My Summer of Hedonism & Relaxation

Late June, early July

After hosting a writing workshop, I find myself on a late-night food run at an old diner, the kind with flickering neon signs that buzz faintly. The front door sticks slightly before it opens, and the bell overhead jingles.

Inside, the counter is lined with red vinyl stools, some cracked and patched with duct tape. A waitress leans against the register, scrolling through her phone, her nametag askew on her apron. She glances up briefly, offers a tired smile, then goes back to her phone.

I slide into a booth by the window. The tabletop is scratched and sticky in spots, etched with faint graffiti: initials, phone numbers, declarations of love carved into the veneer by bored teenagers long gone. A laminated menu sits propped up against the napkin dispenser, its edges frayed and corners curling from years of use.

Outside, the city lights shimmer on the rain-slick asphalt, though it hasn’t rained in days. A low hum comes from the jukebox in the corner, its selection frozen in time—Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, Elvis. Somewhere behind me, a coffee pot gurgles.

I order a tuna melt and fries, the kind that comes with a side of coleslaw no one ever eats. The waitress pours me a cup of coffee without asking, the mug chipped but warm in my hands. The coffee is weak, more water than caffeine, but it’s something to hold onto.

I get home at 1:30 A.M. and like a scene from some screwball comedy, I realize I've locked myself out of my house. My chaotic brain, always misplacing things like keys and deadlines, has done it again. Standing there in the stillness of the night, the weight of my aloneness hits me.

Both of my usual saviors—friends who would wordlessly toss me a blanket and leave me to sort myself out on their couch—are out of town. Calling anyone else feels out of the question. It’s too late, and they’re too busy.

Venice, normally chaotic and alive, feels emptied out, unrecognizable. The silence bears down. I consider calling a locksmith, but even that feels like giving in, a kind of capitulation to bad planning, bad luck. The streetlight casts jagged shadows, and I think of an old noir film I saw once, the scene where the protagonist realizes he’s completely, irrevocably alone.

I sit on the porch. I think about using my jacket as a pillow and let the thought settle. It’s funny how quickly you can adapt, how something like sleeping on concrete becomes plausible in the right frame of mind. Above me, stars blink indifferently. Stars in L.A. always feel like some kind of miracle.

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Going to theme parks gives me immense anxiety. I've always hated roller coasters and big crowds. Visiting a theme park on just a few hours of sleep is a different kind of battle altogether. We sip mini canned cocktails in the Disneyland parking lot, which feels like an elevated, more sophisticated version of drinking shooters.

While waiting for friends to finish their giant roller coaster adventure, I see a man put his hand under a hand sanitizer dispenser, then proceed to bring the sanitizer to his mouth and drink it.

A young girl next to me on a ride asks how I know the raft is really connected to the ride. I assure her that the raft is secured by bolts and metal and it’s very safe. But I don’t know. I don’t really know anything. The metal clicks ominously in the water below us, and we start to ascend towards what I assume is going to be a large drop. She reaches out her pinky to me, seeking reassurance, “You promise nothing bad will happen to me?”

I nod. “I promise nothing bad will happen to you. I will not let anything bad happen to you.”

The ride twists and turns, and we are all covered in water. I am laughing. I check in on the girl, and she is smiling, her teeth chattering.

I fall asleep immediately on the car ride home. This has become a new trend. Falling asleep anywhere and everywhere when with friends. I went from not sleeping for months to falling asleep the second I am with people I feel safe around.

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Cleaning has become my favorite sedative. That, and crying. Dolly Alderton writes, “Sobbing is a sedative.” 

I kneel on the bathroom floor, armed with a scrub brush and strong cleaner, tackling the shower tiles with focused determination. The scent of the cleaner fills the air, sharp and clinical, mingling with the faint aroma of jasmine from the soap dish. Each stroke of the brush is methodical, almost meditative, as if with each swipe, I’m scrubbing away more than just soap scum.

I’ve surprised myself by falling in love with cleaning. If the past me could see me now, she’d be shocked. There’s a strange satisfaction in transforming chaos into order, in making things clean and pristine when everything else feels messy and uncertain.

I listen to Lana Del Rey’s poetry book Violet Bent Backwards Over the Grass on repeat, much like I used to listen to healing frequencies and podcasts.

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As I make Kayla matcha cookies for her birthday, a thought emerges: I haven’t done one thing that’s not enjoyable in weeks. My entire life revolves around things that make me feel good. Baking for my friends, long walks, writing incessantly and madly. Have I become a hedonist?

In the aftermath of the breakup, conventional wisdom dictates focusing on self-improvement—getting sexier, making more money, or outdoing your ex. Yet, I find myself too depleted to engage in such comparisons; my priority now is simply having fun.

I measure out the matcha powder, its vibrant green hue contrasting beautifully with the white chocolate chips scattered on the counter. The smell of butter and sugar blending together fills the kitchen, a sweet comfort. As I fold the white chocolate chips into the dough, the contrast of colors and textures feels almost therapeutic. The cookies bake, their edges turning golden brown while the centers remain soft, a perfect balance.

On the way out to the bar, our Uber driver encourages me to DJ. We belt out "Ribs" by Lorde, and I am reminded that the songs you love at 17 are still the same songs you love at 25. There’s a timelessness to music, a way it can transport you back to who you once were while keeping you grounded in who you are now.

Someone remarks that my current lifestyle borders on hedonism, and I can't deny the truth in their observation. But as I bite into a warm matcha cookie, the white chocolate melting on my tongue, I think maybe that’s okay. Sometimes, in the wake of depletion, indulgence is its own form of healing