas wasn’t new to us. These quarterly pilgrimages had become a tradition. Every few months, about twenty of us would pile into cars and make the pilgrimage to Sin City. The Venetian was our usual haunt – the rooms were spacious enough to cram five or six people, slashing costs while maximizing the experience.

Upon arrival, the ritual began. One room became the designated party HQ, and its bathtub – the sacred centerpiece. We’d fill it with ice, pack it with bottles, and inaugurate the weekend with yellow shots of dubious origin. This pre-game ceremony was our collective battle cry before descending upon the club du jour, ready to revel until the sun crept over the Strip.

The drive from LA to Vegas was almost as legendary as the trip itself. These five-hour road trips provided ample time to bond, debate music choices, and dive into deep conversations that only highway hypnosis could conjure.

One particular drive stood out. I rode with a Chinese biologist from our section – not exactly the companion I’d envisioned for a Vegas bender. His thick accent made conversation a delightful challenge, but we managed. The hours passed with cultural exchanges, him explaining intricate scientific phenomena while I tried (unsuccessfully) to explain the genius of The Rolling Stones.

On the way back, we detoured through Chinatown for a clandestine haircut – his idea. I found myself in a nondescript barber shop, surrounded by elderly men who didn't speak a word of English. It was surreal, as most Vegas stories are, but I cherished the authenticity of the moment.

For Dis-orientation, my room consisted of four like-minded individuals, a couple of them were tethered by romantic entanglements. The couples decided to separate for this one last trip and let boys be boys.

Vegas, as always, greeted us with open arms and open bottles. Our itinerary? Simple: drink, pool, repeat. The cabanas we rented by the pool served as our observation deck for the official MISS USA beauty contest unfolding before us – a perpetual display of sun-kissed extravagance. The contest was that night at a local hotel and the promoters were doing a pre bikini show at the swimming pool.

But the crowning jewel of Dis-orientation was the White Party – an opulent affair held in the fabled Playboy Suite at the Palms.

Two floors of sheer decadence awaited us. The suite featured a private pool on the 50th floor with panoramic views of Las Vegas, four restrooms (which, trust me, became essential), and ice sculptures that doubled as vodka fountains. It was the sort of place that made you wonder if you’d accidentally stepped into a Great Gatsby adaptation.

Dressed in head-to-toe white, we ascended to the suite. The air buzzed with anticipation. We were MBA students, but for one night, we partied like Wall Street traders flush with bonus checks. The drinks, copious, never stopped flowing, and the line between indulgence and sybaritism blurred into oblivion.

The next morning was less glamorous. I woke up fully clothed, sprawled across a couch, my head pounding in protest. The suite bore the scars of our revelry – empty bottles, confetti, and the faint smell of chlorine lingering from the pool.

The Dis-orientation trip was reckless, ridiculous, and absolutely perfect – a fitting coda to our MBA experience. If the white party symbolized the peak of our time together, then the subsequent hangover was the universe’s reminder that all good things come at a price.

And as we drove back to Los Angeles, the Strip fading into the rearview mirror, I knew this chapter of life was closing – but what a hell of a way to end it.