You sir, are an idiot.
With delusions of grandeur and guaranteed persecution from “the man” keeping you from achieving the greatness that would be your destiny.
My Bipolar diagnosis comes with a three year warranty against ice cream failure,
troubling realities to be replaced by repetitive thoughts and strange obsessions.
You cannot tell me what to do anymore.
I am already marching into the clearing with the soldiers,
fifty percent chance we’ll have a campfire, fifty percent chance of a firing squad.
No chance you will be invited to the musical afterward.
You have already heaped derision on everything but the cat.
Who, from her perch on the couch, watches this tableau;
me, spinning, trying to make my skirt a perfect circle,
you, shaking your fist, bellowing at the firewood.