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 21
I woke up around 8 a.m., with Dan spooning my ass. To be fair, I was in a prime spooning position. I had situated myself on my left side at the edge of the bed so that I could look down at my computer whenever I opened my eyes. I tried to keep them shut as much as I could, though. It was my only way of escaping the impending reality I was about to face.
Eventually, I sat up in bed. I pulled my laptop off the floor, and began working on a solution to the Fire Island catastrophe. Getting a response from a group of 20-something-year-old gay guys at 8 a.m. on a Sunday was pretty much a lost cause, but I did my best.
I had received another message from Laura, the woman at The Stonewall Foundation who had organized yesterday's house party. Laura had sent an email last night following my plea for help, and said that she would have someone check on my stuff in the morning. According to Laura's second message, there were indeed a number of forgotten items packed up from the party and taken to a volunteer's house, but we still had to wait for them to reach out. Laura said there was hope.
I couldn't help but feel sick. I felt completely hopeless, but had to continue working through my options. At this point, I was waiting on someone to tell me if my bag was even at the volunteer's house. But, what if it wasn't? Was I still going to make the trip back to Fire Island?
What kept making my stomach churn up an anxious batch of gut-busting diarrhea was the idea that I was going to have to return to Fire Island regardless of what answer I received. If Stonewall found the stuff, I had to go get it. That would be ideal. If they didn't, I couldn't accept that answer. No way.
One of the many problems with this entire situation was that I had to wait around until I heard back from someone on my laptop. As such, I couldn't leave the hotel room. I would've had no way to reach anyone. I had to gather as much information as I could before I made my inevitable journey north to Fire Island. I was now playing a waiting game with the Stonewall people, and I knew it would be a few hours before I heard from any of yesterday's boys. I was beginning to shake. At one point, I couldn't feel my right leg.
My next step, which I had also been doing all this time, was to call my phone again via Skype. The thing would ring endlessly until it went to voicemail. This was a good sign. It meant my phone was on. If only I had data, I could track it. Surely, the phone was in my bag. Even if it wasn't, they might be within close proximity of one another. And even if that wasn't the case, the phone was the most important possession of everything I had left behind.
Let's make one thing clear, though. This wasn't about my phone. Yeah, it would suck to be looking at getting a seventh iPhone in three years, but phones can be replaced. However, the journal entries and photos on the phone could not. I needed my baby.
Then, it hit me. A completely brilliant plan! If I could get data on my phone, I could track it.
I got in touch with Rogers Wireless. Over the next hour, I exchanged messages with a woman named Claudette through an online chat system. I explained my situation in full detail, and it took this fucking Montreal-based cunt 54 minutes to tell me that she was going to send a link to my phone. I'm sorry, pardon me? Oops. I mean, pardonne moi?
