Let’s say that through sheer manliness and general awesomeness I have survived the cleavage. This is a good, utterly self serving narrative that I like. Also: Bloody hell.
I am, accepting being knocked for six, ten, over 9000 by the above, in an odd place. I’m back from my usual Tuesday night drink but I had exactly four drinks and, shock, I didn’t feel like drinking more. Could be the cleavage.
I am, in fact, a bit pensive. Not morbidly so, more creatively. I haven’t written properly in ages and now I’m really giving thought to it. My problem was that I never wanted to write about bipolar disorder or my own experience but now I read a lot and I see nothing out there about being male and bipolar so I almost feel like it’s a duty to write.
I do not know what is going on outside but the squeaking and clanking of very heavy machinery is very audible.