Sleepless Solitude: The True-Life Journals of a Xanax'd Millennial (Part 9 of 12)

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September 14

September 14

In all seriousness, I really shouldn’t be seen in public without sunglasses on if I’ve had less than eight hours of sleep. Of course, this would mean that I’d constantly be rocking a Stevie Wonder look, but I’m okay with that. At least then I wouldn’t be breaking one of the Cardinal Rules of Kurty. Also included on that list is a statute which prohibits me from being vertical before 10 a.m. Yet another rule that is seldom followed, enforced, or respected.

While in Vegas with Greg this past weekend, and on the phone with Dylan last night, both guys told me that I sound like “a total millennial” when I talk about my job. First off, let me say that I barely know what that term even means. Millennial? I don’t know her. Nonetheless, much like all “terms,” I rebuke it.

Why does everything have to be labeled? Is our society so incapable of dealing with someone as an individual that we must create terms which effectively lump everyone into the same category? Gay, straight, normcore, millennial, twink, hipster – the list goes on. Enough already!

As I said, I don’t know what a millennial is. However, based on the many times I’ve heard someone describe such characters, I don’t think I fall into the category. There shouldn’t even be a category in the first place. Greg and Dylan were calling me a millennial, because I was complaining about my job. Well, what am I supposed to do? Sit back and hold my breath while I slowly slip into insanity? No!

My apologies if previous generations were complacent in their mundane lives, but that’s not me. Perhaps those people didn’t know any better. I’m not sure. Regardless, it begs the question: if I hate my job so much, why don’t I just quit? Why continue to complain, day in and day out? Well, I think it’s because I hope that things will improve. Maybe it’s that optimistic streak in me. Or, perhaps it’s the brat in me who’s always gotten what he wants, because I can persuade people into believing that my way is the best way – with or without shedding some tears in the process. Eventually, I will quit. In fact, as of today, I think I’ve created what will hopefully be a solid plan for my near future.

This weekend, I am going up to Casa Z. The house will be empty, as Mom and Dad are in Québec for Adrian Carson’s wedding. Funny. I always thought that Adrian was gay. Actually, that was probably me, trying to catch a glimpse of his nude teenage body through the crack of an adjacent bedroom door. Adrian is almost ten years older than me, so you can imagine what was running through my 12-year-old mind when he was changing across the hall with his door open. Can we just remove from record the fact that Adrian is my second cousin? Thanks.

Anyway. Moving on.

With the house to myself this weekend, I’ll have some time to think about potentially moving back to Casa Z. Will it be a completely brilliant idea, or a recipe for disaster? That’s a big deciding factor in moving forward with my master plan. I know how I can get after spending extended amounts of time at Casa Z with my parents. The last thing I want – or need – right now is to regress back to the darker days when we were fighting all the time.

All of that being said, if things go well this weekend and I feel like I could successfully settle back into the house, the master plan can commence. I would give up my Witch Cave lease at the end of the year, thus returning to Casa Z at the beginning or middle of December. Of course, the exact timing is dependent on the holidays and Mariah Carey’s All I Want for Christmas is You show in New York City.

By scheduling such a drastic move for the end of the year, it would also allow more time to think about work and how I want to move forward with that situation. If things at The Clubhouse continue the way they are right now, I will definitely be ready to quit by December. At least by that time, I will have put aside some money. With approximately three months of solid work, I figure that I should be able to save a couple thousand dollars. Maybe even a few thousand, if I’m smart about my spending.

Once the New Year rolls around, I would then pack up my things and drive out to California. After moving in with Uncle Jack and Aunty Kelly, I would spend three months (or more) working on various writing projects. I’d also be completely skipping out on the worst time of the year, otherwise known as winter and/or seasonal depression.

I think all of this sounds like a good plan. I’ve got to take things one step at a time, though. Without a solid course of action laid out in advance, I could easily end up back in the gutter I was in at the beginning of this year. On a positive note, at least I feel like I’m crawling out of that hole. Fuck. How many times have I said that over the past nine months?

Without any sunglasses on, I made it through my shift at The Clubhouse. Big Bird was driving me nuts the whole fucking day. Thankfully, she left for a meeting at 1 p.m. and I didn’t see her again until the last two minutes of my day when I was changing into my gym clothes. Still, from 9 a.m. to 1 p.m., Big Bird just wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

With the craziness that was Montreal, TIFF, and then Vegas, I had a lot of work to catch up on in my office today. I was ploughing through everything quite fast, but Big Bird just kept going on and on about God knows what. On the rare occasion that we would discuss work-related items, Big Bird interrupted everything I said. It got to the point that I just stopped responding to her. Also, close your fucking mouth when you’re eating that carrot, you motherfucking horse. It’s not even the least bit hard to believe that you were raised on a farm, Big Bird, Plain and Tall. Like the good Catholic boy I’m not, I will simply give thanks to the fact that Big Bird spends most of her days in meetings.

Now that I’m not working the front desk anymore, I’ve got to keep a closer watch on my work ethic. I’ve almost doubled the amount of time I’ll be spending in the office, and Big Bird will likely be expecting more from me. With the front desk and resulting budget changes now in effect, I can work a maximum of 37.5 hours each week. Even at three days a week, before all of this, I barely had anything to do. I’m just worried that one day Big Bird is going to check my Google Chrome history with the IT people, or ask for results on the random projects she and I have talked about. If either of those things happen, I’ll probably be fired. We’ll keep our fingers crossed for now, I guess.

Work progressed. I shopped for Halloween wigs online. I also bought a vintage 1996 Mariah Carey tour t-shirt on eBay, which I now realize was extremely stupid given the lack of money I have in my bank account. Oh, well.

When 5 p.m. rolled around, I made my way to the gym. I spend way too fucking long in that sweat box, but I’m so goddamn tired all the time that I can’t bring myself to exercise any faster. I do 1,500 sit-ups before I get on the treadmill, and that floor routine alone literally takes everything out of me for an hour and a half. That’s ridiculous! It’s also absolutely necessary.

Not so necessary, however, was the full grilled cheese meal I had when I got home tonight. Let’s just say it wasn’t my best look. At the same time, when you get home from the gym at 9 p.m. – the earliest I’ve been home from the gym in about two weeks – and you haven’t eaten since 2 p.m., your stomach is working against you. It was nice to actually turn on the TV for a bit, though. Even if it was only for 30 minutes. After dinner, I did the dishes, masturbated, slapped on a face mask, downloaded all of Greg’s Vegas photos and videos, and crawled into bed.

Somehow, it’s now 12:15 a.m. I’m actually super excited to go home this weekend. I can’t wait to have Casa Z to myself, escape, detox, and catch up on everything I haven’t been able to do over the past month because of all the craziness. Despite feeling like a can of Campbell’s Extra Chunky Soup because of my late-night dinner, I’m still hopeful that I can turn things around for myself.

Side note: I just found a creepy crawler centipede in my bathroom. This comes after I bleached the entire fucking Witch Cave not even a week ago. I think it’s a sign that I need to move.

Oh, another thing. My Tinder stopped working today, so I deleted it. I permanently deleted Grindr, too. Not just the app, but the entire account. I think it’ll be a really good thing. I don’t mind the apps when I’m traveling, as I know I am destined to meet my future husband outside of this city. However, when I’m in Toronto, the guys on the apps are a complete waste of my time. Not to mention that looking at ripped abs and toned torsos all day makes me feel like Grimace from the McDonald’s cartoons.

I haven’t heard from Stefan in a while, despite him suggesting we hang out this week. There’s that word again. “Hang.” On second thought, maybe Stefan’s radio silence is a good thing.

Goodnight xo

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