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

November 27

November 27

At this point, I'm genuinely shocked that I still manage to wake up each morning. Honestly, it wouldn't surprise me if I ended up dying in my sleep one night.

I woke up this morning with absolutely no recollection of how my evening ended. As such, it wasn't long before I began the all-too-familiar process of piecing together my night pon de town. The only clue I had to work with were some text messages from Dan, asking if I was alive and to let him know that I got home safely. Those were sent around 2 a.m., thus disproving my initial theory that Dan and I shared a cab ride home together. Apparently, I just vanished.

Of all things, Dan was most upset that I missed Mariah Carey's David Morales "Fantasy" remix playing at The Beaver. Instead, I was sitting in a corner with my head down. Great. Dan also reminded me of the guy I was hitting on, who I quickly found afterwards on Facebook. I don't remember what the fuck I said to Dustin Hayes or his DJ friend, but I don't think I want to. Last night was a mess. To say I was hungover this morning would be a complete understatement.

Part of me wants to know more about last night. The other part doesn't want to know anything. I don't need the details on who I talked to, what I said, who I offended, or what new opinions of me have been formed. I didn't break any teeth, burn anything, or lose anything. I guess we're okay.

Oh. One more thing.

Speaking of burning things, there was another piece of the puzzle that revealed itself this morning. When I walked into the kitchen, there was a tray of freshly baked Christmas cookies sitting on the stovetop. I guess I made them when I got home?

It gets better.

A little while after my cookie moment, I returned to the kitchen to put something in the garbage bin. When I opened the cupboard below the sink, I literally gasped when I saw an empty pizza box. What? How in the hell did that get there? Now fully invested in my Nancy Drew shtick, I opened the freezer in hopes of another clue. Low and behold, the pizza I had precioused was gone, and there were traces of red pepper and cheese scattered throughout the fridge.

None of this made any sense. I turned around and looked back at the stove. I opened the oven. Nothing.

I picked up the tray of cookies. Sure enough, there was a fucking pizza tray with crumbs all over it. Did I make a pizza last night? I looked in the fridge again. Nothing. Cupboards? Nothing. There was no other evidence.

What does all of this mean? Well, I had apparently baked a pizza after getting home from The Beaver, ate the whole fucking thing, and then put a tray of cookies in the oven. My guess is that I was too tired to stay up and continue eating, so I just left the finished cookies on the stovetop.

What kind of lunacy is this? How could all of this have been done through my subconscious? I do not remember a single detail of those actions, yet somehow, I managed to make a full pizza and a dozen cookies while completely blacked out. It's scary, to say the least.

I haven't had the Sunday Blues in a while. Today, they hit me hard. I was upset over how I behaved last night. How I let things run completely out of control again. I feel like such a failure.

Dan came over to pick up some stuff from last night. We both left the Witch Cave together – me going for a workout, and Dan heading back to his place.

During my walk to the gym, I decided to take a detour. Since Mom and Dad's Casa Z fire insurance will apparently pay for my meals on the weekend, I went for lunch at The Chickery. I won't lie. After eating my chicken fingers and fries, I only sunk deeper into my Sunday Blues funk. Sponsored by Mariah Carey's Music Box album, I walked as far as The Gladstone before turning around and slowly making my way back towards the gym. I arrived around 4 p.m., and began doing my floor routine as usual. Having walked over ten kilometers after lunch, I was too tired to run. I went home instead.

I'm feeling quite regretful today. Last night was so bad. I don't want to call it a relapse, but it was definitely a step backwards. Why don't I want to call it a relapse, though? It's not like I am unwilling to admit there is a problem. I don't know. At one point today, I told myself that I was simply going to block out all memories of last night. Not that it's a huge feat, considering 80% of those memories don't actually exist, but it was the only way I could think of dealing with my guilt.

While walking back to the Witch Cave, I stopped by a dispensary to pick up some weed. Great decision, Kurt! Once at my apartment, I sparked up my pipe and drifted away to Mariah Carey and David Morales remixes.

By this point in the night, I was starting to feel much better. With my second wind, I decided to make the trek to Walmart for my weekly grocery run. You know how they say you shouldn't shop for food when you're hungry? Well, you should absolutely never do it while stoned. Not that Mary Jane has ever stopped me before, but it's definitely not the smartest decision. Then again, how often do I make the smartest decision?

After the 90-minute round trip to Walmart, I came home with over $70 worth of groceries. I also proceeded to eat half of them in my bed while extremely stoned.

Go to bed, you fucking screw up.

Goodnight xo