On Sunday evening I convince myself that I will have the first good night’s sleep since May by starting taking inadvisable combinations of sedatives and sleeping pills early on, therefore building a gradual state of tranquillity, hopefully slumber, that will take me through to the next morning. This plan is in contrast to my usual nonchalant method of trying to go without, then finding myself wide awake at 0400 with a throbbing pain in my temples, running through the events of the last couple months. So at 2100, I take 2mg of Xanax, followed by another 2mg at 2200, followed by 5mg of Ambien at 2300. Around midnight I start Ambien-posting on twitter, until I suddenly pass out. At 0230, I wake up. I stay awake for an hour trying to figure out how it’s possible to have an increased heart rate and a void feeling where my heart used to be at the same time.
Eventually I crush and snort 2mg of Xanax and 3.25mg of Zopiclone (that’s half a pill) because it works faster than just swallowing them. At 0500, I wake up again and take half an Ambien (swallowed) and the other half of the Zopiclone that’s left from earlier (snorted). At 0645 I wake up again, go to the bathroom, take a mirror selfie demonstrating my abs looking particularly violent, because all these pills dehydrate the hell out of me, and post it on Instagram. I wait until it’s had at least 50 likes before feeling like I’m worth something as a human being. Then I turn my phone off and go back to sleep.
I wake up at 1030 with a tolerable headache and down 2.5 litres of water before checking Facebook, Instagram, and Grindr. On Facebook there is universal uproar from a bunch of gay men who’ve spent their weekend sucking dick in club toilets and are now passing judgment on how trashy Miley Cyrus is, based on her performance at the VMAs. It seems that we’re currently living in a society of very high moral standards; I guess I mustn’t have noticed.
Late in the afternoon, I make my way to the gym. The gym might as well be empty apart from one guy. This guy is tall, in his mid-20s and on tons of anabolic steroids (good ones). He also seems to be on some sort of amphetamine or another, which I’m sure he refers to as his “pre-workout”. Whatever. He’s high. He’s literally racing around the gym, eyes darting around maniacally, lifting weights in frenzy. I recognise him as somebody I spoke to on Grindr earlier in the day. Soon enough, I have the honour and the privilege for his crazy eyes to fall upon me in real life too. From the moment he clocks me I become his new obsession.
His first course of action is to come stand behind me and lift his shirt up to check his abdominal muscles in the mirror. I am the person that I am, so that kinda works for me.
His second course of action is to sit on the bench next to me and pretend that he’s working out there. He turns to me and mouths something that I don’t hear, as I’ve got headphones on. I remove them and say “Hi, yes, we spoke on Grindr earlier, didn’t we?” This is not what he has just said. He has just said that he likes the tattoos on my arms. He proceeds to lift his shirt up again and show me his chest, sorry, “a tattoo on his chest”, which is even worse than the ones I have. I say, “that’s really cool”. He then pretends to remember that we spoke on Grindr, which is clearly not the case, as he pretends to remember information about me (my name, where I moved from, what I do here), which I hadn’t actually given him before. Despite all this unfortunate interaction he insists that we exchange numbers and of course I go along with it, because apparently I’ve learnt nothing from dating empty, beautiful vessels (even though one might hope this one possibly has had a job at some point in the last twelve years).
Right before I leave, amphetamine guy comes with me into the changing room to take my number. He points out my shirt, which randomly has “1987” written on it, and says:
“Dude, that’s incredible, that’s the year I was born. You know, we’ve got similar tattoos…your shirt has my year of birth…you’ve got me all over you. Well, hopefully.”
After this comment I still give him my number, which suddenly makes me realise that I only have myself to blame for everything that goes wrong in my life and the state that I’m in.
We go on a date a couple of days later. The best part of the date is when I tell him I was born in Greece and he asks me what language they speak there, “is it Greek or Latin?” The second best part of the date is when I tell him halfway through dinner that “we have absolutely nothing in common”. The third best part of the date is wh