I am grateful for my bipolar meds, because they are the only thing powerful enough to keep me from passing the source wall and joining the happy dead. I realize that I have so many friends that willingly carry me on their shoulders...he's not heavy, he's my monster. Fingers are broken glass as I type this. Knee braces on, a pressure band around my forearm to keep it from spasming like Frankenstein when the Tesla coils light up. Listening to dead people sing on a Hallowe'en CD now, the Ramones and their pet semetery. Makes me think of a conversation I had with an Irish girl at work recently. She showed me marks on her wrists and asked if I ever thought about suicide. I told her with all honesty that I probably did and simply came back. If there was no spell-check to this thing, you'd think I was writing in Urdu or Sumerian. I am insane, but at least it is the month when monsters freely walk the streets and demand candy from complete strangers....Dead Man Walking (With Help From Etain, Sid, Mike, Kate, Stewart, Charles, Lana, Robert out there in the desert, Larry and Tycelia, all my artist friends, Victor Von Frankenstein, the ghost of Dwight Frye. I'm the Monster but have fingers like Nosferatu. 42 minutes typing this, a new record. Thank you all, this walk is a long one.
