We survived two nights of fireworks. Two nights of Cyrus trembling and trying to crawl under my bed. Too bad for Cyrus, he just won't fit. Maybe before next July I can raise the bed a little. Roscoe was with us last night, and he did spend most of the time under my bed. I think it helped Cyrus to have the doggy company.
I am doing well enough today, considering. A bit of rapid cycling bipolar disorder kind of scrambles the brain. This makes clear thinking impossible. Not that I'm usually all that clear thinking, but this is worse than usual. For those who have never experienced the brain storms of rapid cycling, it doesn't compute, doesn't make sense, seems like an excuse not to go to work. I'd love to work on fiction, but don't quite trust myself enough to even tinker with a story in progress--I could screw it up with one delete, and then never be able to remember what I lost, perhaps the only thing that made it work. For all I know this is complete gibberish.
I once asked my first love/last love why he stayed with me. His answer was, "Well, it was a challenge." I asked, "Was it worth it?" His answer was, "It was never dull." It seems damn dull to me.
Water Colors, Celebrity and San Siguenza
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