This was written during a manic period during which it seemed urgent to chronicle every flicker of my fascinating intellect. I was always writing random notes to myself, including this one about being obsessed with men. Thing is, I was only obsessed with men when I was manic, making the logic sadly circular. The best thing about this piece of ephemera is there's a guy's phone number written on it, which you'll see since I've posted this sideways. The irony.

Thing is, people imagine mania as fun—even people who've gone through it before. It's not really fun. Here's what I wrote at the end:

I am inhabiting my body again (i.e., reality) but I can feel myself pushing the emotions that took over aside while I assert the in-control, rational, intellectual me. Who controls me? My emotions fight it out with my intellect. In this place my emotions gain ground. That's when I find it so frightening. I don't feel safe here.