Manic.

I mean,thank fuck I am not on meth.What I should say thank god I am not on anything.

(I will get to why in a moment….)

Besides codeine. And shitty memories. Oh,and revenge,envy,loathing , glitter and more often than not a pair of six inch heels .Anyway,who needs to be high,spending all that money you don’t have on drugs when you are mental? And by mental I mean lingering on the edges of bat-shit insane.I own real estate there.

I could lie but I won’t.Its pointless. I am unbalanced ,at times,to a spectacular degree.Always been this way .It has lead me to my greatest triumphs and most rocking adventures and alternately to the pits of despair.Pits that need to have Wagner and Diamanda Galas blaring on the decent.

Oh well.Them’s the breaks….

I feature it to be  like a wheel,dig?.I have always fancied that visual because it makes my internal i-pod blast the mariachi trumpets that herald the arrival of Johnny Cash doing “Ring of fire”. No,I have no idea why either.

So ,three days ago I was not only at the bottom of the revolution,I was under it. Tears ,tears more tears. Dreaming of radical plastic surgery,ways to kill my roommate (a bollocking great big icicle through the heart being that the evidence would melt and by the time they wanted to haul my ass into the station for questioning I would be on my way to the south of France on a stolen credit card flirting up a storm in first class with a Brazilian polo player clad in a devastating black shift dress….)

And then comes this.Manic.Manic,manic,manic! In neon. Its like all the really great drugs rolled into one.LSD,I can see everything! Speed! Watch me run for miles!.Write all night! Most of it crap!  And the zinger is that my twisted cerebral cortex doles this fun out to my fat ass au naturalle.

But just not when I want it.Sigh.

So today found me running to Keith Morris era Black Flag and cracking a sweat. A big sweat. This is the swing that comes after the foul ball that is the black hound that hunts and haunts me. Today I am untouchable.Admittedly its a tiring way to live but I will take this over the other any day. A friend gave me a set of cunning rubber band thingies for my  lamented birthday that translate into a gym in a bag kind of set up.I am swooning,I am moist,I think I am in love. I was grunting like a Russian shot putter having a stroke as I tied myself in knots in the backyard post run.

A great gift indeed.

Due to the now hyper condition of my el grande condition sleep will be a hard sell. I will have to count the whole fucking barnyard.I want to run .Now.Now being 2:26am. I won’t do it.I have been here before…..Wait till tomorrow.It will be far sweeter.The high will linger longer and that is what we want.

Aka: Errol Flynn,bless his size 12 cotton socks,keeps telling me to focus on the good things.He also listens to me spew all kinds of vile nonsense when I am putting the” Bi” back into “Bi-polar”. He is right though.I do have to keep in mind that all the top secret  shit I have been working on all year is all going to come to fruition soon and I better be ready.

So focus on the good things and run.

Running cures all.Listen up infidels….

Did I ever tell you that I  used to smoke? Oh man,I was so fucking good at it too. I looked amazing and couldn’t climb a flight of stairs without needing to rest half way up. My circulation sucked and a cloud followed me wherever I went. I was a Marlboro girl as all good white-trash seems to be and I packed fifty of the fuckers down a day for many years. Upon returning from New York in 2002 I was told by a pretentious Gothic maybe from New Zealand that I discovered living in my beloved Ranch “You will never quit, not strong enough dear”. (This is when I need you to picture a bull plowing down a fey screaming matador.) “Really?” I replied and strode next door to the drugstore in a kelly green bra,ray-bans striped pajama pants and a white towel around my hair. (I viewed the block around my house and all it contained as an extension of my living room and treated it accordingly) I returned with a box of nicotine patches and dramatically pealing the back off one in front of the whole household I slapped it on the throbbing vain in my neck and quit on the spot.

It was hell but I did it.

I later stabbed a 12′ butcher knife through the aforementioned wankers door.He moved out two days later. But that is another story….

But that is when I learned to run without the cops chasing me. I hacked and spat my way down to Bondi beach and back twice a day and my body rewarded me for my lumbering efforts.I spent a bomb on the right shoes and learned how to breathe. The voice in my head stopped screaming at me for the first time and started crooning.Color me hooked.I know,having an addictive personalty that anything can replace what came before it but running  gave me sleep and a sexy ass.It gave me posture and a stomach you could bounce a quarter off. My corpse and me were finally having a conversation that didn’t involve legal representation for both sides being present,

And twelve years later here I am .Still taping my blisters and crushing my rack down under 3 sports bras.

I ran when I lived in Long Beach by the Los Angeles river after burying two friends in as many weeks. I ran in Hamburg over rain slick cobble stones while waving to pema-tanned hookers caught white of tooth beneath glowing UV lights, I ran over the beaches of the far south coast with a shattered life and a broken heart while the love of my life screwed a blond heroin addled hooker in the bowels of Hollywood…..

Its what I do and for some reason it works.

So here is the deal, I am going to suck the life out of this upswing and let it guide me into a routine that does not involve failing myself. Granted I may be whining like a rusty pump after therapy hands me my ass on Friday but being the shrewd little opportunist that I am?

I will take what I can get when it is there to be got.

(Song for the credits- “That’s life “by The Chairman of the board, Mr Frank Sinatra .)