September 23, 1998 10:36 a.m.

i can't seem to shake this mood lately. i smile. i laugh. i'm still dying. it still it holds me here. some would say i'm manic-depressive. my ex-shrink calls it bi-polar. i call it bullshit (therefore the 'ex'). i tried the meds, you know. i can't write for shit when i'm on them so i stopped. it's hard to write when your emotions are all dulled. it's all words with no feeling behind them. no passion. hell, who am i to sacrifice writing for "good" mental health? when have you ever known a decent writer to be mentally stable, anyway? so, i suppose it's just as well. the more depressed i get the better my words sound. funny. the only way to achieve my dreams is to become downright suicidal. how ironic is that? c ya.