There is so much I want to write about  (and not just about myself, heh).

I wish I had the poetic air that filled me in April during NaPoWriMo. It just seems to have depleted. But I’ve been feeling somewhat, oh I don’t know, “normal”. Is that even an accurate way of describing not wanting to kill yourself everyday?

I was really excercizing some demons there with some of those poems. Actually, the Pretty Little Demons (PLDs) were exercising the Mouse if you recall the ping-pong matches they started in May and all the other ruckus.

Feels like an enema is being done in my head now. But I will write and/or sketch something proper soon enough (as if I ever did). For now, I give  you this from Nacho Libre:

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p.s. I saw Dusty yesterday. We had sex. And I want to have sex with him again and again and again and again. I know. I know. But he’ll be leaving for Brazil tomorrow, for a few months, with his family (his dad is Brazilian). And I have a therapy appointment tomorrow (have to ride the MetroLift since it’s been raining all week, bleugh). I kind of want to tell her, the therapist, about Dusty since it’s barely my second session in which we’ll do an overview of my life’s major problems–and well, the Saga of Dusty and P covers a lot of my druggy days/years. But I’ve never been open with therapists about sexual things. Should I tell her about him? It’s just… I think I’m hypomanic… I should leave this for another post.

p.p.s. XOXOxxxX

p.p.p.s. Your support has been incredible.