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 2 of 2).
Adapted from a collection of nightly...
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August 13
This morning was rough. I didn't do anything crazy last night, but I still woke up with an overwhelming sense of guilt.
I hate this feeling. This "morning after" bombardment of regret, grogginess, and the feeling that I am constantly making poor choices. As I sat on the edge of my bed this morning, I had so much anxiety rushing over me that I was on the verge of tears. I drink alcohol because I'm an extremely high-strung person. I enjoy the lack of control, but I regret it because of the same reason. I have no self-control when I drink. A week after my horrible accident, and I'm already back on the bottle. Goddamn it.
I took a deep breath. After pulling myself out of bed, I cleaned up my apartment, made a playlist for Natasha's dad's 60th birthday party tonight, packed my bag, and wrote out a plan for the day while heading to the gym. With barely a minute to spare, I did my thing and then messaged Phillip about the car. He had it at his place, and was supposed to bring it to the gym so I could take it up north for the day. Naturally, Phillip was MIA. When I finally heard from Phillip, he told me that he was going to be late because he was "hungry and hungover" – a.k.a. everyone under 30 on a Saturday morning.
An hour later, Phillip showed up with the car. I was fuming. Actually, that's an understatement. I was in such a rush that I didn't even wait for Phillip to pass through the nearest intersection. I ran to the car while he was parked at a red light, pulled him out, got in the driver's seat, and took off. I was extremely pissed, and totally sounded off to Mom on my way home.
The fact that Phillip had the nerve to call me selfish last month is fucking rich. Something is up with him lately. Phillip was already on thin ice with me, but now he's fallen through the cracks. Enough is enough. Half an hour after Phillip dropped off the car, he sent an apology text. I didn't acknowledge it. Fuck that.
After a few hours of hectic errands around the sticks, I picked up some Harvey's and then raced back to the Witch Cave while chowing down on pickles and sending pictures of them to that new Stefan guy. Kurty Tip: the way to a Polish man's heart is through pickles.
Back at my apartment, I proceeded to shower, change, and then pick up booze as a gift for Natasha's dad. I sat on a hot as fuck streetcar for almost an hour in black booty shorts and combat boots – an interesting look for a 60th birthday party, to say the least.
When I showed up at Natasha's condo, I had no idea who any of her extremely sober relatives were. It was in this moment that I also realized I didn't even know Natasha's dad's name. Someone mentioned something about a "Ricky." When I asked who "Ricky" was, they all looked at me like I was even more of a Martian. My outfit took care of the initial glares.
"Oh, Ricky!"I said, trying to cover my tracks. "I call him Richard."
I know nothing about Natasha's family. After over 20 years of friendship, tonight was the first time I had ever attended an event like this for Natasha. Wow. I'm realizing now that tonight was a huge step in our relationship. This was big. This could have been bigger than meeting Konrad, actually.
