She's Yes, Then She's No

At the end of the day, both literally and figuratively, it all comes down to my softcore bipolarity.

It's what people would notice most, so right after their thinking either that I am overly chatty and annoying, or quite the opposite, rather funny and cute (and I chose these particular idiosyncrasies because they are apparent at the very first sight, one just needs to make their choice), It pops. Forget about discovering after a while that there's more to me than just being hilarious or irritating, bipolarity is there to linger. Just like a very unpleasant red wine stain on your favorite white shirt. Or on your favorite girl.

It goes like this with my momentary states of mind. Just give me two seconds, and I will for sure display two completely different ones, confusing the poor spectator, disheartening the active participant to the moody soap opera. Fortunately, if the state is not well rooted in my heart brain, it could easily take just a blink to forget about the rage, frustration, pessimism, discomfort and go back to the jolliness. Unfortunately, jolliness is as precarious as all the above monsters. Unfortunately too, love can also be classified as a state of mind, so it is also quite prone to precariousness.

It goes exactly the same when I attempt to write. While my trigger for writing is pretty clear (i.e. uncomfortable circumstances, tonight more precisely the pouring Parisian rain) it's never easy picking the subject, the plot, the punch line. Allow me to exemplify. I was torn between making this post about how horribly frustrating it feels when you're facing language barriers and cannot fully speak your mind, then I remembered that my boss wears green glasses and teddy bear socks, so everything must be okay. Then I was getting ready to unravel my only good piece of advice when it comes to love, but I remembered a sad love story and put the romanticism on hold, just to giggle the moment after when thinking randomly about a certain him. I ended up writing about, well, a little bit of this and little bit of that, some sort of corny, some sort of frisky, scarily accordingly to my own way of being.

And while, despite the evidence, at macro level I have it almost all figured out, my day-to-day is still trivially composed of an endless string of little nothings about which, ultimately, I cannot decide how I feel.

I hate...being bipolar...is so good.