Wondering is my lonely pastime, and overthinking is a hobby. Sometimes I just can't focus on anything but home.

Home is hearing the ruckus of drunks stumbling around the almost mournful lights and the symphony of cheering crowds that erupted as the next hand of cards proved to be the winning one.

Yahtzee was a partyhouse favorite and Blackjack was a duel; Texas Hold'em was the deal-breaker and Strip Poker was just plain cruel.

People always assume that Sin City births only gamblers and mere alcoholics, along with runaways and smog-infected drug lords.

Over time, however, it just seems to be as common as a tumbleweed getting caught in the tire of any Nevada citizen on the barren highways of the unforgiving Mojave.

Kindergarten students are convicted of manslaughter due to paranoia, and the two inches of rainfall a year are considered gifts from Heaven.

Everyone sees the exterior. Then again, who can blame them?

Ruining your life at the emerald card dealer's table, smoking away your worries and drinking away your unsolved crises, watching that precious gem called a 20-dollar bill go to slot machines . . .

Cutthroat mafia leaders and rugged, haunted casinos; the Metropolitan Police Department breaking their own laws . . .

Here is your perfect painting, your pristine portrait of that infamous valley within the Rocky Mountains, among the Mojave Desert, where gila monsters thrive and the coyotes feel like the second family you never wanted.

It doesn't stop there, as much as I wish it did.

Prostitutes with Elvis impersonators roamed that iconic, city boulevard:

Strip, they call it. Not as in strip club, but more like overly-decorated strip of road that bulldozes through an alley of casinos, cultures, and margaritas.

Among the adultery is the land of young aspirers; the sweets at the M&M Factory and the sunken ships of Treasure Island, the white tigers of the Mirage and the Bellagio's fountain show, fixed with lights of all colors and a hint of magic.

Newly-weds host photoshoots at the preeminent sign, proudly welcoming all to "fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada."

Down by the Paris, the children chuckle in amusement as they boast to their friends on the other side of the cellphone screen about going to France, when there is clearly a rug of playing cards caressing the sidewalk under their feet in the picture used as proof.

Pawning off their rarest collectable at Gold & Silver Pawn Shop in hopes of making it onto Pawn Stars was a natural occurrence, even if their rarest collectible was nothing more than 2012 baseball card of someone nobody knew.

Lightning storms providing young couples with a spectacular date opportunity atop Sunrise Mountain, each flash of electrical power making them each giggle with spontaneous delight and flinch from bewilderment of the late-coming thunderclap.

And in the midst of it all is the valley with lights that illuminate the southwest; the city that never sleeps, where happenings are to never leave.

Yet . . .

I left.

Now that I reminisce on my nostalgic memories, I can't help but think back on what I've heard in my years far from home.

Going around the alleged "Palm Springs of Washington," thinking to myself the answer to a reoccurring question asked to me:

"Chips and cards? Why?"

And all curious gather to hear what fairy tale reasoning I may spit out to get myself out of explaining where I'm from.

Repeating my words like I was a broken record and

Downgrading an elongated, complex answer to a puzzling, yet satisfying statement, it

Simply boils down to a soft sigh. "Home is where your heart is."