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 10
I wet the bed. I wet the fucking bed on my first night in Vegas. Fuck you, Kurt! As if that weren't enough – and let's be honest, it was more than enough – I had Greg sleeping right beside me. Oy.
In the early hours of the morning, I awoke from my alcohol-induced coma and quickly realized that I was lying in my own urine. It would still be a few hours before I found out exactly what happened last night, but given my piss-soaked sheets, I knew it wasn't going to be good. I hate that I know exactly what to do in these situations, but the reality is that this was not the first time I had been woken up by my own bodily fluids. Granted, this morning was probably one of the worst times for it to happen, but it definitely wasn't the first.
My first instinct was to grab a towel from the bathroom, hoping that Greg wouldn't notice. Too late. Not only was Greg awake before I could even get out of bed, but he was naturally asking why our shared bed was wet. Greg wasn't mad. On the contrary, he seemed genuinely curious.
"What did you do? Wet the bed?" Greg asked jokingly, not realizing that he had hit the nail on the head.
Seriously? I could work with this. I immediately went for my standard back-up story.
"What? No, of course not! Don't be ridiculous," I said. "I sweat the bed."
To be fair, it wasn't a complete lie. Such a thing has actually happened to me on multiple occasions, thanks to my sympathectomy. Okay, fine. It was a blatant lie. But, at least it was somewhat reasonable? I don't know. What I do know, is that Greg went along with everything. I'm still unsure if Greg was simply humoring me in an attempt to avoid any further embarrassment or if he genuinely believed me, but I stuck to my "sweat the bed" story and that was that. I grabbed a towel from the bathroom, laid it down on my side of the bed, and stretched myself out. I needed to sleep off the rest of my booze.
When I woke up a few hours later, Greg was nowhere to be found. Brittany was still fast asleep in her bed. Why Greg and I ended up in the same bed is beyond me. Then again, so is the entirety of last night. Apparently, I pulled my standard move of being fine one moment and turning into a complete mess the next. The last thing I remember is being at The Venetian's casino with Greg and Brittany, holding a champagne flute in one hand a cigarette in the other. Of course, this was after multiple drinks at the hotel, a fishbowl and flask at dinner, and a jumbo Fat Tuesday slushie for dessert.
I don't know why I am always surprised when things like this happen. I think it's because it comes out of nowhere. As if there's a switch in my brain that spontaneously goes off, and then it's game over. Greg and Brittany said what everyone else does: "We don't know how you got so drunk." Well, I did. Fortunately for me, both Greg and Brittany were kind of amazing about my messiness. Neither of them seemed to care all that much.
As I learned this morning, Greg's body clock gets him out of bed at the crack of dawn. By the time Brittany and I were rolling out of bed, Greg was just getting back to the room. That boy was fully dressed, ready for the day, and had already hit the penny slots downstairs. Something had happened with Greg last night, though. I can't exactly remember, but I – OH!
