Oh, me.

I write to myself when I am upset about Robby. That's an observable trend. I am scared anyone would read this one. I guess I don't want people to think less of him or me by thinking we don't have the perfect relationship.

I wouldn't dare let it slip to most people I know that I am not happy all of the time. Maybe Sarah. My two sisters are my fiercest protectors, so painting Robby in a less than flattering light, ever, would be a bad idea. What if they never forget the bad and it obscures their view of the good. Not that I am unhappy with Robby. I am just unhappy. I got into a tiff with Robby about money somehow. That he is irresponsible. He is, for the record.

But what really upsets me is that I have to be responsible. Robby or not, I do. I have a lot of bills to pay and I love to shop. If I had a better job, or the skills or ability or ambition to get a better job, I think, then I would not be so worried about what money comes in or exactly how it needs to go out. So I come down hard on myself because I pay loans on a degree I don't and don't want to use. I come down hard on myself because I don't know what I want to do or who I want to be.

Seriously, sometimes I wonder if I am destined to die young, since I have never had any really clear picture of my future. I don't know if I want kids or a family. Sometimes I think I would fare just fine alone. And that brings me to our next topic.

I am alone. I am lonely. I am not any good at making friends. Getting boyfriends, keeping boyfriends, having a great old time with boyfriends, sure. But gal pals, i ain't got 'em. Or, I do, and I neglect them, and they are far away anyhow, and I have no idea how to make new ones. I literally don't. Not that I'm not outgoing. I am. Just somewhere, it doesn't link up to my making new friends. I think I love to shop so much just because I am lonely. It's a pick-me-up. Of course, maybe I'd still shop a lot if I had girlfriends.

I just worry about money a lot and with due cause. I have about a thousand dollars in bills each month and I work as a waitress and it's unpredictable. I am never quite sure that enough money will come in. It's scary. It makes me wish so hard that I was funnier, or wittier, or faster, or hotter, or a better conversationalist. Whatever it takes to bring people to Prime Time, so I can have better shifts and better tips. There's so much pressure. And I have grey hairs. I do. Around my hairline. A few of them and they remind me to take life seriously and to have a career and not flit around at waitress jobs and maybe just be more serious and grown-up all around. I feel like a loser.

Then I feel like I have always been a loser and I always will be and there's something missing in me. Or some extra part of me that just wants to be happy right now, in the moment and not care what comes next or what other people think. Some selfish part of me that would rather type to myself than to open up to someone else.

I am going to bed with a lump in my throat now.

I really don't want to be dramatic. But, I really don't want to cry. Someday I am sure I will laugh at how lame I am and can be when I get typing.

That's all.