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

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December 26

December 26

Boxing Day.

Remember all of those years when I used to wake up at 6 a.m. to be first in line at the mall, only so I could buy more clothes that I would eventually end up selling to a consignment shop years later? Those were dark days.

While I’m certainly glad that I’ve finally seen the light, I do wonder what’s compelling others to continue living in that weird cycle of Christmas shopping. A part of me is convinced it’s because I’ve turned into this uber cheap meshuggeneh. Have I officially morphed into my mother? Have I watched too much of The Nanny? Maybe it’s not about money. Okay. Wait. It’s definitely about money. There’s another level to it, though. Simply put, I don’t want “stuff” anymore. I just don’t want it. Take a look around. Our lives are filled with so much extra, when the reality is that we really don’t need all that much to get by. The environment doesn’t need our shit when we’re done with it either.

We all have our things. That’s amazing. Everyone should be passionate about something. If you like buying the latest fashions or kitchen gadgets – go for it. Unfortunately, so much of Christmas seems to have become a practice of buying for the sake of it. Boxing Day is the same, but with the idea of buying to “save” money – despite the fact that you just got a ton of fucking stuff underneath the tree. I don’t get it. Nonetheless, I am very happy with how this year’s Christmas went in terms of gift giving. Mom, Dad, and Phillip all enjoyed their presents from moi, which makes me feel great. Better still, everything will be used up and recycled when all is said and done.

Okay. Rant over.

I slept in. Obviously. I get annoyed, though. All I hear downstairs when I wake up is a broken record of, “Is Kurt up yet?” and “It’s so late!” What my family fails to realize is that when my bedroom door closes for the night, I don’t actually go to sleep for at least another hour. That’s how long it takes me to finish my writing. Okay. Fine. There’s usually a rubdown moment in there, too. For the most part though, I’m working. Also, it’s vacation. Everyone needs to calm down. The Montreal bagels aren’t going anywhere.

Once I woke up, it wasn’t long before everyone had left the house and I was all alone. Thank God. Following an excessive amount of coffee – alongside an unsuccessful attempt at excavating my overcrowded bowel system – I finally had the peace and quiet required to concentrate on my writing. Now, I always laugh when I think about my journals. I can’t stop picturing myself as Ginny Weasley from Harry Potter after Dan sent me that damn photo of her holding Voldemort’s diary. Goddamn it, Dan. I am not a ginger!

I literally worked all day. When the family came back home, I ran upstairs with my boyfriend (read: MacBook) and we kept the process going. Eventually, it was time for dinner. Now that I’m feeling better about the drinking situation, I indulged in some wine tonight. Honestly, I find it so much easier to drink when we are at Casa Z. Why?

It’s my own house. I can escape to another wing of the mansion if (read: when) I transform into a demon Gremlin.

I don’t have to worry about finishing off a bottle of wine by myself.

When you’re at your own house, only your parents can scold you. Fortunately for me, my parents know better than to shake their fingers at my antics. Well, they do. However, they also know when to pick their battles. Me downing an entire bottle of Pinot Grigio within the confines of Casa Z is the least of my parents’ worries. Hear that, Uncle Walter? Leave the parenting to my parents. R.I.P. Christmas 2010. You were quite the – moment.

Following a deliciously heavy lasagna dinner, Phillip and Evan went to a house party, the parents settled into the family room for a Netflix comedy special, and I snuck up to my room – desperate to get stoned. I couldn’t! Yet another reason I wish we were at Casa Z. I even asked Jeeves if I could eat raw marijuana. For the record: you can’t. Well, you can. It’s not going to give you the effect you want, though.

Eventually, it was late enough that the parents all went to bed. When Phillip and Evan got home, we found a way to smoke together by tiptoeing out the laundry room door once everyone had turned off their lights. We were like a bunch of 14-year-olds. While definitely ridiculous, sneaking out like that also made me feel like the rebellious teenager I never was. It was funny. I always laugh at those moments.

After we blazed, I had every intention of crawling back up to my room so that I could do nothing but lay in bed and listen to Mariah Carey through my headphones – my favorite thing to do while high. Instead, I ended up watching a movie with Phillip and Evan. I didn’t want to be a total recluse anymore. The film, Joshy, was actually really good – in a weird way. It was about a bunch of straight guys who kept their emotions bottled up. I couldn’t completely relate, but thank God for Jenny Slate’s role. Otherwise, I probably would have opted out and scurried up to my Amish boudoir after the opening credits.

I don’t want to be the boring one. I feel like that’s what’s happening to me. Not because I want to be boring, though. On the contrary, I’m scared that I’m going to be too much fun. Wow. What a problem to have, huh? Oy.

The party scenes in Joshy grossly misrepresented one’s drug and alcohol stamina. How is anyone able to function on that much booze and drugs? They’re not. After that amount of substance abuse, you don’t have memorable nights like in the movies. Trust me. I know from experience. Instead, you wake up in a urine-soaked bed. Or, maybe on a gurney in a hospital. Sometimes, it’s even in the hallway of your friend’s super expensive apartment building in New York City. Unlike the movies, hangovers are not funny. I wish that I could have those kind of buzzed, yet memorable and fun moments without any stimulants. It’s so hard for me. I can’t find that balance. I end up having so much fun, that I cross the point of no return. After that, everything shuts down.

When it comes to socializing, body image issues are also quite difficult to deal with. Not that my low self-esteem is anything new, but I’ve now found myself back in the lowest part of my cycle of happiness. I literally feel so gross about my body right now. I don’t want people to see me like this. It’s that bad. After two weeks of constant eating, I’m embarrassingly bloated. The binge eating has caught up with me. Everything I wear feels like it’s a size too tight.

As I said, Phillip and Evan went to a house party for a couple of hours tonight. I was invited, but said I didn’t want to go. Don’t be stupid. Of course I wanted to go! I’m scared of drinking too much, though. I also couldn’t hold in my gut after dinner. To be fair, it was probably a good thing that I didn’t end up going to the party. Margo Chappelle was there, which would have been incredibly awkward for me with Evan. Note to self: stop keeping in touch with your family’s exes.

At the end of the day, I wish I had more confidence. I want more confidence. I don’t feel like myself. I am so ready to go home and get back into a routine. I wanted to make a to-do list today, but couldn’t find any paper. I would have used the new journal Ashley gave me for Christmas, but I’m going to be returning it for store credit.

There’s a lot I want to do in the New Year. I’m ready!

Now, I’m going to masturbate and fall asleep. It’s 3 a.m.

Goodnight xo

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