Funny Fuck in Book Title.

I am in poor humor. Perhaps its literal poverty causing my rainy parade slump. Or it could be the gears grinding on my bipolar cycle. My deranged lack of foresight and compulsive spending have waned, suspiciously. So it’s a toss up, really.
I’m not ready to be depressed again. It’s been over a year since I cycled up so I guess I’m overdue to crash. The thought of it makes me physically ill. I am too old for this shit.
My last down cycle was terrifyingly black and surreal. I wondered if I should hospitalize myself in fear I would irreparably damage myself or others. I spent countless nights sleeping in my bathtub, contemplating the absurdity of living indoors. I scribbled in notebooks long entries referencing my box for possession confinement, referring to my apartment and total disconnect from reality. It is scary to re-read, luckily near illegible.
I need more time to stabilize & nurture my flicker of humanity before I go back into the dark.
What do they say? Time waits for no man?
Time is a man made concept.