Sleepless Solitude: The True-Life Journals of a Xanax'd Millennial (Part 2 of 2)

July 15

July 15

As far as big fat fucking messes go, this morning really took the cake.

Surprisingly, I woke up on time. I also woke up unable able to move my left hand, and still in the same clothes from last night. When I inspected my hand to figure out what was wrong with it, I noticed that my entire wrist was covered in blood – most of which was still fresh. My bed sheets and pillowcases also looked like a fucking crime scene. Full horror show. Blood everywhere. I don't remember how I got home last night. I vaguely recall falling at some point, but I don't know where or when that happened.

I pulled myself together. I washed the blood off my hands, and miraculously managed to complete every item of my morning routine in record time. With an extra half-hour to spare, I figured I would go back to bed. Bad idea. Apparently, I can't do math properly. Considering I flunked out of business school, I don't know why this was such a surprise. Instead of setting my alarm to give me enough time to shower and get to work for 9 a.m., I set the alarm at 8:45 a.m. Why, God? Why!

Realizing what I had done, I pulled up my pants, threw my head under the bathtub faucet, and ran out the door knowing I was going to be at least 20 minutes late for work. I was manning the front desk today, which meant that I had to be at The Clubhouse on time. Otherwise, nobody else would be around to open up shop. I had to think of something good to tell Robyn.

At this point, my hand was hurting more and more by the minute, all while it continued to gush blood. I figured that I would play the card I was dealt, and tell Robyn that I was late because I fell. So, that's what I did. I texted Robyn, letting her know that I had slipped outside the Witch Cave on my way to work, and that I needed Band-Aids. What a disaster this day was turning out to be – and it wasn't even 9 a.m. yet.

When I arrived at The Clubhouse, Robyn was waiting for me behind the front desk. Damn it. Robyn could easily see that I was bleeding, though. I think she might have actually believed my lie, which was a real bonus at this point. I slapped on some bandages, and shooed Robyn away. I didn't want to have to make up any more lies. For God's sake, Robyn already thinks I'm a hot mess as it is. Robyn also thinks that I have four other siblings. I can't keep up with my own lies!

After settling in and opening up the front desk, I changed into the fresh clothes I had thrown into my backpack on my mad dash out of the Witch Cave. My hand had now gotten so bad that I couldn't even do up my fucking pants! So began the theme for the rest of my day.

Until 6 p.m. when I left to go home, I didn't use my left hand once. I couldn't move it, which wasn't exactly ideal for someone who is left-handed. I sat with my limp hand in my lap all day. I also put on a few extra bandages to make it really obvious that I was injured. At first, I was laying it on pretty thick. I play the victim card very well when I need to. However, by the end of the day, I couldn't believe how bad my hand hurt. I don't know how people operate with their right hand. It's completely unnatural.

My injury was probably karma for lying to Robyn. Or, perhaps it was karma for drinking everything in sight last night. To be honest, I thought I did a good job keeping my drinking in check at Lauryn's party. What I like to do is drink a ton of alcohol right before I leave, and then get the fuck out of Dodge before anyone sees me pee my pants. That way, people only witness me at my cutest. But then, goddamn Phillip had to go and follow me home from the party. Way to ruin my plan, Phillip!

Once I was finally released from Clubhouse prison, I stopped by Shoppers Drug Mart and bought myself a sling. Yeah. I bought a fucking sling today. My hand was still throbbing. I didn't know what else to do. I struggled to wrap the thing around me before I had even left the store, and then I walked down Queen Street West looking like an absolute crazy person. The whole look garnered even more sideways glances than I usually get thanks to my bandaged gremlin foot. And, hey. While we're at it, why not stop by the mall and do some shopping? That was a really stupid idea.

The problem with all of this was that I wasn't pretending anymore. I literally could not use my left hand in any way. Why I thought it would be a good idea to go try on bathing suits and vests at Hudson's Bay is beyond me. I ended up getting so frustrated in the fitting room that I just bought everything. I'll return it later, once I try things on in the comfort of my own home – free from the struggle of being a cripple in a fitting room the size of a European shower.

After my pit stop at the mall, I walked home, got a snack along the way, and then had dinner. I was too tired and in no physical condition to go out. The most frustrating part was that I couldn't even work on my writing. I mean, I suppose I could have. Punching out a 2,000-word journal entry with one hand didn't seem like the best use of my time, though. The transcriptions take long enough to write as it is.

Fortunately, my hand was getting better by the end of the night. I was able to message some friends, and slightly clean up my apartment. Although, doing dishes sure as fuck wasn't going to happen.

Phillip is hosting a BBQ for his birthday at his house tomorrow and invited me, which was nice of him. After the blowout we had last weekend, I suppose he sort of had to. Lauryn is going to come, too. I picked out an ensemble for tomorrow, watched some TV, and then crawled into bed hoping that I would wake up with a functioning hand. It figures. The one night I actually had the desire to masturbate – which is still a rarity these days, to be honest – I couldn't. It's hard to be a lefty in a right-handed world.

Goodnight xo