I actually have an explanation this time, but it's one of those explanations that you can use over and over again, practically getting away with fucking murder each time.

I did this test online, see. Then I went to my psychiatrist who did this full diagnosis thing, and......

.....and she wondered why I hadn't come forward with this a long time ago....

....because I could cause serious bodily harm to things....

....and me walking the streets is no longer healthy because I'm one screwed up motherfucker.....

....because.....

....because....(God this is hard. I think that if I put enough dots it will somehow reveal itself and I won't have to be so damned embarrassed when you hear this lame-ass excuse.)

I'm bipolar. Manic-depressive.

There. I said it. And I don't want to talk about it anymore.

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So I have had this wicked insomnia for the past three nights. I'd been falling asleep at like 7 o'clock and then suddenly my biological clock goes all whacko, and I'm pulling all-nighters for no reason.

Last night I was on the phone with two of my friends until after one, at which point the electricity was cut off and it was dark as hell.

My mother was asleep, and I wasn't about to be some sissy, calling for my mom when the electricity goes out.

But it was FUCKING DARK. And every now and then the lightning would illuminate the room, like in those horror movies where the lights go off, then the lightning flashes and you see the killer standing in the doorway.

That's all I could think about. I was trying to go this weird combination of like, yoga and lamaze trying to keep myself calm. I raised my fist toward my window all triumphantly, like Russell Crow a la Gladiator, and threatened revenge on this goddamned freaky weather.

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I was invited to this party tonight thrown by my sort-of-estranged-but-not-really-ex-friend Heather. She invites all these people from these private school who HATE my school because we whoop their lame, self-righteous asses at everything, and we're not a private school.

So every time I go to one of her parties, I make a point to ask about costumes. But it doesn't matter, because I always wear one anyway, and then they proceed to call me things like "weirdo" and "freak" until I pull out my 44 and bust some proverbial caps in their ass.

I bought these cool-ass eyelashes that make me look like a whore. It's sort of like a tradition: I have to wear my Whorish Eyelashes on New Year's Eve. Every. Year.

This year they're metallic fuschia and gold. Which should mix nicely with the gratefully temporary purple hair dye and fishnets (which Heather bought for me as a joke two years ago but conveniently "doesn't remember"). I'm bringing these fake cigarettes to pass around to everyone too.

There's this giant running gag with me and some of my friends. Every time I meet new people, they think I smoke for one reason or another. So all my friends back me up and say I do. In reality, however, I would never subject myself to said little stick of cancer, let alone more than once. But everybody except my best friends think I smoke. Even people at school think I go down to the basement to smoke, when I really just have drama class down there. Stupid fuckers.

So tonight, the gag lives on.

And I'll probably wake up tomorrow and have no idea what happened tonight, but that's another tradition entirely.

Happy New Year!

© alexa

The counter keeps breaking and pissing me off, so NO MORE COUNTER! Mwahaha!