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

August 15

August 15

Thank God for Xanax. Given the fact that I went to bed at almost 2 a.m. and was out of bed by 7 a.m. this morning, I may not have had many "hours" of sleep last night. Still, I sure as hell got more sleep than most nights. I actually felt rested today. Mind you, that might have had something to do with the five cups of coffee that I drank after Sebastian said he didn't want any.

Last night, after I wrote my journal, I sat on the couch with Sebastian. We started talking about what had happened to my face and teeth last week, and Sebastian told me how beautiful I was. Honestly, one more move on my part and we could have taken things much further. I had a bit of regret that we didn't, but I highly doubt that it's off the table for any future encounters. I need to be careful with how I handle this.

Anyway. Moving on.

After hoisting myself out of bed, I did my thing and worked in the kitchen for an hour while listening to Mariah Carey. Sebastian got himself ready for his job interview, and left the apartment just before I did.

I arrived at The Clubhouse on time, and proceeded to have a somewhat bearable day at the front desk. Although, we might have run into a bit of a problem. I don't think I've mentioned this, but I'm going to Las Vegas next month with Greg from New York City. We're going to see Mariah Carey together. After Greg heard about my disastrous Vegas experience in February, he said that I needed a re-do moment and bought us tickets to Mariah's show. All I have to do is pay for my flight.

Now, the problem? That Vegas trip is set to happen on the first weekend of the Toronto International Film Festival. As I learned today, TIFF is apparently the craziest time of year at The Clubhouse. According to one of my co-workers, nobody is allowed to book time off. Obviously, I was not aware of this. Also, it doesn't matter. I have tickets to see Mariah Carey live in concert. I cannot miss that. It's Mariah – or nothing. I'll fucking quit if I have to.

Every day, I dream about packing up and skipping town. It would be such an adventure. I am seriously considering saving up enough money to peace out for a while. Perhaps I'll spend a couple of months at Uncle Jack and Aunty Kelly's house in California. I would drive out there, have my car, and just write. Maybe I'll do it when the weather gets to be too much for me to handle. The only thing worse than the Sunday Blues are the Winter Blues. Any blues, really. Although, I don't mind rhythm and blues. Blue's Clues can go fuck himself.

I finished work around 4 p.m. As a total blessing, tonight's TV pilot shoot with Lauryn was cancelled. I had so much stuff to do that this couldn't have been better for my schedule.

While walking home, Sebastian texted me. Apparently, his interview had been cancelled and rescheduled for tomorrow morning. Sebastian then proceeded to bashfully ask if he could spend the night at the Witch Cave again, noting that he didn't want to be an inconvenience and could get a hotel if need be. I'll be honest. The last thing I wanted was a house guest for another fucking night. I did what I seem to do best these days – I lied.

As I began drafting a response to Sebastian's question, I started thinking about how he must be feeling. Sebastian is in a new country. He doesn't have any friends, no job, no house, no stability – it would fucking suck. Hell, I am constantly on the verge of a nervous breakdown and I have most of those things.

I decided that if I could help Sebastian out in any way, I would. I still stuck with part of my lie, as I didn't want Sebastian around the house while I was trying to get shit done this evening, but I told him he could come over when I was home from the gym.

Sebastian is here right now. He's sleeping. The poor guy passed out on the couch as I was making my lunch for tomorrow. I had a fucking nightmare finding a job, and I have a family and a roof over my head. Sebastian is all alone. It felt good that I was able to help him out, and I will continue to help him in the future if he needs it. I'm considering letting Sebastian stay here while I'm in New York City this coming weekend, but I'm not sure yet. I don't even like people staying at the Witch Cave when I'm here, so I might need to re-think that.

Backtracking to the middle part of my day.

After getting home from work, eating dinner, watching Chelsea, organizing some of my apartment, and taking a nap where I dreamed about angry Russian men – the Chelsea episode I watched was about Russia – I went to the gym and did my thing. I completed my longest post-surgery run yet – over 45 minutes! My diet isn't exactly working out, but hopefully I can figure out something right before my New York City trip. I need to drop some serious pounds.

Sebastian arrived at the Witch Cave shortly after I got home from the gym, around 11:30 p.m. As he relaxed on the couch, I spent over an hour in the kitchen cleaning and prepping food for the morning and next two days. I feel so organized. Much less stressed than I did the other day. I want to get a handle on things as soon as possible and start writing my to-do lists again. I've totally fallen behind with my personal goals, and that's not okay.

I want to use and abuse the privileges that I have at my disposal. Of course, I'm referring mainly to my job at The Clubhouse. Not only do I have ample free time, but Big Bird is away tomorrow and I have a printer that I can use without supervision. Why not take advantage of these things while I can, and begin focusing on my dreams again? Enough of this "working for the man" bullshit. I need to look out for myself.

I still haven't rescheduled my date with Mr. Sheffield. Also, Stefan is dragging his ass in asking me out. To be honest, I don't care much about either of them.

I'm nervous about New York City. I'm excited, because Kevin Sutherland said we could go to Fire Island on Saturday, but I'm anxious because of what I'm going back to face. Don't get me wrong. I'm still dreading the idea of being on a beach in New York City, as it's a complete set up for self-esteem suicide given my Shamu-esque body shape at the moment. However, I'm talking about He Who Must Not Be Named. I don't know if I'm ready to confront those memories.

Goodnight xo