someday, i hope i can tell someone that i have bipolar disorder. that it’s the reason i’m so high and so low. i’m never in between. i am manic and raving, and depressed to the point of wishing for death.
but people don’t love the crazies. i’m not crazy. i’m not. i just don’t think i’ll ever truly be loved because of this. no one wants the girl with two sides, and never a happy medium.
i wish the medicine helped.
fuck this. fuck love, or merely the concept of it, because you never felt it. fuck relationships. fuck letting things slide, letting you get away with treating me badly. fuck you.
I Need Some Fine Wine and You, You Need To Be Nicer.
being a barista is tough work.
being a barista with these two guys makes working till 12:30 am completely bearable.
I went around and locked all the doors. Then I was sure I’d forgotten a couple, so I went around and checked them all again. This time I counted. Six doors checked, and it came to me that six was a good number. Like eight is a good number. They’re friendly numbers. Warm. Not cold, like five or…you know, seven. I relaxed a little, but I still went around one last time. Still six. After that I thought I’d be able to sleep, but I couldn’t. Not even with an Ambien. I got up and counted all the books in my bedroom bookcase. There were ninety-three. That’s a bad number, and not just because it’s odd. Divide ninety-three by three and you come out with thirty-one: thirteen backwards. So I got a book from the little bookcase in the hall. But ninety-four is only a little better, because nine and four add up to thirteen. There are thirteens everywhere in this world of ours. You don’t know. Anyway, I added six more books to the bedroom bookcase. I had to cram but I got them in. A hundred is okay. Fine, in fact. I was heading back to bed, then started wondering about the hall bookcase. If I’d, you know, robbed Peter to pay Paul. So I counted those, and that was all right: fifty-six. The numbers add to eleven, which is odd but not the worst odd, and fifty-six divides to twenty-eight, a good number. After that I could sleep. I think I had bad dreams, but I don’t remember them.
