(I wrote this into the description box of tonight’s video instead of here where I’m posed to.
Yeah he’s a rebel boi-e-e-e-e-e-i-o …)

“Blackhole Sun, wontcha come, won”t you cuuum … ”

I’ve never been diagnosed, and I may almost certainly be sort of undiagnosable.

Sometimes I’m sure I’m spergy and other times I’m sure that’s not it.
They tell me I’m a Virgo. I say yeah, Virgo Sun but conjunct Pluto in the Seventh, which it IS a planet so fuck you Neil DeGrasse and pass the ammunition.

Whether or not I’m bipolar, I am definitely coming up out of a blackness and therefore sounding a tiny bit manic even to myself. Just like the seasons are, in these days of winter’s solstice.

On the way home from shooting this I stopped off at the Buzz and it was *not* Tranquil. It was absolutely jammed and I waited in line for twenty minutes while the lone barista/cashier struggled valiantly. Dale man, stop squeezing the eagle so hard and hire. Hire me for example. Or don’t; it may not be a good idea for either of us. Dafuque do I know.

Behind me during the whole twenty minutes, two professors chatted while the lady professor’s dog tried to snatch the gluten-free brownie from my hand like a canine grasshopper. Even though I was lifting up into that joyful manic phrase, their conversation was black as sin for me. Apparently this is the first day of their break. The talk was full of money and the lack of it. The talk was full of phrases like “my best self” when it was transparently clear to me that neither of them had the slightest clue what their best self was yet, or where it lived, or where it had lived.

I tried not to listen. It sort of worked.

See the problem was not with them so much. They were bright. They were earnest. They cared, they said things that made them seem caring and altruistic. I’m sure their mothers loved them and maybe daddy too.

But even so I could only barely stand it and I rehearsed my order over and over again to myself to try to keep from the torture.

“Coffee. Large. Hot. Lightly roasted. To go. Splash of milk.

Am i … forgetting anything?”

No. I am not.

And maybe that might be my real diagnosis.

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