If I were bipolar, I bet I’d be a rapid cycler.
If I were bipolar, I bet I’d exit a two-month depression and launch right into an extended mixed episode.
If I were bipolar, I bet I’d make some dangerous decisions that would, ya know, put me in danger.
If I were bipolar, I bet I’d justify said dangerous decisions with shit like, “this is just what it looks like to live after stifling yourself for the better part of thirty-seven years.”
If I were bipolar, I bet I’d recover from heartbreak by meeting up with a never-ending string of dudes who give less than a shit about me.
If I were bipolar, I bet I’d only find pleasure in the kind of job that makes me pull my hair out.
If I were bipolar, I bet I’d leave that job on some random Tuesday night, meet up with some stranger, and stay up until 4 AM.
If I were bipolar, I bet I’d return to work the next day and alternate between bouncing off the walls and wanting to shoot myself in the face.
It’s a good thing I’m not bipolar.
