Worries.

Little Bird asked me last night if I was worried, and I am about a multitude of things, but only a few that I can tell her about. I am worried about, in no particular order:

My weight

My degree and the upcoming essay I have yet to begin, and my dissertation more specifically

The play I am going to be in

The play I am going to direct. Will I be any good at all as a director? I know nothing about the radio.

Anyone or everyone finding out about Bombazine Doll, and the pity.

Having to come out fairly soon because I know it will happen

Having to tell my parents that I am moving and not coming home for a year

What if I never have a gap year

What if I never have a meaningful relationship with anyone

I don't like him as much anymore, though when we're alone together I feel that I do, but I don't need him or want him so much and he is making me feel bad.

Have I got bad breath, and what do I do about it, and why did noone tell me before.

Losing friends I've made after University

Why did that director lie to me about her being my first choice, because even though I pretended I didn't believe it, I had started to and it was a huge boost to my self esteem. Now I know she was lying I feel embarrassed. I got caught up in it, noone else knows how caught up, and now it was a lie I feel so stupid and talentless.

What if I don't even get a recall for stage school? What modern audition piece can I possibly do? I shouldn't take this on alone.

And I told her about the essay and the plays. She doesn't know about everything else, I don't know if I want her to know. Telling everyone seems like such an effort, because then there is surprise and questions; it would be so much easier just to let her read this, but I'd never trust anyone enough to show them because this is strange and dark and private.

So instead I told her the rudimentary things and we listened to her Ipod music. She was wearing a black sheen shirt (she said she looked like a magician, it was because she says she's fat at the moment and that she can only fit into costume cupboard clothes, and I thought, oh well, you are beautifully magic, dear). But the sheen shirt was nice, and it was good to lie next to her on the bed, because I feel safe that she knows me.

She's quite comforting but I feel that she knows there's more going on below the surface that I haven't told her, and I might like to tell her, but I don't want a reaction, and she takes me oh so seriously; I want someone to laugh at my problems and tell me they pale into insignificance. Because really they do, what's a rich white girl like me truly got to worry about?