I think I’m finally feeling better. Slightly. I’m over my existential crisis anyway. Existentialism is for assholes. Stuttering is for assholes. Nosebleeds are for assholes (although I do still get them occasionally). But overall I think I’ve finally realized that things aren’t so bad. They could be a hell of a lot worse anyway. It’s like my mother always said whenever my little brother or I complained as children: “At least you still have your arms.” And she’s right, luckily for me, I do still have my arms. I’d probably appreciate them more if they were slightly slimmer, but I’m thankful for their existence nonetheless.
However, since getting over my existential crisis, I have developed a pretty serious case of insomnia. This is the fourth night in a row that I haven’t been able to sleep. I’ve tried everything—reading, counting sheep, masturbation—nothing works. It’s 6:30am at the moment. I’ve just finished watching She’s the Man—a gem of modern cinema. All I want to do sleep. Ugh, I wish I had some valium, or any sleeping aid in the form of a pill… or powder… or liquid. I just need drugs. Drugs drugs drugs. Drugs solve everything. Drugs to make me happy. Drugs to cheer me up when the drugs that made me happy are making me feel sad. Drugs to go to sleep. Drugs to stay awake. Drugs to calm me down. Drugs for everything. This is what has been drilled into my head since before I can remember. No matter what’s wrong with me, there’s a pill out there somewhere that will make everything ok. Painless. If I get a headache, a pill will make it better. If I’m feeling depressed, some more pills will make it better. If I can’t concentrate, pills will solve the problem. I accidentally forget to wear a condom during sex, don’t worry, all it takes is a speedy trip down to the sex clinic for a baby-killing pill and everything is all better. I have been programmed.
These days, however, the variables have changed slightly. Instead of popping an ibuprofen to get rid of a migraine, I’m snorting lines of coke to keep from feeling fat, and pulling myself in a K hole to mute my constant feelings of depression and sadness.
But I guess what my point it (if I’m even making one), is that it’s not my fault that I’m this way. My recent surge in drug use reflects no weakness in character on my part. It’s the American way of life that’s to blame, not me. I’m the victim here people. A casualty of my own warped existence. Help me. Save me. Love me.
The thing is, though it kills me to admit it, I think at the root of all my recent sadness is my breakup with Blaine. And now, like salt in the wound, the bastard’s run off with his band to tour America for two months. So apparently I’m so repulsive that it’s necessary to put an entire ocean between us. Oh God, he’s probably having loads of rampant sex with hot fifteen year old groupies. He’s probably hanging out with someone really cool like, l don’t know, The Strokes or Matchbox 20 or whoever. He’s probably eating Tex Mex. I so hate my life right now.
My only solace in moments like these is Bridget Jones. I love Bridget. We have a real connection. I mean, she was a single, fat alcoholic until she was, what, like forty? And she ended up with Colin Firth. Maybe that’s what my life is going to be like. Maybe I’m going to be made to suffer until I’m middle aged and then magically one day I’ll meet Louis Theroux and we’ll fall madly in love and move into a flat in Primrose Hill and drink expensive wine and talk about smart people things and I’ll have lots of funny anecdotes about when I used to be young and poor and eat out of garbage bins and take ketamine recreationally. One can only hope…