It's just the Bipolar talking.

A Story by Typhoid Kelsey

In my head, in my head.

The six of them sat on the blanket, staring intently at Jack Johnson on the stage--ignoring the drunk Pennsylvanians in front of them; clapping and singing along. Only one of the six could know that there was a seventh...entity among them, lurking around and whispering this:

Hey Kelse-

It's Bipolar here. I figured I'd tell you that now's your chance--say something that would have been funny to a 17th century serial killer. Oh--no one laughed? Tough crowd. Well, some people just don't think on the levels you do.

Oooh! Are they flirting?! Maybe, what with that "song dedication" and jokes that you just happen not to hear. They're not talking about you--don't worry about that. But they're certainly not including you. Why should you need to feel included anyway? When it all comes down to it, you can only trust yourself. We all die alone and whatnot.

Still--it hurts, huh? Kinda...awkward--at least here in your head. Didn't you tell him you still liked him a while back? Followed by the "It's not you--it's me/I don't want to ruin a friendship" bullshit? Your standard reply to an unwanted admirer. Oh, somebody's bitter! Why don't you cry? You know you want to.

At least tell those drunk guys to shut the hell up before you gut them from bow to stern. Nevermind. That would just let everyone know how crazy you really are.

You're jealous, oh...you're jealous...You want to sit by him like her. No, instead of her. Nothing against her. You just want things to be like they used to. When even though not everything made sense, at least there was someone to make you happy, regardless of what made sense or not. To distract you from things like me! Scared of the future, huh? Dontcha miss high school when everything was in order? Junior year--that was the best one. You miss him but you can't ever say it ever again, ever. He made that clear. Too bad you're not lesbian--things might be easier that way.

Keep playing "Leaves" in your head--distracting yourself with the lovely Anneke van Giersbergen singing. Strange song. Pretty, though.

You used to be really funny. What happened? Maybe you should dye your hair black like in your junior year because then he'd like you and you would be funny again. I know you took a lot of time to get it back to its normal color, but still...and don't try to pin it on me (although I'm not sure what you would pin it on, seeing as how I'm not human, let alone real)! I'm just Bipolar. Miss Manic Depressive, as they used to call me.

I know you'll suggest he read this (although considering how very rarely he uses a computer, you might have to use some force) because you think the truth should be thrown out there regardless of how unwanted it may be.

But then pretend nothing happened! You must remember this! It is vital! You're not in a state to handle uncomfortable, so avoid it entirely like the plague. Don't deal with it at all. Just spit it out there and leave.

This Jack Johnson guy isn't so bad. Perhaps unrealistically happy, but only to us. Stay cold. Stay on the grass. Stay away from everything (or more appropriately, everyone) you could get attached to because it will either die in your hands or betray you.

The smoke's drying out your eyes? Sorry. That sucks. Sucks like a concert where everyone has their sodding snuggle bunnies to jam to the tunes with. Wanna boogie?! I thought not. Well, since you're all in the dumps, I might as well inform you that your face is full of craters, your hair color is unsightely, your teeth are crooked, and the most unattractive remnants of the hives from your allergic reaction are quite the turn-off. At least you're not fat. Huh, that's good? Right? Oh, come on, put a smile on! No? Fine. F**k you. F**k men and relationships and life. Go jump off a bridge and do everyone a favor. Jack Johnson will be proud if you have a biodegradable coffin.