Isabella

I'm losing my mind at three in the morning because two of my roommates decided the night before my big change was the perfect night for a party with a capital 'P'.

The bed seems to move along to the heavy house beats they have blasting in the living room, making me feel nauseated and uneasy. I don't know what to do, not even earplugs are helpful now. So I get up and sneak to the bathroom I share with one of them, and lock the door before moving the towel rack right in front of it, blocking the entryway completely.

I fill the tub to the brim with bath salts my grandmother used to swear by. Yet, they do nothing for my anxiety, except they smell nice.

After spending all night at the restaurant across the street, serving and hosting, I thought coming home around midnight was good since I had a plan. I was going to read one chapter of my book and text Alice about tomorrow's outfit. Then, I'd take a quick, refreshing shower to get rid of the scratchy feeling of my uniform's dress shirt and bury myself in bed with the last of my popcorn.

Instead, I got home and discovered all sorts of people I'd never seen before eating popcorn and drinking straight out of bottles I'd bought for my dad's birthday. I couldn't even hear myself think, let alone read a fucking book. I was too scared of visitors in the bathroom so I resorted to baby wipes while shoving a chair underneath my door handle. Gotta love NYC, right?

I got over my fear of these people seeing me naked because my fear of peeing myself while sleeping absolutely exceeds that. So I'm here, locked in the bathroom, scrunching up my nose when I realize I left my loofah here last night and I definitely don't have long blonde curls. Ew.

The one moment I finally somewhat relax is when my head's below the surface. Every sound is blocked out except for the beating of my heart, the sound of my breathing.

I can't believe this is my life now. I can't believe I've got to almost sell my soul to the employer in order to get a new position. It's not even that high a position but it seems like a skyscraper's distance from the old one. An assistant job makes it sound like you matter, even though you're sort of a glorified calendar and errand-person to someone who makes your weekly paycheck in an hour.

If Mom could see me now, she'd call me pathetic. And she'd be right. Again.