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

August 1

August 1

You know the drill. Sleep in as long as possible so that there are fewer hours left in the day to eat. Does it ever work? No.

I completely pigged out again today. I love (read: hate) how I said yesterday that I was not going to smoke weed. Well, you sneaky little bitch. You kept your promise. You didn't smoke weed. But, you fucking ate it! I am such a fucking mess that I sneak around my own rules. What the fuck? Is nothing sacred? I just scammed myself! Fucker! I didn't even eat until 3 p.m. today. However, once I started, I didn't stop.

I stayed in my room until about 3 p.m. As soon as I went downstairs, the Costco-sized bag of chocolate covered almonds disappeared. So did most of the food in the house, actually. There was absolutely zero self-control or discipline this weekend. I didn't even attempt to exercise over three whole fucking days. I finished some writing, got stoned, and then went outside and listened to Janet Jackson by the pool. Writing this now, I barely remember doing that.

Why do I smoke? I know it makes me happy and care-free when I'm stoned, but at what cost? There are so many memories I simply don't have because I was too high. Not to mention, the many extra calories packed onto my love handles from food I don't even remember eating. Why is this a continuous cycle of journal entries?

Kurt starts smoking weed again.

Kurt says he's going to be cautious of how much he smokes per week.

Okay, now it's per day.

Okay, now it's only at night, right before bed.

Okay, now we can start at dinnertime.

Soon enough, I'm high at 10 a.m. on a Saturday.

I hate this. Everything about weed is bad for me. For my weight, my social life, my career, my writing – well, it actually makes my writing better sometimes – and just...life.

I feel like life is passing me by so fast. Meanwhile, I'm just sitting here, sunken three-feet into a couch, and picking salt and vinegar chip crumbs off a stomach bulge that's bursting out of my ratty Walt Disney World t-shirt, which I stole while dating my ex-boyfriend. What an image.

I'm at a pretty low point body-wise right now. If I'm being honest, I think I did it on purpose. Like, maybe to get it out of my system. Now, I have two weeks where I have to be absolutely perfect if I want to lose weight before my trip to New York City. I want to be back in the 170s. If I focus, I know I can do it. That also means losing one pound a day, but I'm hopeful. Maybe five pounds a week. Fuck. Stranger things have happened, right? Shit.

After watching far too much Harry Potter, and re-watching Erin Brockovich with Mom and Dad – all while very high – I drove downtown, walked home, and smoked and binged on everything I brought back to the Witch Cave from Casa Z. I'm not even kidding. Granola bars one after the other. Did I even chew? I don't know. Because I hadn't had enough yesterday, I also brought Mom's key lime pie back to my place to finish every last crumb. I don't even think anyone else had a slice all weekend.

Tomorrow, I am going to the gym. My triumphant return. We'll see how it goes. I think I just need to be in that environment again in order to focus. I can't remember the last time I did even 1,000 sit-ups in my apartment. I get bored with it, and then I look to my left and there's a kitchen full of food. Then I look to my right, and there's weed and a computer on the coffee table. How can I resist?

I jacked off, and went to bed. I can't even take deep breaths, that's how full I am. Yet, I could still eat if there were chocolate covered almonds around. I need professional help. But, I don't have money or benefits. The gym will have to suffice.

Goodnight xo