Fuuuuuck. I’m speaking on this panel tomorrow for admitted students to my school and I have to be able to be articulate for that, lol, so I really need to sleep. Sigh. Good night, internet world.


Telling the substitute teacher the wrong names: a classic. Telling the substitute teacher you are so old and born again every day, that ten thousand names could never define you, that you’re a shadowed mass swirling forth from jupiter, that your father is time and your mother is death, that you’ll swallow any scream of hers as you grow larger and ever larger: a super classic, king of the school, no homework ever.

It’s funny how important superficial things like labels can feel. Recently I’ve come to the realization that I really dislike describing myself as “bipolar.” In medical situations saying I have “bipolar disorder” feels more natural, but in general the only thing I can really stomach is “manic-depressive.” I’m not sure why. I do know why I switched though—I didn’t experience what I would call true mania until this year. And it really hit me. Six weeks of heaven—crazy and dangerous, but heaven it was all the same, at least at first. It definitely feels like a constant, dormant part of me in a way it didn’t before, but depression did.