Jetlagging

I cannot cannot cannotttt with this jet lag. It’s eating me alive. Like a spoilt chihuahua, my body is refusing to accept the fact that I am no longer on the West Coast, doing hot girl shit like being a little bit stoned 24/7, eating vegan pumpkin pie to go whenever it’s on the menu and visiting only the best tourist attractions like: The Museum Of Death: spoiler! It was awesome! I can confidently tell you I intimately know what a decapitated head, bisected body parts and like literally everything in-between, look like from every angle! 

The problem is I’ve been resisting the reality of coming home, so admittedly I haven’t made much personal effort to settle back into the London time zone. I’m emotional, definitely unsettled and nauseous. Plus, my period being due any day now has only been insulting my fragility further.

As per I’m also feeling chronically fatigued from my two weeks of adventuring that I am oh so excited to disclose throughout my next few posts to come…

I’m also like, really hungry at strange hours of the night! Likely from cutting my calorie intake to probably less than half of what I was eating in the States.

When I go on holiday, these days I’m able to totally relax my curated diet and eat as much as I like. Especially when visiting somewhere like America! Oh my god! The vegan food is just to die for. I had no idea that vegan egg was so big out there! It’s really good too! Not too eggy! I ate so much I put on seven pounds in two weeks!! Oops!!

My weight tends to be a hot 100 pounds, give or take the time of the month. Has been for the last near-decade since I turned vegan. My weight went from a morgue-chic 80-ish pounds —when I was a teenager at my eating-disorder-riddledest— to settle at 100-ish. Don’t ask why pounds is the only metric I know. I weigh myself so rarely that it was always just easier to remember a round number like 100. Luckily I never got fixated by a number on the scales. —Always caring much more about the tactile exhibits of my skinniness, like if my stomach felt concave enough or my hipbones felt sharp.

Fucking hell. I’m awake again and it’s only midnight. I really thought I’d sleep more than two hours before waking up… Nope. It’s like 4pm LA time. My body wants Melrose shopping, skipping and Gracias Madre for dinner. Then an edible and episodes of The Anna Nicole Smith Show in bed. Not sleep.

I’ve taken another Kourtney Kardashian melatonin. I stocked up on three jars while I was over there, from Erewhon —which was as silly and wonderful as I imagined it would be. Beverly Hills was like my playground. That and Hollywood Blvd— when I wasn’t getting literally assaulted by the homeless. A sleeping population of real-life zombies!! And I’m not even joking.

One sat down right behind me— maybe to sneak a peek at my ass slipping out from under my dress while I posed in front of Ozzy Osbourne’s Hollywood star, which had been dressed up into a shrine: with candles, rubber bats and booze, after his recent passing. Then, just as I stood up, he locked eyes with me—devilishly—before lunging straight for me. I hopped and ran. He was wrestled off the street, into oncoming traffic!! It was all very cinematic—dramatic. But hey— just another day in Hollywood, apparently.

Honestly, the fenty eats away at the mind and body of these people, turning them into the walking dead. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. And of course, because there’s no national health service, when these people get sick —abscesses or injuries go untreated. So they do begin to look rather gangrenous and eaten-away-at. It’s really quite horrifying. I’ve never seen more people talking to imaginary apparitions, eating food out of bins and scrounging for fag butts and roaches wedged into cracked pavement crevices. 

I saw one guy caught up in full heated conversation with a mannequin dressed as Art the Clown in a costume shop window. He was stood right up to the glass, all up in Art’s face, screaming and moving his hands violently in front of the costume. I veered away when I saw this, wondering what he was saying…

While going on my almost nightly wizard walks I was very shooketh. One night we even stumbled across a rave like only two streets (should I say; “blocks”) back! It had been set up seemingly out of nowhere! And in the morning it had disappeared again.

Fuck fuck fuck. I am so restless. I’m at that painful point of jet lag where I can’t force myself to sleep to save my life. I’ve not been sleeping at night and I’m spending the whole day either asleep or nauseous and sickly-feeling. Around 5pm UK time I start to perk up again and the cycle continues.

Yawn. I yawn, hoping my second Kardashian berry-flavoured purple melatonin is working already!! I want to be able to wake up tomorrow feeling well enough to leave the house. I know that feels like a big ask right now. But it would be nice to wake up feeling capable. I’ll have to pop a Dex before I can finish the last of my unpacking. My eyes filled with tears, sentimentally, as I loaded the washing machine with all my worn clothes. Crying at the thought of the LA glitz and grime being washed off them.

i can’t help feeling out of sorts. I don’t remember the last time jet lag played trickster with me this hard. My body is being weird at the moment too. Four Klonopins didn’t put me to sleep at all on the plane ride there or back. On the way back, I even took some of the aforementioned Kour-tonin on top and was only able to vaguely relax into a sort of disassociated dreamlike state. But it wasn’t sleep. Not sleep like I slept all the way to LA a couple of years prior. That was a cold ten hour Britney blackout.

Benzos have not hit the same since my last stint taking Seroquel and I’m super pissed about it. I cannot understand why this is the case. Ugh. I think I fucked something up. I should have never tried taking that stuff again. What a nightmare. I try to go on benzo breaks as much as I can. I’m not even addicted to them. It’s all just as retarded as me.

Goddamn, another 15 minutes have passed since I looked at the clock. I nauseously take a sip of cold water from my Stanley cup. Feeling both tired and wired, like I’m on a stimulant comedown. I’ve lost my TV remote somewhere in the bed and don’t want to turn on the side lamp to find it, out of fear that the light might wake me up even more. Maybe I’ll watch some YouTube on my phone like it’s 2014 again lol. Or maybe I’ll listen to some music or a podcast. Though I feel too frozen in decision paralysis to actually do anything, in hope that I may instead just fall back asleep.

I have stomach cramps and feel strange. It almost amuses me how I actually gained a notable amount of weight while I was away. Though it doesn’t surprise me. I was eating like I didn’t know what a calorie was — eating for pure pleasure and hedonism. But no regrets, as I was also extremely busy and had I not been eating, I don’t think I’d have made it to half as many celebrity graves, murder houses, and boutique-y clothes shops as I did…

Stay tuned to hear all about those when I’m not half delirious!!!