How Not to Manage Your Night Anxiety

I got 11 minutes into Licorice Pizza before I grabbed the small, silver Apple TV remote and violently hit pause. Already so bored. Cannot engage. Got hung up on the Mirror and Comb line and why a photography employee was wandering around campus and never recovered. Put Power of the Dog on. Eight minutes later, I’m texting every contact in my entire phone because I’m more curious about what’s going on in my small computer than whatever’s happening in the Ole West. (Is it… the ole west? Did I retain anything from those 8 minutes?)

Fuck it, put on Seinfeld. Let it play while I cross something else off my to-do list for tomorrow.

Maybe that will help. Ease the twitching in the brain. Calm the frenetic fingers texting everyone and anyone that is willing to continue pointless dialogue with me. I need to download that video. Can’t download that video. Not enough space on the computer for the damn video. Empty trash. Empty trash. I said, EMPTY TRASH. Should I get a new computer? Hey Google, How much do new Apple laptops cost? JK, I already know: way too fucking much.

Just do it. Start getting ready for bed. Oh wait, I wanted to do a face mask. Face masks are a Couch Activity. Face mask, then bed. I left it on too long. I always leave it on too long. Ten minutes is a fucking joke, I’m leaving this shit on for at least 30 because they don’t know what they’re talking about.

Okay, stop texting for real, you’re being annoying. I swear to God, I’m this close to getting an old school alarm clock so I can bury my phone in semi-secret hiding places every night so I stop living inside this box. (It’s semi-secret because since I am the one hiding it, I will know where it is hidden. Living alone is tricky.)

Pop those contacts out. Toss ‘em in the trash. Don’t think about how daily contact lenses create so much waste. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, too late, we hate ourselves. I am a trash human creating more trash. Set a reminder to donate to a group that goes like, hardcore green.

Where did I put that gratitude journal? Why is it not on my nightstand? Is it in my nightstand? Nope. Oh, it’s next to my air fryer, of course, silly me. How did I forget that I love air fryering and journaling at the same time? For fuck’s sake, this is why you’ll never be able to have children. You won’t be able to find them and then one day you’ll open your desk drawer and one of them will be sitting in it.

What am I grateful for on this fine Wednesday?

Oh wait, it’s Tuesday. Jesus. JESUS TAKE THE WHEEEEL. Okay, enough.

Being creative (one).

Talking to Mom and Dad (two).

Going for a walk (three).

Wow big day. My heating pad (shout out to Rite Aid). The new Bengay scent (five, okay done).

If anyone ever finds this journal they are going to be so confused as to what type of life I am living. And then they’re going to see my medicine cabinet and all my antidepressants and stockpiled anxiety meds, birth control, and one single condom, and be like WHO WAS SHE?! (Yes, in this scenario I am deceased and will remain a mystery forever.)

Every time. Every freaking time I try to go to bed early I end up ping ponging.

I’m not even good at actual ping pong. I was good at beer pong, but can I even brag about that anymore? Okay, stop. Pick up the damn book and start reading. You like this book and told yourself you’d finish it tonight because you love putting unnecessary deadlines on things you enjoy.

Is it delusional of me to place infinite trust—

I need to text Carolyn tomorrow.

Wait, what?

“Is it delusional of me to place infinite trust in a force I can not see, touch or—

Should I start a podcast?

No, you cannot be another person with a podcast.

But why not? If all those boring people are doing it—

You don’t have the time.

This isn’t the time.

But is there ever a right time?

Focus.

Is it delusional of me to place infinite trust in a force I cannot see, touch, or prove? A force that might not even–

I forgot to check the weather in Chicago. Fuck, it’s going to be freezing. I cannot fucking wait to see Riley wiggle her little butt and lick my face. If she doesn’t sleep with me at the foot of my bed Thursday night I will revolt. Also, my family. It’ll be cool to see them too.

Why am I the way that I am?

My shoulder sprain has forced me to sit still for three days and I’m bouncing off the fucking walls like a 28 year-old Brooklynite whose just done way too much cocaine (I’ve never done cocaine).

Tap tap tap on the nightstand. Tap tap tap. I can’t believe my manicure has lasted this long. Shout out to New Way Nails. (And yes, I did write them a Yelp review).

Why aren’t my meds kicking in? Why isn’t my night drink kicking in? These are the nights I miss my edibles. That shit would knock me the fuck out. And sure, I’d eat my weight in Fritos, then Oreos, then Fritos, then Oreos again cause the cycle of salty and sweet is too good to pass up, but I had way less trouble—OH WE GOT TROUBLE. RIGHT HERE IN RIVER CITY—falling asleep.

Somebody save me.

That sentence also reminds me of the theme song to Smallville but only my brother will know what I’m talking about so SOMEBODY SAAAAAVE MEEEEE COME ON AND BREAK RIGHT THROUGH JUST SAAAAAVE. Are those even the words? It doesn’t matter. Because nobody’s coming.