Hi, I'm Kurt. A binge-drinking, pill-popping disco diva with a heart of platinum and an appetite for self-destruction.
Welcome to Sleepless Solitude: The True-Life Journals of a Xanax'd Millennial (Part 1 of 2).
Adapted from a collection of nightly...
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March 15
Holy shit. I can't believe today is finally over. Fortunately, I think it will probably be one of the worst days this week. Although, Friday isn't looking too good, either.
I dragged myself out of bed at 5 a.m., got myself together, and drove up to The Store. They were receiving a shipment and asked for my help, so I worked from 7 a.m. to 11 a.m., unboxing and pricing merchandise in the back room. It was easy money, so I wasn't about to pass up the shift. Afterwards, I picked up some groceries before heading back into the city, but ran out of time to bring them to the Witch Cave. I left everything in the car and literally ran to the Fashion Week tent for my second day with DigiPrint. I worked the booth from 1 p.m. to 11 p.m. and my feet are fucking killing me.
The DigiPrint people are a good group to work with. It's me, one other guy, two girls, and Sydney, the coordinator who essentially runs the show. Sydney is a fucking hard ass. Oddly enough, she reminds me of Tina, the PR manager I met while working at the Toronto Film Group. Both are the type of people who come off as very abrasive when you first meet them. But, it's a front. I always know that if I can find a way to break through that tough exterior, we can be great friends. I'm weirdly stubborn like that. To quote Elle Woods, as I shake my head in disbelief: "Everybody likes me!"
Nonetheless, I understand why Sydney might act the way she does. It's disgusting to say, or perhaps admit, but it's still very much a man's world out there. If a woman wants to get ahead in the rat race, I think she is often forced to act as what's thought of as a bitch. But, Sydney's not a bitch. She's simply acting the way every typical man acts, and it's unfortunate that such a double standard exists. Fuck that shit. Sydney is very good at what she does. I admire her leadership. I want to make a good impression too, so I'm trying to keep it professional with her.
On another note, the guests at this Fashion Week thing are ridiculous. I absolutely cannot with them. If I see one more 20-something-year-old girl posing awkwardly in front of the Mercedes Benz demo, I'm going to swan dive off the top of the fashion tent. It's all so outrageous. In fact, I find many of the attendees to be similar to those from the Toronto Film Group events I used to work. People act as though they are so interested in the art of it all. The styles, fabrics, and detailing of fashion, or the design, editing, and effects of film. I call bullshit. Do you hear me? Bullshit!
I think what people are most interested in at these types of events is the commercial component of it all. They want to be famous, or be around someone who is. Yet, they don't seem to have any regard as to why. Why do you want to be famous? For what? What are you bringing to the table, other than a heavily filtered Instagram photo of you on the hood of a sports car? It all seems so fake.
It's cringeworthy to watch such desperation happen before your eyes, too. The posing. The thirst. All of it. It's as though these people are homogenizing themselves. Disguising their true identities with a filter. They're taking all of the amazing qualities that made them uniquely different in the first place, and photoshopping it all away in an attempt to create a likable "brand" or persona. I found myself moving away from photographers whenever they were around me today. I don't want my fucking picture taken, thank you very much. I don't want any part of this tomfoolery.
I had it out a bit with Phillip today over the course of a few text messages. He's still giving me a hard time about meeting up to work on the music for MOMENTS. Phillip won't commit to a weekend time, as if it's such a stretch that someone might have to work on a weeknight. If he sticks to his word, we should be meeting this Saturday. Thank God. I know a lot of this recent stress is a result of my nerves getting the best of me. I definitely had a few internal panic attacks here and there today. On a positive note, I was notified this afternoon that the MOMENTS champagne sponsor came through. $5 splashes for everyone!
When I finally got home late tonight, I ran a bath and sat in it for well over an hour as I sifted through my iTunes library and made the first draft of the MOMENTS playlist. I've now got it on my phone and can edit it on the go, which will be great. Always hustling. After my soak, I dragged my wrinkled ass to bed at 2 a.m.
I'm almost using this whole MOMENTS event thing as an escape from thinking about Logan. It barely helps. But, at least I have the party to focus on when I need to forget about the fact that, as of tomorrow, Logan and I have not spoken for two weeks, and that there's – fuck.
I don't even know what to say anymore. I feel like I've written the exact same thing in these journal entries every night for the past two months. The guy is not into you, Kurt. You know this. Why are you still looking at his Instagram, his friend's Instagram, and his friend's friend's Instagram 96 times a day? It's absolutely mental. You're absolutely mental. Maybe I'm looking for some sort of closure? Except, I don't think it's so much about looking for closure. I think I'm waiting for it. But, perhaps I can't wait any longer. I need to face the realities of what Logan is going to say if/when we ever communicate again. I think I need to send him a message. How can I let the last thing I said to him be, "I miss you," and the last thing he said to me be, "Thinking of you?" I can't.
Okay. I need to stop thinking about this.
I'm going to court tomorrow morning for a year-old parking ticket. Perfect timing.
