All I ever do, it seems, is worry about money. I wrote an entry a few days ago, and I may as well send it out in the form of an Evite to my pity party. My god, I even start moping about singlehood at the end of it, as if that's relevant. Maybe I should entitle it "Sugar Daddy Wanted" and see what happens. "Girl With Big Boobies Seeks Wealthy Benefactor To Stuff Hundred Dollar Bills In Her Cleavage."

It's not pretty, folks.

My life right now is a continual string of financial bad news. My car insurance is unaffordable and about to be canceled. My tax bill was $800. And my health insurance doesn't cover jack shit, apparently. (When I went in about my UTIs, my new gyno tested me for gonorrhea and syphilis. My insurance company doesn't seem to want to pay for the lab work. It's the patriarchy! It's the moral majority punishing me for having sex!)

Did I mention the student loan payments? Did I mention my little rental income has been cut in more than half? Did I mention that I made a whopping eighteen grand last year? SIGH.

Speaking of eighteen grand, my little sister just lucked into a magical account containing seventeen thousand dollars. I am happy for her, and she offered to buy my plane ticket this summer, which is so generous and I love her to tears. But I am petty, and thus am mostly seething with envy. Abby makes a thousand dollars a week. (At absolute least.) I make a thousand dollars a month. Why didn't the universe drop a pot of gold into MY lap? I need it more. I need it more!

I mean, okay, it's not like I have much room to complain. I have nice things like a digital camera

and a gigantic DVD collection. I have a car that runs. I have good credit. Two days ago, I bought a darling cream-colored jacket that makes me feel like J. Lo. I got my stock info in the mail and my $350 in withholdings bought me $500 of Starbucks stock. I have small but real investments. I am not dirt poor. I might not completely hate my hair anymore.

And yet... and yet. I live from paycheck to paycheck (to paycheck to paycheck to paycheck, what with the three jobs and all) and I worry. Constant worry about my debts, which are legion.

Listen: I do smart, proactive things with my finances. I work as much as humanly possible. I balance a stable job (benefits) with a lucrative job (higher paychecks) and yet somehow, I am still broke all the time. Where have I gone wrong?

Maybe I am not as thrifty as I could be. Maybe I have been unlucky. Maybe tutoring eats up so much of my time that it's not as lucrative as it seems. Maybe the Bay Area really is one of the most expensive places in the world to live. Maybe it's my feng fucking shui.

Whatever it is, it's going to end. Right here, right now. I decree it. I fucking pronounce it.

(I know I should follow that up with a declaration of a plan, but I don't have one. I am working on manifesting a plan. Or a magical pot of gold; that would work too.)

Okay, here's my plan. I will get the fellowship I applied for, which will solve all of my problems. OR I will get a new fabulous job that allows me to pay my bills. I will move somewhere I can actually afford to live. OR I will find the means to continue to live here. And I will do all these vague things by June. In June, by god, I will have a plan. In June, something will happen.

(In June, something has to happen, because I don't think I can afford to pay my rent anymore.)

I'm not ruling out the sugar daddy thing, by the way. (Especially since I have neither syphilis nor gonorrhea. That's gotta be a selling point.) In the immortal words of Laura San Giocomo, "Don't take less than a hundred, and call me when you're through." She's a wise woman, that Laura San Giocomo. A very wise woman.

I wonder if she'd let me borrow twenty bucks.