Last night was absolute hell. I wish I was being dramatic, but that’s the full fucking truth of it.

After I got ready for bed, I took that Xanax and a half. It wasn’t working. My stomach was causing me so much pain that I was reaching levels of the episode I once had in high school, when Mom had to take me to the hospital in the middle of the night. All I wanted to do was go to bed, but I was at a point where it hurt to breathe. I had this feeling as though nothing was being digested. Did the Xanax even reach my stomach? I literally thought about shoving another two pills up my asshole, as that seemed to be the only clear passageway available. I tried to burp. I could feel my food bubbling up. I knew what I had to do.

Thinking I would simply ralph up a few chips, I crawled into the bathroom and shoved my left hand down my throat. My fingers and uvula had a touching reunion. There was the food. Not just the chips, though. I threw up for a solid 10 minutes, hurling everything I had eaten at Casa Z into the toilet. At this point, it was almost 1 a.m. In other words, we’re talking about food that I had eaten almost five hours prior. Usually, I’m past the point of throwing up within about 30 minutes of eating a meal. I knew something was seriously wrong. I cleaned myself off, popped another Xanax – I was sure the last one I’d taken had just been brought up and flushed down – and crawled back into bed with the all-too-familiar stench of stomach acid lingering on my upper body.

Given that I had just vomited to the point where I temporarily clogged the toilet – yes, it was that much food – I thought I might have relieved myself. Wrong. If anything, my stomach now hurt even more. I kept trying to find a comfortable position to fall asleep in, but nothing was working. It was time for Plan B: Google.

I know, I know. The internet is the last place you should search for medical advice when you’re feeling sick. The only thing you’re going to find is a WebMD page that points to a cancer diagnosis and three months left to live. I didn’t know what else to do, though. Sure enough, my search for “indigestion” listed all of the symptoms I was experiencing.

By this point, it was almost 2 a.m. I was burping like a redneck at a tailgate party, which I figured was a good thing. Perhaps something was loosening up down south. The one thing from my Google search that seemed to be an immediate option was a painkiller. Advil? Tylenol? No. That wasn’t going to cut it. Then, the light went off. I remembered that Brittany had traded me a Vicodin pill in exchange for some of my Xanax during our Vegas trip in September. I’d been saving it for a special occasion, and this was my moment. The only other option I could think of was taking an Uber to the nearest emergency room. Obviously, that wasn’t exactly ideal. I was not about to be seen in fluorescent lighting at 2 a.m.

My stomach pain was almost indescribable. It was as though a knife had been shoved into my upper abdomen and was being twisted back and forth. I took the Vicodin, crawled back into bed, and closed my eyes. I was still squirming in pain, but at one point, I opened my eyes and could feel the drug kicking in. Within 30 minutes, I was able to fall asleep. Or, what was likely the case, pass out.

My alarm went off at 7:30 a.m., which was a rude awakening to say the least. Knowing that I wouldn’t be able to eat much today, I stayed in bed until 8 a.m. and skipped my usual lunch-making routing. After a quick shower and tossing some small, bird-like snacks into my backpack – better hide them from Big Bird – I went to work.

Apart from praying each night before bed or getting the odd gospel song stuck in my head, I’m not much of a religious person. However, when I listen to Mariah Carey’s Merry Christmas album, it’s as though I am receiving a message from Jesus. Good God. Christ, even! I love that woman so much.

Work was ridiculous. Huge surprise there! Big Bird spent most of the day complaining about the fact that I wasn’t in the office yesterday, as it resulted in her being swamped with work. When Big Bird wasn’t complaining about my day off, she was squawking on and on about how much work she had to do. It’s times like these I remember what the women at The Store taught me: “Don’t work harder, work smarter.”

Big Bird is a fucking joke. Although there’s no argument that the woman has a lot of work to do, someone with proper time management skills could tackle every item on her list in half the time.

In an attempt to maintain some form of sanity, I kept escaping from my office throughout the day to talk with Emma and Lucy. We basically discussed work items for a few minutes, and then spent the rest of our time swapping stories about Big Bird. I might have fucked up, though. I blabbed about her nickname, and I think it stuck. Shit. Six more weeks, baby! Hang in there.

Despite the on-and-off rain happening outside today, I wanted to walk home from work. My foot is still a mess, and I wasn’t about to visit the gym tonight with my throbbing stomach. A part of me felt guilty, but I think my body is in this shape because of how hard I pushed it last week. Time for a break.

Like the mole person I am, I made my way home through the PATH system. Once in the Village, I stopped by the grocery store and stole some stomach medication and dinner for the evening. I steal only what I can’t afford. That’s everything! Ugh. I know. This is getting to be a very bad habit. Hell. Let’s be real here. It’s been one for a while.

For the life of me, I cannot understand where my money is going. I thought I had calculated my finances so that I would be okay for when I quit my job next month, but now it’s November and I have $300 in my bank account. What the fuck? I’m thinking that once I part ways with The Clubhouse, I’ll start working some DigiPrint events again. I still get emails from them multiple times a week, asking me to take on some shifts. At this point, I could probably be working close to full-time hours with DigiPrint. Even if it weren’t full-time, I would still be getting paid more. Plus, there’s no tax on those hours. Damn. Maybe I should have just stayed with them this whole time.

I schlepped my stolen goods home in the rain. After I finished cleaning what I couldn’t last night, I made my dinner while watching Romancing the Stone – a surprisingly decent 1984 Kathleen Turner film. Not bad! I went a bit overboard with the food tonight, though. I think my stomach was beginning to cooperate with me once again, and I jumped the gun. Damn it.

Today’s gloomy weather made me feel weird. Well, I suppose part of that was my digestion issues. Still, for a moment today – and also a bit during yesterday – I started to have those recurring thoughts about growing old and dying alone. I haven’t had those thoughts in so long. Why now? What changed? Eventually, I came to realize that those depressive thoughts might have something to do with my alcohol intake and resulting hangover. I had been feeling a lot better about myself and my future lately. Once I started in on the drinking again, the same old anxieties and dark thoughts returned. Don’t get me wrong. I had fun on Halloween. However, I don’t want to drink anymore. Honestly, it’s not fun for me. I haven’t forgotten about the AA meeting, either. Mark my words, I will go to a meeting by the end of the year. That’s a promise.

I feel a bit overwhelmed right now. There’s so much in my life that I want to do – so much that I want to accomplish – but I’m just too damn busy. God. I sound like Big Bird. If only I could just sit my ass down and get to work, I would at least feel like I’m not stuck at this bleak standstill. It’s ridiculous.

I’m looking forward to elbowing my way to the front of the Mariah Carey stage at Hudson’s Bay tomorrow.

Goodnight xo