I am a bipolar bitch. I am creative. I am many things, but most of all this: tentative.
I am sometimes so bipolar that I do not actually have any idea who or what I am.
I used to be a writer… then somehow my brain got scrambled even more than it already was.
Now I’m a loser.
How can one be both full and sucked out?
I feel full of ideas… sometimes… full of potential… maybe
I also feel like I have nothing left, like I gave of myself to too many things, and now I lie still, somewhere between the stages of recuperation and expiration.
I am fucked up, yes. But I am also – unable to follow a single train of thought through to completion.
I don’t know what to do with myself. Therapy might be therapeutic had I the funds and the energy to commit.
I make things. I like doing this. I like pretty things, shiny things, things that glitter, things that shimmer Most things pretend, but that’s usually socially acceptable. Crystals, crystal ball, watch me fall.
I will attempt to keep things spelled and arranged properly, but my brain just fucking quits when I need it to function, so no promises there. I used to be a ‘spelling maven,’ [no, Nazi is not an appropriate term under any fucking circumstance] but now most things elude me. I can’t tell which fractured part of my brain is the most confuddled, but it seems to be the parts that I need, constantly. I lost my grasp on grammar. Things like time and life run through my fingers like water, and most of the time I don’t even give a shit.
So sorry, not sorry, I’m vulgar, get the fuck over it.
In person I am meek. Troubled, having trouble trying to decide which words to draw upon, how to act just so – right. I live in an area of the country where guns are prevalent, education much less so. To be tolerable, I must create a porous shell; most bits and pieces of me cannot escape, whilst the world around me seeps in, permeating my being, I attempt to pay attention, but I usually cannot see that which is supposed to be most evident. Things like a god evade me. Stuff that’s supposed to be important disgusts me. I hate children, I hate the ever-worshiped-and-worshiping family, and church is an abomination. My family’s not even that fucked up. I just can’t stand those little bundles of ooze and shit. Sometimes they’re cute, but they usually only make that face when they’re dropping a massive deuce. And the older the get, the farther from desirable they become, with grubby hands you can never clean frequently enough, whiny noises, demands, constant ‘no’s, NEEDS and WANT WANT WANTs.
I prefer my fur-babies. They desire love and affection, never have unreasonable demands, and will always be perfectly beautiful and adorable. No awkward phases here. Two cats, one dog, maybe more to come.
I want a horse but am too poor and too physically fucked up to own one right now.
Did I mention I’m fat? Absolutely hideous. I feel like I’m bloated, full of bitterness perhaps. I disdain all I see around me, but mostly it’s because my vision is faulty.
Did you expect substance? I’ll leave you be now. I can’t compete with real people.