(no subject)

*taps lj* Is this thing on?

My latest episode suddenly switched itself off after lunch yesterday. All morning, dreadful churning panic, guilt, grief. Then a baked potato. Then, normality. Evidently the cure for hypomania is baked potatoes. Who knew.

ETA: Peachy. Here's some more anxiety and a bunch of not being able to focus. I am not out of the woods yet.

Strings Flush

Oh gods, that'll do for Chapter 7 for now. 6800 words. OF HELL

(no subject)

Once I heard a poem the refrain of which was, "But who the flamin' Jesus were the petite bourgeoise?" And another, about the cinema, which included the lines, "This is the womb, this is the tomb, this is the alpha, omega, and oom!" I haven't the foggiest idea what either of them was. Do you? Answers on a postcard, please.