Sleepless Solitude: The True-Life Journals of a Xanax'd Millennial (Part 4 of 12)

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Summary

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. Adapted from a collection of nightly journal entries, Sleepless Solitude details the promiscuous highs and drug-induced lows of a gay millennial in his mid-twenties as he tries to find his way through the swamp of young adulthood. Covering an entire year, the blog posts serve as a chronological, behind-the-scenes look at what happens when the party stops and the Hangover Blues kick in. At its core, Sleepless Solitude is an effort in sharing personal truths. By revealing intimate thoughts and vulnerabilities with each journal entry, the aim is to present a mind and story void of social media filters. Life isn’t always a celebration, it’s not always sunny, and sometimes you blackout and break a few teeth. The best I can do right now is try and pick up the pieces. Goodnight xo

Status:
Complete
Chapters:
30
Rating:
n/a
Age Rating:
18+

April 1

April 1

Had an awful sleep last night.

It’s that time of year when the weather changes a lot day-to-day. As a result, my nightly sweating has been out of control. I call it the “Spring Sweats,” and they’ve occurred every year since I had that sympathectomy for my hyperhidrosis. Sure, I can’t sweat out of my hands anymore. However, now the rest of my body will spring a leak at the slightest bit of overheating. My feet have been dripping for five days straight, and last night I “wet the bed” from sweating so much. Actually, let’s call it “sweating the bed.” I had to sleep on a towel. As much as I loathe the icy temperatures of winter, I’m not exactly looking forward to sweat spots and a drenched torso all summer. That being said, I have no regrets about my sympathectomy. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

After hardly any sleep, I woke up at 5 a.m., got myself together, and made my way north to The Store. Oh, and I got a fucking parking ticket for being on the street at 8:58 p.m. last night, two minutes before it became free at 9 p.m. 120 seconds! Seriously? Give me a fucking break, Toronto.

Work at The Store was absolute hell. Those early morning shifts kill me. I am not a morning person by any means, and I was physically hurting the entire time. I processed a massive shipment, organized the back room, and did visual moves on the sales floor. It was just a bunch of fuckery. The whole time I was there, I just kept plotting my resignation.

I want out so bad. I don’t want to work at The Store anymore. Yet, I have to stay because I don’t have another job. I think it’s getting to the point where I might have to leave, though – regardless of other employment. I feel trapped. Working at The Store is making me so unhappy. It’s draining, and perhaps more trouble than it’s worth. At the end of the day, these one-off, minimum wage shifts at The Store do not equal a career for me. I know it’s technically not an accurate descriptor, but I still consider myself “unemployed.” I think this might be my last month with The Store. Then again, how many times have I said that before? I can’t believe it’s been seven and a half years.

Eventually, 4 p.m. rolled around and I finally got to go home. I stopped by Casa Z, made some food, and then took a nap. I wanted to go for a run, but because of my sweating, my feet have been abnormally dry. Such crustiness then leads to that deep gash reappearing on the bottom of my foot. After hobbling around my room, I decided not to do the workout. I felt gross all day. I don’t know if it’s the remnants of last night’s wine and popcorn, or just a general feeling of fatigue, but I still don’t feel well. I feel unhealthy. Gloomy.

I drove back downtown, listening to my usual disco soundtrack. I knew things were bad when I started bawling my eyes out to Bonnie Pointer’s “Heaven Must Have Sent You.” I couldn’t stop thinking about all of the people who have come and gone in my life. Particularly my romantic encounters, but especially the two guys who have had the most impact: Logan and RX.

While driving back to the Witch Cave, I got the urge to message RX. Later, when I was walking home from the parking garage, I did. I asked RX what he was doing tonight. I got a response a little while after, as I was eating dinner in my pajamas. RX might have ended up in the Village at Crews & Tangos tonight, but by that point I had decided to stay in. I’m not sure if he ever ended up coming to the gayborhood.

RX and I talked for quite a while, though. For the first time since I can remember, the conversation actually stopped at a natural point, too. Not just because someone didn’t respond to a message. It was nice. I told RX about my writing, we talked about his work, and that was about it. Nothing spectacular, but – I don’t know. I don’t even know what I want from RX, if anything. It was comforting, I guess. I miss him.

I really wanted to continue my journal transcription tonight, but I ended up spending too much time on my computer. As usual. Before I knew it, it was 1 a.m. I fooled around with a new hoop earring I got at the mall the other day, masturbated, and then went to bed.

No blazing tonight. In fact, I took all of my pot and weed paraphernalia up to Casa Z today and left it there. I don’t want the temptation here at the Witch Cave anymore. Out of sight, out of mind. Sort of.

I’m kind of anxious for Monday to get here. When you’re “unemployed,” weekends become a bit of a stalling point. Nothing productive happens. I’m still waiting to hear back from Snapchat after last week’s second phone interview. Following up with them is going to be a big push for me next week. I want a real job. A big boy career. I want to feel like I’m doing something with my life. Moving forward.

Ugh. I feel ill. My head feels like it’s about to explode from some weird pressure. Both physical and emotional.

I’ve cried through many endless nights

Just holding my pillow tight

Then you came into my lonely days

With your tender love and sweet ways

Now I don’t know where you come from baby

Don’t know where you been now baby

Heaven must have sent you into my arms

— Bonnie Pointer, “Heaven Must Have Sent You”

Goodnight xo

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