Get a voicemail when you’re psychotically depressed: “Kathy’s diagnosis was atypical psychosis. That was the diagnosis, atypical psychosis. Love you.”
A recurring theme in phone calls from my uncle, who’s been institutionalized for pretty much my whole life: “Suicide isn’t a sin if you’re psychotic. Kathy’s gone to heaven.”
My neighbor’s airbnbers tried to close the front door on me as I followed them into the building, seeming to relent not when they saw me, but when they saw that I was white. Curious what they thought of the Mexican dudes drinking Coronas in the stairwell, smoking skunk.
I practiced my wailing music loudly all night long just to annoy them.