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

November 6

November 6

Okay. Where do I start with this one?

I just finished washing my hands after my nightly pre-bed rubdown. The only difference is that this time, instead of scrolling mindlessly through an endless supply of Tumblr porn, I dug up some old pictures from my Blackberry and ended up getting off at the image and thoughts of RX's dick.

Fuck.

Actually, that's exactly the word I uttered when I came. "Fuck." Old RX nudes are not exactly what I want to find myself aroused by. Especially after what I've been writing about these last few days – and five years. But, damn. I'll be honest. Sex with RX was always fantastic. From our first time, to our last time. Maybe that's why, when thoughts of riding that thing into the sunset came to mind this evening, I had no other choice but to succumb to the come.

Today was alright. I'm feeling particularly bloated, which shouldn't come as much of a surprise. I feel this way about 90% of the time I eat anything more than a baby carrot. At the same time, it's also Sunday. I'm at peak bloat levels after a visit to Casa Z. It was the end of Daylight Savings Time today – a practice of which I am still not convinced is necessary in 2016 – and I didn't realize it until late this evening when Mom was driving me back downtown, and the clock in the car was different. I woke up at noon today, which I suppose was the equivalent of 1 p.m. On top of the bloating, my laziness was also at maximum capacity.

I didn't do much with my day. I'm slightly pissed about it. After rolling out of bed, I went downstairs. Mom insisted on preparing my lunch, which I ate while watching half of another subpar Kathleen Turner movie. Eventually, I turned off the TV and returned to my room. It was time to get some work done. Well, sort of. In a fit of procrastination, I decided that it would be a much better idea to make chocolate chip oatmeal cookies than to write. So, that's what I did.

Dangerous amounts of sugar and butter later, I went –

HOLY FUCKING SHIT.

I just got a –

Oh, my God.

My heart is racing.

Logan just tried to FaceTime me. The call was obviously a mistake, because it was literally just a flash on my phone. But, what the fuck? Oh, my God. Oh, my God!

What does that even mean? Does it mean anything? How does something like that even happen on Logan's end? I remember I did that once with him, but that was back when there would have been recent communication that I was swiping through. I haven't talked to Logan since July. Our last FaceTime would have been something like February.

Jesus. What a mind fuck that was. I'm not even going to acknowledge it. The thing is, had I not been on my phone, it still would have shown up as Logan calling me. I wouldn't have known it was a mistake. Obviously, it was. I hope Logan got a bit of diarrhea from that pocket dial. Okay. Calm down. Let's just move on, and pretend that didn't happen. I think we'll all be a lot happier if that just – didn't happen.

Anyway. Moving on.

After gorging on freshly baked cookies, I crawled upstairs and immediately fell into a sugar coma on my bed. Two hours later, I woke up in a haze and dragged my ass to the gym. My feet are at peak levels of pain right now. Everything is at peak levels today! Honestly, my feet hurt so much. They're almost too painful to walk around the house at times. It boggles my mind to think about how I used to run for almost 90 minutes and be completely fine. Now, it's a struggle to get past half an hour.

Once finished in the gym, I washed up, packed my bags, and had the standard conversation with Mom and Dad about how I was going to get back downtown. I decided to go to Walmart while they figured it out. I picked up some orthotic inserts with my usual grocery order, so maybe this will be the end of my Gollum feet once and for all. We'll see tomorrow.

Back at Casa Z, Mom and I hopped in the car. Instead of taking me to the subway station as I had suggested, Mom drove me all the way downtown and took the car home. Another reason why I am so excited to move back to Casa Z? The Ford Focus will be mine again!

*Plays Mariah Carey's "Mine Again" in anticipation*

My poor baby is so messy, dirty, and smelly these days. As if reclaiming my car wasn't enough, I also won't have to worry about arranging where to park it for Phillip. It's going to be great. Although, I do worry that my little rust bucket might not get me to California next year. We'll see. Maybe there's still some life left in her.

Fuck. That was messed up about the Logan call. Right? That's fucked up.

Following some unpacking and questionable masturbating here at the Witch Cave, I'm now in bed.

My mind wanders when I'm on the treadmill. This is great when I'm trying to forget about the fact that I have the feet and hammer toes of a 95-year-old Jewish woman. This weekend, I thought a lot about my next steps with writing and how I am going to make a plan for my post-Clubhouse and post-apartment life. I'm still thinking about how I want to pursue things, but I am very hopeful. I feel it.

I feel good about things. Life, really. I think that's because I'm not holding myself to any specific outcome with this writing thing. Would I like to be published one day? Of course. However, all I want to focus on right now is writing the best of my stories as best I can. I think that's only going to come after I transcribe and organize all of my journals, though. After that, I'll then be able to pick out what I want to write about, highlight my favorite quotes, and sift through all of the mud to find the gold. Because, the gold is there. I have over five years' worth of writing under my belt. If I just take the time to mine through it all, I'm confident that I'll come out with some real gems. I'm excited about it.

I kind of want to fuck with Logan a bit. Is that beneath me? I want to like one of Logan's photos on Instagram to let him know that I saw the FaceTime thing. I want to make Logan sweat a bit, but a social media nudge is the only thing I can think of right now. I don't want it to seem needy of me, though. As if I'm so desperate to talk to him, you know? I don't need to talk to Logan. I don't want him to think that. I just want Logan to know that I am aware of his finger slip.

Maybe it's best to leave it? I want to ask for advice from a friend, but I feel as though even that's going to make me seem desperate. I suppose that's my answer. Just leave it. I do have That's So Raven visions of Logan contacting me in December, though. Next month will mark a year since we first met. Perhaps Logan will have finally reflected on how badly he screwed me over. I hope a New York City bus with a Mariah Carey Christmas concert advertisement runs him over.

Goodnight xo