I think it may be a result of a fairly debaucherous weekend, but I’ve got a very sore throat. It hurts to swallow. Even worse, while thinking about it tonight, I considered the possibility that my sore throat could be a result of Friday night. As in, “Did I catch something from Lexapro?” Although I would have if the opportunity presented itself, I didn’t swallow anything last weekend. However, given the night/morning Lexapro and I had, I’m sure there were enough fluids exchanged for something to be transmitted. I’m not going to over-analyze this one. For now, we’ll call it a cold. I cannot deal with another STD. I do not endorse it!
I worked 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. at the Clubhouse front desk today, then capped off my shift with two hours in the office. The worst part of my job is probably the dress code. I say that now, as someone who has gained an excessive amount of weight and can no longer tuck in his shirt without an overwhelming sense of embarrassment and self-doubt. There’s nothing worse than having to tuck in a shirt when you’re retaining one of the Great Lakes in your midsection. Okay. Maybe there are a few things worse. But, this is definitely in the top three. I miss the days of shorts, t-shirts, and Converse at The Toronto Film Group. If anything, this is definitely motivation for me to stop eating.
Work went by pretty fast. When it was over, I walked home. My job is stupid. It’s a complete check-out for me, and I really don’t feel any sort of attachment to my role. That being said, I’m getting to the point where I’m realizing this may be the case with any job I have where I’m working for someone else. In fact, barring any charity or volunteer work, I would consider it a red flag if I was working for someone else and fully devoting all of my time and energy to their cause. How fucking stupid would that be? You’re going to spend your life making someone else – or even worse, a corporate entity – look good? Fuck that. I mean, I’ll still do a good job. At the end of the day, I willingly signed on to work at The Clubhouse, and they are paying me to perform specific duties. Let’s just put it this way – I’m not losing sleep over a job where I’m working for The Man.
I really want to work for myself. I just have to figure out how. Phillip wants to open a design studio downtown to sell his furniture in, and use it as an event space in the evenings. I’m very interested in that concept. Communicating anything with Phillip is an uphill battle, though. We’ll see where his idea goes.
Back at the Witch Cave, I ended up falling asleep due to exhaustion, a sore throat, and also in an attempt to avoid eating. It worked. I woke up at 9 p.m., though. When I glanced at my analog clock, I had a slight panic attack when I thought I was late for work. So much for not losing sleep over working for The Man. Damn it. Okay. So, I don’t like being late. Big deal. So, what? Who cares! Sue me.
For the first time in a while, I actually dragged my ass to my carpet and did some exercises tonight. I need to get this body in check for next week. The clock is ticking, and this Cinderella cannot be a pumpkin for Pride!
On my way to work this morning, Sebastian Garner – the guy I once went on a date with in LA – texted me that he will be moving to Toronto in the next couple of months. I think this could be a good thing. I want to expand my social circle. I don’t want to play host, though. Sebastian better be self-sufficient. I think it will be a good set up. I need some fresh meat. Speaking of meat, I should hang out with Gunther this weekend. Kosher meat still counts, right? I’ll message him tomorrow.
I exchanged some messages with Lexapro while working out tonight. Lexapro also sent me some of his favorite music to listen to. How anyone, much less a 33-year-old who grew up during an incredible era of music, enjoys listening to what can only be described as “glorified internet dial-up tone” is beyond me. Some of the songs were okay, I guess. That is, when they weren’t raping my eardrums. And this is coming from someone who listens to Mariah Carey’s whistle notes at lethal levels.
While at The Clubhouse this morning, I did a few touch-ups on last night’s journal entry. Just some small grammatical stuff, as sometimes my writing isn’t the most coherent before bed. In the process, I got sad about Logan again.
I was really stoned last night. It was not a cute look, and neither was the amount of food I consumed. I couldn’t even see what I was writing at one point, though. I was crying so much. I don’t know why the Logan situation has affected me the way it has. A part of me feels like, if it couldn’t work with someone I felt that strongly about, how can it work with anyone? It’s all so fucked-up. Delusional, really. I don’t want to discount my feelings, but I also know that some of them are a little much at times. Especially when you consider the circumstances of the situation, as well as my behavior towards basically every other guy I’ve been with. It’s like Logan was the bad karma that had been coming to me since the first dick I sucked. When I said I wanted to be fucked, this wasn’t what I meant.
I’m getting better, though. As much as I don’t want to continue the trend of, “When X happens, Y will be better,” I need that mentality to keep moving forward. This time it’s, “When the pin is out of my foot, life will be better.”
I really do feel debilitated by this damn foot. I can’t wait to get back to running, being more active, and showering daily – sans grocery bags. I feel trapped. Before, that feeling was very emotional/mental in regard to my romantic and professional life. Now, it’s that layer, plus the physical sense. I never thought that I would miss running as much as I do right now. In the four years since I started running, this is the longest I have ever been away from it, by far.
After over 1,000 sit-ups, I rubbed one out and then crawled into bed.
Goodnight xo