I can feel him in me: the demon. Fuck. There he is, sloshing between my legs, snickering and sneering as I drive 90 miles an hour down the freeway, hoping to get to where I’m going and not really caring if I get there alive. Dammit. I’m manic again. Which means that the next 5-15 days are going to be filled with a slew of unsavory yet scintillating activities which may or may not include: finishing my novel, having sex with a stranger from the Internet, getting black out drunk, doing a ton of ketamine, buying hundreds of dollars worth of shit from the Internet and/or antique stores, stealing shit from everywhere I go into, fighting random people on the street, starting lots and lots of new craft projects, falling in love with anonymous people, oversharing with my family, walking around more naked than usual in public. All of this like a flash in the night until, of course, inevitably, I simmer back down into the ‘nice girl’ that I think I am and wonder why the fuck did I do all those wild things last week. I guess that’s the worst thing about self aware mania: god, I love being manic, but it is so damn fleeting, and the person I am when I can do a million things all at once is the person I want to be always, but it’s not, so even while I’m here, this manic moment is tinged with the disappointment of knowing that this me, my best self, and I can only be my best me when my neurochemistry is imbalanced in just the right way to make me feel shiny and perfect. I will try to be good and write my way through all these sexual compulsions, but I can’t stop looking at every man I see and fantasizing about what it would feel like if he raped me. Dammit. I am going to get very, very drunk. I am going to finish my fucking novel. I am going to fall in love. I feel good. I feel great. I feel like I can conquer the world. I feel like superwoman. I have a super pussy. I am the smartest person I know, and I am beautiful, too. Nothing can stop me. Nothing! Money is a concept, love is infinity. I am happy, I am happy, I am happy, I am happy. Someone please stop me or at least bring me drugs, I thought that these flights of fancy would have stopped by now, or that these little episodes would be relegated to my 20s, but it turns out, instead, I am probably going to be like this for the rest of my life. I am going to be ebbing and flowing through this emotional turbulence til the day I die. It turns it was not a phase. I am just getting older and while certain things slow down, the desire to watch a man bleed to death has not. I will be like this forever, regardless of whether or not I ‘discipline’ myself. Regardless of whether or not I ‘stop.’ There is no ‘becoming a better person’ or ‘making better decisions’ when moments of mania compel me to – compel me to what? Oh, god, what will I feel justified in doing this time? Who will I try to break today? And next time? And the time after that? Why do I hate myself because of my mania. If only. If only I could fly. I feel like I could fly. I think I can fly. But I’m not flying. I guess that’s the best way to describe the chaos and confusion of this manic episode. I feel like I’m soaring over the city, but when I look down, here I am, sitting in this chair, and it doesn’t make any fucking sense. Will somebody please make sense of this word salad – I’m convinced that there’s genius in here somewhere, but I don’t know. I couldn’t say. All I can do is sit here and vibrate – and I’m not sure if it feels good, and I’m not sure if it feels bad, so I will drink until I can tell the difference. Because, ultimately, I am afraid. I am afraid of that moment when my feet touch the floor again. I am afraid of when my knees buckle and my body crashes. I am afraid of the bloody and the bruises that await me down there, which is where I am going, which is where I am always going. I am afraid to be here, in this manic state, because inevitably comes the ground with me all over it. How can I enjoy flying when I know I will crash. But maybe if I am bomber and I destroy everything beneath me – then I can just float forever. I would be happy forever if the rest of the world didn’t exist. So I must go now, because I have my work cut out for me.