It's 2:30 am. I'm wide awake. I'm obsessing about money: not having enough of it, spending too much of it, how to earn more of it, et cetera.

I know it's ridiculous to keep my studio, but the thought of giving it up is, in my mind, akin to tearing my soul out of my body and tossing it out the window. Suffice it to say, I'm trying to avoid that. But man, that's one expensive soul. So I'm toying with the idea of sharing. But then someone else would be in there. Their stuff would be in there. And worst of all, they could be in there when I wasn't in there, and they might touch my stuff. I don't do very well with this concept. So I don't know.

I'm contemplating asking my mom for some money. What price handout? Guilt? Superiority? Simply the knowledge that they'd know that my little gamble failed and I had to come running to them? It's not as if it's their own money anyway, not as if they worked for it. But I can't decide if that makes asking for some of it worse or better.

I'm considering printing out some old stories in booklet format and trying to sell them in the subway, two dollars a pop. I know for a fact that I should stop being so lazy with my etsy posts. I have merch laying all over the place that I still don't have up; that's just stupid. I never have followed through will my old plan of going 'round to the bookstores to see if they'll sell my wares, consignment based or otherwise. Why is it that when it comes to the potentially money-making parts of my endeavors, I get wishy-washy? I'll paint all the live long day, but then when it comes to asking someone for a show, I'm jelly. Classic fear of success? Perhaps. Or maybe creation just interests me infinitely more than sales does.

Of course I'm thinking about the old office, about whether they'd take me back. And I'm pretty sure the answer's yes. They have several people leaving in August for law school. All I can think is jesus, talk about admitting defeat. But no, it's so much more than that. I left there because it was eating me alive. I was unbelievably unhappy there for longer than should have been permitted. Going back would be an enormous mistake; it's almost a guarantee.

I'm just miserable. I'm wound up and anxious, and I want to wake Jonathan but it's just wrong to; he needs to sleep and there's nothing he can tell me that's going to make this any different. He's just someone to whine at; I'll only get myself even more worked up doing it and upset him in the process. Not what I'd call productive.

This is just stupid. Why this? Why now? Nothing's different than it was last week. This isn't helping me at all. I'm not broke yet. I've got two more months in me at the very least, if not more. All I'm doing right now is making sure that I'll be sick to my stomach all day tomorrow. But for some reason I can't get myself to stop; it's a well cultivated masochistic streak with an intense momentum once it gets itself going.

At least I get to see my psychotherapist tomorrow. She might not have budgetary answers for me, but she has to listen to me whine: I pay her in cold, hard cash.