I'm floating with the deliberate speed of a turd down the toilet into a period of mild depression and increased suicidal ideation. I'm doing quite well, and putting up a sporting fight. It's either that or hang myself, and I'm terrible with knots. All thumbs. Besides, suicidal thoughts hold little sway with me right now.
I'm a lucky man and have absolutely no cause to complain. But I don't see these little missives from the frontal lobe as complaints.
This site is for entertainment purposes only.
Part of my mind is constantly occupied with this one question: Am I totally out of my fucking mind, but everyone is too afraid to say anything to me? It haunts me, and there are many other questions that float around with it, and they are all incredibly negative and withering. I know we all have some crazy thoughts, but I can top whatever you got.
It has a nice, tidy name. Bipolar disorder. Along with Avoidant Personality Disorder. They sound quaint. Bipolar disorder effects 2% of the population, but they advertise bipolar drugs on national television. So everyone has heard of it. There's a stigma, but it's not terrible.
Right now I'm daily flinging drugs into my yap, all prescribed. I'm on board with The Whitecoats. They are going to take the pain away. Shock your noggin and give you an English muffin. Who else is going to give you a deal like that? Huh? Then drugs to numb your delicate little brain and fragile little arms and lets. It takes the edge off a very edgy world. You can pop your balloon in a world like this in 2 seconds flat. So many pointy, edgy parts.
The French had a red balloon. He thought he would live forever like DeGaul, but he was popped at the Canne Film Festival in the late '70's.
I refer to the balloon as a "he," but in truth I don't think there is any sexual dimorphism among balloons. Not even alive. So that story can't be true. Newsflash, balloons are not living, sexual beings.
But I'm pretty sure the French had a red balloon.
The French seem to enjoy smoking, as it gives them some street cred among the existential nihilists in all those little cafes that everyone blows a load for. For which people blow a load. There. I'm an existential nihilist and I can't smoke cigarettes. I tried smoking Galoit cigarettes when my girlfriend smoked them. About 10 years ago. It didn't go over, the cigs or the relationship.
But the French. They just keep going to town on those things. The French make and eat a lot of cheese. It's like a law or something. Every family must keep a mold or fungus working its magic on a dairy product. I wonder how many French people have ever tried to smoke cheese. You know someone did. Personally I'd go with bleu cheese, if I were going to try.
Then you got wine. It's a whole thing.