August 11, 2019
Tell me about mania.
No.
Wait, what? Why are you asking? Weren’t you there?
I was. I…am?
I don’t think I’m hypomanic now. On my way, perhaps. I can’t sleep.
I may be, then. Tell me about mania.
No, tell me why you’re asking.
I’m more of a liminal creature, myself. It’s hard to keep an ally around when depression slowly shuts down avenue after avenue of reaching one. You, as a reflection of me, become distorted while manic. Fun-house mirrors and blind-spots. I want to hear about it.
No.
Later.
I took a sleep aid. I’m not getting into this now. I was all prepped to write about poly stuff, but you started banging on the door.
Read what I’ve already written.
I was there when you wrote those.
So? Does that not clarify it?
Will anything?
Likely not.
I will say, though, that I missed some stuff in my investigation earlier. You did come back for three brief days in November, 2013. It was at a liminal time, but you didn’t stick around.
I’ll remind you that you ignored me for one of those posts.
Point.
Let’s get into mania later. We owe each other that. For now, bed. And tomorrow, something a little less harrowing.
Ah yes. Polyamory. Known for being easy peasy, lemon squeezy.