The world of manic depression is a world of bad judgment calls.
I can like men who are a little light in the loafers.
I have a chemical imbalance that, in its most extreme state, will lead me to a mental hospital.
Part of my gestalt is that I still feel a little bit like a wallflower. Even in my own life. I talk about myself behind my back.
If talking were aerobic, I'd be the thinnest person in the world.
Waiting, done at really high speeds, will frequently look like something else.