You're Manic

What happens is fuck becomes your favorite word. That’s alright, you think. It could be worse, could be your favorite leisure time activity. You forget important things, like food, or phone calls home, or manners, or morals. You find yourself fluent in three different languages you didn’t know the week before. Or did you, you wonder?

You run red lights for sport, or by accident, or both, but you can’t tell the difference. Surrounded by people, you try so hard to go unnoticed, or for it to go unnoticed, whatever it is. There’s a party in your head that’s ready to spill out, and when it does it seems more like a funeral. Same thing, you think. As long as there’s cake and whiskey, it’s a good time, and as you think it, you wonder if you thought it or said it aloud…Who’s to say?

These are not things you can control. You definitely can’t control your heart. It does what it wants: palpitates like a rabbit on speed or just stops cold or gets sore when you think about hot nights in Morocco, or the way she spelled your name, all wrong, which is kind of hard to do, given that’s it’s just three letters.

That girl. The one in the band. She was looking at you. You know she was. You caught her. Twice. Once was in line at the bathroom. You did a double take and she was still looking. But you looked away instead of saying hello. Because you’re shy. Despite what they think, you know this. You are shy. Too shy. Someday you are going to look back and regret your shyness, and that someday is already here, and gets worse with each passing day and someday you think it will probably kill you dead if nothing does first.

You think the same thought fifty times in a row, repeating it until you know it by Morse code. You drum words. You set miniature fires in miniature places where no one will notice the burn marks except maybe the ants. What’s more, you think about the dud and you wish you were with her because even though she had more emoticons than facial expression and wasn’t very nice to you, you didn’t lose your shit once the whole time you were together. That’s more important to you than anything else, including love or lack of.

You’re manic. You’re maniacal. You wish you were monomaniacal because it least than your mania would be focused. This? This is just a big fat fucking mess. And what’s more than all this? You’re pretty sure you’re dying. Yep. You’re dying.

You are. You are. You are. And you don’t know when it’s going to happen or by whose hand or by what affliction – though you suspect maybe one of the four that you know for fact you have thanks to WebMD – but it’s coming. The end is nigh.

This revelation is the only blessing that has come since that day three and a half weeks ago when the pills stopped working.