Two Reasons You Might Be Bipolar

1) I awoke yesterday morning to the sight of you eagerly blowing me. You swallowed, smiled, and then fixed me French toast and coffee. As I was eating and enjoying the post-fellatio endorphin rush, you opened the windows to let the sun in as butterflies and stray dandelion petals slowly drifted into the kitchen. You cleaned the entire house—twice—while singing arias from Vivaldi. You told me that I was a man among men, a man above other men, and that there wouldn’t, couldn’t, and never would be another man like me. You said that even though you didn’t believe in God, you thanked God 1,000 times every day that I came into your life and stitched your heart together as if I was a cardiologist of love. You washed, ironed, and folded all of my socks. You called me all of your favorite terms of endearment such as “Schmoodles,” “Twinkletoes,” and “Gorilla Cock.”

You even wrote thirteen haiku about how much you love me, including these two:

The smell of your feet
Is like a ray of sunshine
Exploding my heart

When I kiss your lips
I know that the universe
Is winking at me

2) Last night you stuck your finger down your throat, induced vomiting, and blamed it on my cooking, even though we’d ordered out for Chinese food. Then you smeared your period blood all over the walls and screamed at me to clean it. You kicked your male cat and said it was because he was also a male. Then you gently stroked your female cat. Using lipstick, you wrote my full legal name, birthdate, and Social Security number on the bathroom mirror, underneath which you scrawled “R.I.P.” in ten-inch letters. You told me I reminded you of your father and then kneed me in the groin. You said that all men are assholes—especially me—and that your mother and all your girlfriends were right about me.

Did you forget to take your pills?