You Can Only Whine For So Long.

My Bones Are Brittle, My Heart Weak And Erratic, My Esophagus And Stomach Riddled With Ulcers, My Reproductive System Shot, My Immune System Useless... I'm Not Going To Have A Happy Ending.

I Developed A Deep, Abiding Fear Of Jeans, Which I Still Have. I Hold My Breath And Shut My Eyes When I Pull On A Pair In The Dressing Room, Afraid They Will Now, As Then, Get Stuck At My Hips And There I Will Stand, Absurd, Staring At The Excess Of Hips That Should, If I Were A Good Person, Be „slim“.

I Have A Type Of Bipolar That Swings Up And Down All Day Long. There Are Significant Mood Swings Within A Day, Within A Week, Within A Month. I Go Through At Least Four Major Episodes A Year. That's Really The Definition Of Bipolar Rapid Cycle. But I Have Ultra-rapid, So I Have Tiny Little Episodes All Day Long.

So Many Means Of Self-destruction, So Little Time.

I Am Often Drawn To What Appear At First To Be 'dark' Or 'difficult' Subjects, But Which, Upon Further Examination, Are Always And Only Reflections Of The Ways Human Beings Attempt, However Clumsily, Badly, Or Well, To Connect With Others.