Flipping through my camera roll, I'd say mine began in April. There were over 1000 photos, mostly of myself, compared to around half that the previous months. My confidence soared as I taught myself everything I could about seasonal color palletes. I received a wardrobe full of plastic clothes from a dead person (rip Alvira) and did a photo shoot in each outfit in my bedroom. Several weeks later I was seated in the same place donating 14 inches of my hair to charity for a $500 reward. Although to this day I'm not sure that was a legitimate charity.

Of course going from feeling the prettiest I've ever felt to being, well, bald, is pretty par for the course when it comes to manic episodes (which are typically followed by crashes into depression). Anyway, there are worse delusions than thinking I'm pretty. Like the times I thought the world was ending and I was supposed to save it. I mean, the world could very well be ending, I just don't care anymore to get involved.

So it's Spring, and I'm riding that red line between mania and hypomania hard. Personally I don't mind riding the bipolarcoaster. It's basically my drug of choice. However when people started dropping out of my life like flies, I thought I'd better reevaluate my life choices. I took a poll amongst my three remaining friends who all voted that I'm medicated enough to be loved. Or something. But I wasn't satisfied, so I wrote my doctor to say that, I *might* be just a little manic. I gave my three most logical next steps and he chose to reduce my adhd med. (Don't worry, it's not a stimulant.) (I'm not allowed to have those.)

That seemed to work pretty well, but I still can't speak to my sister, my friend of 15 years, my neighbor, or the lady at the post office.