Sleepless Solitude: The True-Life Journals of a Xanax'd Millennial (Part 2 of 2)

October 19

October 19

Well, last night's happiness and contentment didn't last very long. I think what happens is that I trick myself into thinking that those one-off moments are what it's always going to be like. Then, I'm not as strict on myself and it all goes to shit. In this case, it was with food.

I totally overdid it at work today. I ate the goddamn Clubhouse down. Every scrap of food I came across. Down my gullet. Now, as usual, I feel like garbage. Bloated garbage that, despite a fairly strict diet – other than today – and a rigorous exercise routine, will not decompose. What the fuck is wrong with me? I'm also fucking orange. Yes. Orange. After only three days of using Jergens Natural Glow moisturizer to help with my Mariah Carey coloring for Halloween, I look like Donald Trump. Goddamn it. We were so close last night. Back to start.

Big Bird's got it in her head that every Wednesday from now on will be devoted to a tag-team effort in getting work done in our office. This fucking sucks for me, because now I actually have to put in some effort. By most companies' standards, what Big Bird wants done wouldn't actually be considered "work." For Big Bird, it's the most important thing to have ever happened in our office. I actually tried to get ahead with another project today, and Big Bird got mad.

"I don't want you focusing on more than one task right now," she squawked.

How fucking stupid.

Big Bird flew the coop around 5:30 p.m. I stayed at The Clubhouse until 8:30 p.m., because there was an art event happening in the gallery that she wanted me to schmooze at. I actually didn't talk to a single member. Mostly, I just guzzled water awkwardly. It was that, or do the same with wine. Alcohol is not going to help my current bloating issues, though. Not that it mattered, of course. I still ate the standard fried food fare that seems to be passed around every Clubhouse function. It was alright.

After the event, I walked over to the gym and watched the final US Presidential Debate while I did my thing. I would flip between bursting out with laughter at the unbelievable things Donald Trump said, and then want to push that pansy moderator off his chair so that I could tell each candidate to stop fucking talking when it wasn't their turn. If Trump wins the election, it's going to be absolute chaos. If Hillary wins, someone will probably assassinate her. God, I hate 2016 sometimes. Well, most times.

I finished at the gym, then schlepped back to the Witch Cave. Mom and Dad were driving back from Niagara-on-the-Lake and dropped a few things off at my apartment on their way home. This included a new wig that I had shipped across the border. I tried it on with my Mariah Carey "Heartbreaker" jeans, but didn't feel as fabulous as I did last night. Considering Halloween is a week away, that was not a good sign.

I just want things to get a bit easier, you know? It's wishful thinking, but I'm so fucking tired of the same things being an issue for me. Job. Body. Can't we just fucking fix them already? Now, I'm fat and orange. This is just fucking great. I'm sure this blob of a body will look great in low-rise jeans and a hot pink crochet knit halter top. What a mess.

The worst part is that I'm still so hungry. Obviously, that's a huge problem. The more I try and diet, the more I want to eat. I want to gorge on everything I can think of right now. The other worst part is that I'm not even at a place where I can "cheat" or look forward to a post-Halloween feast. I am so far from my goal weight that I have to keep up this diet for many more months. I want to make Mariah Carey proud. Maybe the stripper heels I ordered will help. A fucking stomach flu wouldn't be so bad, either.

Goodnight xo