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 17
Before I even got out of bed this morning, I had received an unapologetic, yet seemingly self-aware text message from Stefan.
Stefan: "Lol 🙈 how's it going?"
I didn't respond, nor will I. What an idiot.
Still unsure as to why Stefan would have sent last night's messages in the first place, I asked the 4 Single Girls what they thought. Everyone agreed that the texts were both weird and rude. Sorry, Stefan. That's not going to cut it. So, you're cut.
Although I never acknowledged Stefan's follow-up message this morning, he likely knows that I saw it. As I noticed this afternoon, Stefan had liked some of my recent Facebook activity. What a fucking moron. Stefan is 29. It just goes to show that even if they're older than you, they're not necessarily wiser. I'd use my standard "NEXT!" line, but I'm happy that this is the last of my love interests for now.
I attempted to write my official resignation letter for The Store this afternoon, but ran out of time. The thing is turning into more of a story than a resignation letter, but that's fine. I want my final words to be meaningful, and representative of my time with the company. After spending almost a decade working for The Store, I'm not just going to punch out a few sentences and call it a day. As much as I may have hated my job at times, working for The Store was always a dream of mine. The last eight years have provided me with so many amazing opportunities, and introduced me to some incredible friends and mentors.
Although I couldn't finish my letter, I still managed to get to the mall for my hair appointment on time. I'm feeling better these days, which naturally means that the desire to shave my head has subsided. That's always a good thing. While Kris was giving me a new head of highlights, I gave him the full rundown of my New York City trip.
The more I tell my Fire Island story, the more I realize how truly ridiculous it is. Funny how time can change your perspective on things. While I do think the saga is outrageously humorous in its own way, there's still a part of it that hurts me deeply. I don't think I'll ever forget the way I felt during that whole experience. Fire Island was another layer of sediment, underneath the rock bottom that I thought I'd already hit.
I ended up talking with Lauryn tonight. Well, it was mostly Lauryn talking and me responding with a single message every time she finished sending 15 texts in a row. Lauryn was saying that, although New York City was a painful experience for me, those are the moments that produce some of our best stories. Lauryn was right.
Who the fuck would want to read about me going to New York City and having a wonderful, vanilla vacation as I visited Macy's and ate Pinkberry? Aside from my mother, that is. Drama and emotional upset produce the story, but that's only clear once you have passed through the trauma itself. When I was calling Mom from the Hyatt Grand Central Station and crying to her that I needed help, the last thing I was thinking about was how good of a "story" my situation would turn out to be.
