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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September 4
I think I speak for the entire bridal party when I say that this morning was a complete shit show. If you weren't hungover to hell and back, you were still drunk. Unless you were Rebecca Price, who probably took a bath and painted her toenails before 7 a.m. Or perhaps Khloe, who left early to get back to her baby in Toronto. I didn't know that it was Khloe's first night away from the baby. Apparently, that's a huge milestone? I don't understand how babies work. I guess you become attached to them, or something.
I wasn't planning on it, but I had passed out in the master bedroom of the suite last night. I was going to take the fold-out couch in the living room, but apparently, my subconscious had another idea. Oh, well. This worked out for me. It was a king bed. When I rolled over to my right, I saw Kate passed out beside me. When I looked over Kate's shoulder, I saw her sister Olivia at the other end of the bed, wrapped up in the chiffon bed skirt. Looks like I wasn't the only one who drank last night. Thank God!
Still in bed, I grabbed my phone off the cluttered nightstand and began sifting through an alarming amount of missed messaged from the girls. Everyone was asking where I went last night, which confused me as I thought Natasha had told them we were leaving the club. Looking back on everything, I should have known better than to trust Natasha with that responsibility while she was drinking. You've got to have eyes on the back of your head with that girl. Well, me too, I guess. Just another one of the many ways Natasha and I are similar. When we're ready to go, we're ready to fucking go! Everything was alright, though. One by one, we each began getting ready for another long day.
As I had assumed would happen, Rebecca Price came into the suite this morning with the other girls. Fully clothed, face done up, and itinerary in hand, Rebecca reminded us that we had an 11:45 a.m. brunch reservation and needed to leave at (insert ungodly hour here) if we were going to make it. Fuck. It was too early for this shit. I was still in bed at this point, lounging naked in a bathrobe. Clearly, I was about to break my rule about being vertical before 10 a.m. on a weekend.
It was time to get moving. I popped a cocktail of painkillers, vitamins, and caffeine pills, downed an espresso, chugged some water, cracked open a Gatorade, and put on a Mariah Carey album. While Kate and her sisters were getting ready, I slipped behind my little curtain near the window and sparked up my pipe. Hey, I'm on vacation. I'm not sure if the sisters knew I was high, or have just come to assume that I'm always stoned, but neither of them said anything about my smoking.
Showered, dressed, and bloated as all hell, I successfully made it outside the hotel with the rest of the group. Much to my surprise, everyone then turned to me for directions to the restaurant. Shit balls. I was too high for that! This dispensary weed is no Backyardigans. In fact, this is the stuff that makes you forget your own name. At this point, it would have been easier to find Hillary Clinton's 33,000 deleted emails than my correspondence with the brunch venue. Nonetheless, I focused as best I could. Following a lot of scrolling and Googling, I found the address and we split into our taxis.
