My thoughts. First, this is neither here nor there, but manic depressive as a term is sort of on the outs. Bipolar is literally the same thing. But artistic license is your spirit animal, so that’s cool. Plus, you’re beautiful and talented, so I don’t give a damn. Call it the hokey pokey for all I care.
Second, I know this was satirical, but holy shit, this story is a metaphor for why I’m functionally retarded with women. Men are simple addition; women are calculus. Men are microwave dinners; women are five course meals. Men look at events in a linear fashion. Women investigate from every angle, dusting for prints and recording it all. I have been Michael. Hell, we are all Michael. That poor, dumb bastard.
Can you write a how to article about how to ask Starbucks baristas out on a date? Or better yet, that gorgeous nurse I met last night at the ER when I had to hospitalize a psychotic six-year-old? That would be super helpful.