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 14
In all seriousness, I really shouldn't be seen in public without sunglasses on if I've had less than eight hours of sleep. Of course, this would mean that I'd constantly be rocking a Stevie Wonder look, but I'm okay with that. At least then I wouldn't be breaking one of the Cardinal Rules of Kurty. Also included on that list is a statute which prohibits me from being vertical before 10 a.m. Yet another rule that is seldom followed, enforced, or respected.
While in Vegas with Greg this past weekend, and on the phone with Dylan last night, both guys told me that I sound like "a total millennial" when I talk about my job. First off, let me say that I barely know what that term even means. Millennial? I don't know her. Nonetheless, much like all "terms," I rebuke it.
Why does everything have to be labeled? Is our society so incapable of dealing with someone as an individual that we must create terms which effectively lump everyone into the same category? Gay, straight, normcore, millennial, twink, hipster – the list goes on. Enough already!
As I said, I don't know what a millennial is. However, based on the many times I've heard someone describe such characters, I don't think I fall into the category. There shouldn't even be a category in the first place. Greg and Dylan were calling me a millennial, because I was complaining about my job. Well, what am I supposed to do? Sit back and hold my breath while I slowly slip into insanity? No!
My apologies if previous generations were complacent in their mundane lives, but that's not me. Perhaps those people didn't know any better. I'm not sure. Regardless, it begs the question: if I hate my job so much, why don't I just quit? Why continue to complain, day in and day out? Well, I think it's because I hope that things will improve. Maybe it's that optimistic streak in me. Or, perhaps it's the brat in me who's always gotten what he wants, because I can persuade people into believing that my way is the best way – with or without shedding some tears in the process. Eventually, I will quit. In fact, as of today, I think I've created what will hopefully be a solid plan for my near future.
This weekend, I am going up to Casa Z. The house will be empty, as Mom and Dad are in Québec for Adrian Carson's wedding. Funny. I always thought that Adrian was gay. Actually, that was probably me, trying to catch a glimpse of his nude teenage body through the crack of an adjacent bedroom door. Adrian is almost ten years older than me, so you can imagine what was running through my 12-year-old mind when he was changing across the hall with his door open. Can we just remove from record the fact that Adrian is my second cousin? Thanks.
Anyway. Moving on.
With the house to myself this weekend, I'll have some time to think about potentially moving back to Casa Z. Will it be a completely brilliant idea, or a recipe for disaster? That's a big deciding factor in moving forward with my master plan. I know how I can get after spending extended amounts of time at Casa Z with my parents. The last thing I want – or need – right now is to regress back to the darker days when we were fighting all the time.
