When I worked two jobs it was easy to explain why I had a shitty weekend. "Well, I worked 16 hours Friday, 10 on Saturday, ran errands and collapsed in an exhausted heap on Sunday" would explain the monotony that was yet another weekend. Now I have nary an excuse. I can't stand sitting still or having an unplanned moment, and as each day passes I get closer and closer to calling the restaurant and telling them to put me on the schedule, just so that I know what to do with myself.

Whine if I work, whine if I don't. I feel like a complete and utter crybaby.

Friday night I spent at Jessica's house trying to initiate a decent conversation. It didn't work. I've run out of things to talk about. I was feeling a bit weak and shaky from lack of sustenance as well. It's my own form of self-flagellation, I suppose. Food? Don't deserve any. Might as well smoke another one, though, seeing as how I fell off the anti-Marlboro wagon rather quickly. Eventually went home and, for lack of anything else to do, went to bed pretty early.

Saturday dawned a bit chillier than usually for a June morning, though I was up at 7:30 am (Those who know me would be disturbed at the fact that I was awake at that hour on a Saturday morning). I waited an hour, hoping for a rise in the temperature, before heading out on the mountain bike. It did not take me long to discover that biking on an empty tank doesn't quite work. I made it four miles before turning around and simply trying to stay in the saddle, stop shaking, and find the strength to make it home. After making it home (miraculously tear-free) I decided I had to eat something whether I wanted to or not. Took a trip to the grocery store, showered, and cleaned a bit before meeting Jessica and Jesse and going to an Italian Festival in the small city where I grew up.

After a few hours of uncomfortable silence we went our separate ways. I had planned on a nap but ended up making a batch of brownies and watching Sex and the City DVD's. After eating the entire 13x9 pan full of brownies and proceeding to throw them all up, my amazing intellect caught on to the fact that yes, my food issues have returned. I'm a bright one, aren't I? Yes, I'm proud as well. In the last three years I must've had other things on my mind. Though when you live alone and no one is sneaking around outside the bathroom door to see what's going on in there, these things sort of fester, right? I guess I should take this seriously, but I have to say I just don't give a fuck.

Sunday morning I felt slightly better. I woke at eight and went on a 25-mile bike ride through the Cuyahoga Valley. I would've gone farther but I was afraid I wouldn't make it home and, though I hate to admit it, I got a bit tired. After a shower I headed to the camera store to get my Dad a gift certificate (that's three holidays in a row, same gift. I rock). Went to my parents house and stayed there for a whopping two hours. Yes, chalk up bad daughter, sister, and granddaughter to the list of things that make me such a star. I wanted to stay longer, I'd even planned to, but some things are more than I can deal with these days. I just can't do it anymore.

Ended up spending another couple of hours at Jessica's. I suppose sitting on someone's porch watching cars drive by is better than being alone with my thoughts these days. I'm not quite sure what my problem is. Not that I could narrow it down to just ONE problem, but if I could simply isolate a few and then fix them, maybe things would get better.

I'm trying to figure things out. I thought working less and having more time to do that would help me get there faster. I'm easily deceived. I don't even know who I am and that makes me feel so sad. I find myself thinking of all the things that I used to be, do, or have. I used to be intelligent. I used to be fun. I used to know what I wanted. I used to have plans. I used to have dozens of great friends. I used to have potential. I used to be sweet.

Now what can I say? I don't even know what I want to do tonight, let alone next week, next month, or next year. I have great friends, yes, but I don't even feel comfortable around them anymore. I don't fit them, or they don't fit me, I'm not sure. Our lives are so different. I can't explain that I feel lost or miserable without fearing that I'll make them feel insignificant to me, so what do I do? Well, today I find solace in the fact that I've only eaten a piece of string cheese and two frosted mini wheats. I don't understand it either, but it makes me feel better.

Gave up on the idea of pursuing something with the guy I wrote of last week. The more I learned about him, the less interested I became. Of course, perhaps I'm deluded in believing that I deserve better than a 30-year old divorced pot head with pierced nipples who grabbed my ass like he thought I'd like it and refers to women as "broads." Perhaps that's as good as it gets? If so, then I'll still pass. I can't save another one, kids. I'm past that.

Talking to big Jeff last night made me feel marginally better for a while. That boy is always so full of plans and possibilities. He knows what he wants and works for it, something that I admire in him. Of course, he had to ruin a great conversation by trying to convince me to spend the night at his house. Can't stand the fact that to some people, it's all about a piece of ass. Which of course makes me ask myself what is it about ME that makes men think they can call me late at night because they think they'll be able to get some. It's insulting. It makes me laugh to think what Sam would say about all of this. He was of the All Women Are Whores school of thought. And I, as unwhorish as they come those days, still qualified. Now I'll bet he's sitting in some after-life screening of my current circumstances, feeling vindicated. "I told you," he'd laugh. "Slut."

And my big plans for the week continue. Darts tonight. Work during the week. Enjoy the burning in my stomach. Bike. Sleep. Talk about nothing. Count the minutes.

And entries like this, I tell myself, are the reason I have never shared the location of this journal with my friends. Some things, I suppose, I am relieved to keep to myself and to the occasional bored stranger that may stumble upon it.