#77: Diary of a Girl Who Doesn't Know She's Concussed

HUMOR

This post is a continuation of #76: Diary of a Cursed First-Time Surfer Girl.

Saturday 10:30am

I lay on our bedroom carpet while Adam summons the will to wash his salt and sand down the drain. He finishes and I somehow wrench myself into a standing position. I must have showered myself because next thing I know I’m-

Saturday 11:00am

clean, lying on top of the duvet. Adam calls from where he’s curled on the couch. We can only sleep for 30 minutes! Set an alarm! I groan loud enough for him to hear and don’t. I’m asleep in seconds, an insomniac record of some sort, probably.

Saturday 11:28am

I’m awoken by a gentle tug on my shoulder. I refuse to open my eyes. Another gentle rattle. He knows I’m awake. I growl and begrudgingly open my eyes. I’m met with loving baby blues. It’s time to get up, Adam croons. I’m grumpy. What time is it? I reach for my phone, turn it over. 11:28? I’ve been robbed. I will never get those two minutes of blissful rest back. How dare this man anticipate my not setting the alarm he requested and take it upon himself to gently wake me up. The gall. The nerve.

Saturday 11:45am

We’re out the door, walking to the hotel where Adam’s aunt and uncle are staying. It’s his uncle’s birthday. We eat birthday lunch. My head hurts. Typical me. The sun felt so bright on the walk over. I wish I had Excedrin on me. I order a chicken sandwich and fries. The fries are shoestring, and I absolutely house them. At one point, I look up to find all three people at the table watching me devour these stringy salt sticks one by one. You must really like fries! Adam’s aunt says cheerily. I smile. I feel far away. No, I feel close by. Which is somehow worse. Just a few inches outside myself. I wonder if they can tell.

Saturday 3:00pm

We’ve been power-walking for nearly two hours, weaving through the Palisades mansions and back down to the park. Luckily, Adam’s aunt and uncle are talkers. I hear about the kids, the grandkids, San Francisco, architecture, gardening, and oh aren’t those flowers lovely. It’s nice to see them, but I can tell I’m not being the best conversationalist. I’ve got to remember to put that Excedrin in my purse. If only I grabbed my sunglasses. If only I could dim the sun. I’m so sleepy. I feel strangely aware of my skull. What was I supposed to remember?

Saturday 3:30pm

We hug our goodbyes and head upstairs. Both collapse on the couch. Pass out. Wake up. Readjust. Conk out. Repeat.

Saturday 7:00pm

Somehow the day is over except it’s not because we’ve just been invited to a party at a director’s house in West Hollywood. And should we go? We’re so tired. But we never go out. And it’s so late already. And do I really want to drive? We should really get out more. And see our friends. And mingle. But what will we do for dinner? Well, we’ll have to eat whether we go or not. And he’s waiting for our answer. Let’s just go. Adam types a message. We’re going. It’s settled. But is it really? Could we maybe? No. We’re going. This will be good. It will be so fun! Won’t it? Smile! We’re going.

Saturday 11:00pm

There are three women at this party, and I am one of them. I’m doing that annoying (necessary) thing where I say, oh, I came with my BOYFRIEND, every ten minutes because these men are on the prowl. I get stuck in a conversation with an insurance consultant who is listing every movie that features an insurance consultant or an insurance-consultant-adjacent character. He proceeds to give a detailed breakdown of the plot of each movie. Even when I repeatedly mention I’ve seen that one. I’ve seen that one WITH MY BOYFRIEND. The insurance consultant has no idea what my name is. He hasn’t asked. He hasn’t asked a single thing, actually. But he seems hellbent on proving to me that insurance consultants are not boring. Ironically he’s attempting to do so by boring me to death.

Saturday 11:30pm

Somehow I’ve escaped the vice grip of the insurance consultant. Now his friend is pitching me his screenplay. I’m nodding politely when I feel a weird wretch in the back of my throat. I turn away from him, cheeks puffed full of vomit. I run to the bathroom. Honestly, his script idea wasn’t that bad.

Doing this as a series has been fun! It alleviates some stress continuing an idea one week into the next rather than having to come up with something completely original. Plus, I’m enjoying the diary format. I think the final part of this series will come next week. Thanks for giving me space to play.

ily bye,

Ariana