  Let me tell you a little story about a man called Stability. Well, not really. But the key word here is "stability. " Embrace constancy, it's the nepethe for the human condition. Think about your body: it wants homeostasis, a point of norm. If you keep messing with your environment and deciding to change too much (or thinking you can, which is worse), no matter how good the control feels right now, if it's real or not, you're going to wear yourself out.
And moreover (and more importantly; no offense, but I am a suicide kid), it's wearing me out. Honestly, pick a path and stick to it. Remember what happened to the kid who wandered too far off the path because he thought he could come back without any problems: messily devoured by wolves and then peed on. I don't think, dead or alive, I would much like to have something urinating on me, would you? This really has gone on long enough, all of you. You win, stop the guilt.
It's either him or her, it's not both. Sometimes we get denied an option because not everyone thinks alike. That is NOT within the scope of your control. If Becca is going to be depressed and guilt's flying all over the place, I'm sorry. But that's nothing you can feasibly control. This may sound like an asshole thing to say, but think about it: even if you say, "Fuck off Philip, you gay!
" it's still not going to make him like Becca, and you're not going to have him either. What more, she's going to think you broke up with him out of pity for her, and she's STILL not going to like you (and if Becca's reading this, aren't I right?! ) because she's going to see it. Something has to get lost, it's called acceptable casualties. I wish just as much as you do that the world was colored pebbles and bunnies and lilies singing in the field, but since it isn't, we have to make the best out of a shit situation and forget about the rest. Things don't come back to haunt you if you don't let them.
It's our fear of the past that creates the problems of the future. WRITE THAT DOWN ON YOUR LIFE. I think I'm even going to post that on all of the blogs and my Xanga for the hell of it. That was damned insightful, and true, what more. But really, make a decision and stick to it. The more you doubt yourself, the more indecision you have, the more nothing gets done, the more you just hurt the situation til you don't have a choice anymore like you do now, get me?
I really hope you read all this, really. IF YOU JUST SCROLLED THROUGH, ROSIE: READ ALL OF THIS RIGHT NOW, TIS FOR YOUR OWN GOOD. AFTER THIS PART, YOU CAN QUIT. Alright, on to me :) I'm fucked up on trileptol. This shit is killing me. I'm a fucking walking zombie with some hot looking Chucks on.
I swear, my head hasn't spun this much since the last time I stuck my head in a dryer...which has been...oh, let's see...never, right. I seriously want to blow up. I hate fucking being a bipolar, it sucks a fucking nut. I'm really really super-fucking manic about now. It makes me ultra-insightful and fun, but I really fucking hate it. I say fuck a lot, people tend to like me less sometimes when they say something that could be taken the slightest bit offensively.
I seriously can't type "seriously," or anything on the first try, for that matter. And the worst part of it is: I'm out the fuck of fucking options. I have ONE LEFT: lithium carbonate, and that requires me to go stay in the FUCKING UNIT AGAIN ! Fuck me! Like hell they'll take me back! AAAAGGH!
I'm going to explode. I haven't had a moodswing like this since Linds...actually, this is worse than that. I really feel like my heart is about to start pumping so hard it's going to come out of my mouth, but that I'll enjoy it when it happens. I know, all of this sounds weird, none of you will understand what the fuck is going on, but that's alright. I would actually prefer if you didn't say anything about it. I can't explain it right now that you could.
It's just a whole hell of a lot of crazy energy waiting to come out. My heart is a caffeine factory and my brain is an amphetamined, angel dusted foreman. I'm the bipolar I king of the whole fucking universe. Yes, I typed bipolar ONE . Something crazy is happening right now. I keep thinking about Picasso, the way he cut off his ear during mania.
I think I could do it, but I wouldn't. Actually, I've learned enough to not be so crazy as to act on any of my shit ideas I get when I'm manic, but I really think some crazy shit sometimes when it's happening. It's all here. Don't expect any of the things I say here to happen, I'm smarter than that (and no smart-ass comments to that, or I'll eat you). It sucks because I know that very very soon, I'm going to come down and bomb the fuck out, I'm probably going to get so depressed I won't know what to do with myself except sleep and think about nothing. That's what I do these days when I'm depressed: concentrate on abso-fucking-loutely nothing.
It helps. It doesn't tangle my depressed stuff with my good stuff, it's not worth it trying to cheer myself up during depression, it's not that simple, and it doesn't work, so fuck it. I plan to keep my good memories in tact for mania and baseline so that there there in whole form and ready to be used as they should be, not as death-traps waiting to bring me down (although sometimes, as in now, they could be useful). I think I just felt myself beginning to drop. You can't run a car forever without it stalling out and coming to a complete stop. I puff the last of my psychic gasoline and come to a screeching hault wrapped around a telephone poll but quite alive, just bleeding.
Every time. What a feeling it is. That's the best description I could give, the best yet. I give on this post. It made me feel better, it filled the last half-hour quite well. If you actually read all this, I'm having your children, come to Unca Josh's right now.
Peace out, y'all mega wonderous pals o' mine. 
