I woke up late this morning to compensate for all the recent nights I only got four hours of sleep. It felt good to finally wake up rested—though, really, it sucks that I only get to be conscious for about half of my one day off per week.
By the time I rolled out of bed and got out of my Angry Birds pajamas, it was eleven forty-five, so I skipped breakfast and spent half a day's worth of next month's salary on a pepperoni pizza. It showed up about thirty minutes later, delivered by a sweaty, pimply ginger who looked like he hated life in general even more than I do (or he was just playing it up for sympathy points). It was really hot outside, so I found it in my gracious little heart to tip him. My trash can was knocked over again, or maybe I just forgot to pick it up last night. Since I'd just handed the guy free money, I asked him to do it. He obliged.
After that, I figured I'd make the most of the cheap easel and set of paints I bought last month during a short-lived phase of optimism, so I spent the next hour listening to Taylor Swift on full blast, eating pizza with one hand and trying to paint with the other. Turns out, that was a terrible idea. Now there's cheese and acrylic smeared all over the floor. My landlady is going to evict me if she sees it. Honestly? Fair. But she won't see it.
***
I spotted a spider under the couch as I was cleaning the pizza stain on the floor. Looked like it had been there a while. I've no idea how it got into the house, but, anyway, I flashed my phone camera at it for a second and it evaporated. I find myself wishing I could do that to certain people.
Following that line of thinking, though, aren't homicidal ideation and killing poor, defenseless animals supposed to be the first steps toward becoming a serial killer? I should look up some true crime podcasts. If I do my research, I'll be less likely to get caught, should I be that way inclined. But I don't have time for that right now. Holly invited me out for drinks in the city. I've been roped in against my will.
***
Up until five minutes ago, I was pretty damn sure I hadn't forgotten to take my meds this morning. I remember taking a pill and a half. I do feel the way I'm supposed to when I'm on them. The world still looks bleakly gray, but it does have that pill-induced splash of color in it. I'm not quite as irritated by little things that normally get on my nerves, like the guy sitting next to me (I'm on the bus, by the way) manspreading so aggressively I'm basically being fused into the window-wall-thing.
It does not bother me that much—and I do remember taking those pills—so I should be fine.
But despite all that, I can still hear those voices whispering at me from underground, even over the roaring of the bus engine, which is what's actually beneath my feet.
Ah, but that's because the voices are in my head, one might argue. Well, fuck that one guy. Sure, they are technically in my head, but there's still a directionality to them. They're not like my thoughts—they sound like they're coming from outside. And if they were just in my head, why would I hear them better with my ear pressed to the floor?
Not that I'm doing that. In the middle of a crowded bus. Obviously.
I just feel like if I did, I would. (Hear them better.)
I'm not crazy.
***
I needed a break from my friends, so I'm writing this while sitting in an unsanitary bathroom stall.
It's my first time at the Velvet, and—just to spite my friends' incorrect opinions—I can confirm that despite the flashy exterior, this place is not half as uptown as it looks on the outside. For weeks, Lely's been going on and on about the cocktails at the bar and the fine dining experience at the tables. Well, here in the bathroom I sit, my boots inches away from a mysterious yellow puddle, and I remain unimpressed.
Ah—Holly suggested earlier that I try to be more upbeat. So … in the name of positivity … they've got a good light show, I guess. The sun hasn't even gone down yet, and they're already blasting the sidewalks with UV. So no spiders are getting near this place. No skittery black things in the lasagna or whatnot.
***
Lely was hereeeeeeee! Love youuuuuuu!
***
Ring-a-ding-dong, privacy's gone.
People who read or write in my diary should be executed. Lely isn't half as likeable as she thinks she is. In retaliation, I'm hiding in the bathroom again until she and Holly pay the bill.
***
Okay … so the problem with that idea is that I can't see when they're going to pay it. I've been here ten minutes already, and neither of them has come in to get me. Are they still sipping on their mojitos? Has Holly already gone home with that homeless-looking tattoo guy who winked at her from across the bar?
No idea. I'm hiding in the bathroom stall, and I'm getting bored. That's why I'm writing this, in the first place.
So I don't forget—today I had one strawberry mojito, one Manhattan (which I combined with a double martini, because I make excellent life decisions), and I think two glasses of water.
My blood-alcohol level should be peaking right about now, since it's been ten minutes since my last drink, but I'm not that far gone. I could drink more if I wanted to, and I'll probably be fine getting home, unless some particularly rich and attractive unmarried man invites me to his.
Anyway, I'm getting hungry. I don't want this stupid fake-fancy food, I want junk.
Five minutes later: Holly and Lely still haven't come to get me. I'm going to McDonald's. The sun is probably down by now. Phone battery is running low.