It's Valentine's Day, which is potentially a day for great romance, declarations of undying love, a good fuck (in the name of a saint) and, if you haven't got any money, a fine time to feel like a piker cunt. Money is the end all be all, most especially if you don't have any. But you all knew that, didn't you?
Happy St. Valentine's Day, my darling Linda.
My whole life revolves around pills. Some for anxiety, some to "stabilize" my mood somewhere between batshit manic and depressed milquetoast, and others to complete various and sundry tasks like regulate my thyroid, boost testosterone and prevent B12 anemia. Occasionally, I forget to take something and I end up hanging from the ceiling like some godforsaken thing out of an H.P. Lovecraft novel. That happened earlier this week. I crawled across the ceiling, the wall, out the window, and I ended up killing a homeless man on Alewife Brook Parkway.
The truth is less interesting than that, and nobody was killed. But it does blow. I can and often do withdraw so far into my own noggin that I'm not really in the room with my fat ass. How fun I must be when I'm in that state. When I was in the nuthouse a fellow crazy person told me that bipolar disorder is better than clinical depression (or "unipolar" depression) because at least with the former you sometimes get manic. There may be something to that. When I'm manic I may try to fly out the window, but at least I'd be doing something.
The title of this post comes from a brief conversation I had with my father earlier today. He said "Super Delegates" and I thought he said "Super Delicates." For close to a minute I thought he was talking about laundry, no shit.