So many thoughts race through my head. The brain never stops. The tears are a constant flow with joy and sorrow. Sometimes, I am light as air, a cool autumn  breeze, while at other times, my mood would change to sadness. A sadness of such despair that I’d often think of ending it all right there on the spot. But then streaks of wonderment, happiness would take over. A feeling I could do anything I set my mind to. These were the nights when I would skip through town, from north to south, the lake to Wicker Park, looking for whatever I could find that would appease me; women, drinks, a great meal at Friars Grill or Sophie’s Busy Bee. Mingling among the normal people. The people I despised, who when I was down and out had nothing to do with the likes of me or anybody else who was not hep or cool, or filled with money and ambition. They were enough to make me sick, wretch out behind a bar in a dumpster, smelling of piss. Maybe my whole life reeked of piss and shit and vomit. I wore these like a fancy man wears cologne, slathering it all on me in times of madness only to wake up after a month or two and realize I was only dreaming, the dream of being awake, an outcast in this city yet fitting right in.

It was during these times that I would call Cleo more and more often. Sometimes for sex and compassion or just a bed to sleep in. For a Republican she had a heart of gold. For someone who spoke so fondly of Ayn Rand, she was very giving. She was ripe for the picking. I could convert her, I thought. I could teach her new tricks in life. Make her believe, dear old dad was a horrible person, which he was, and lead her astray. She needed this. I needed this. She would become something I could not live without. Joy and pain all wrapped in one. A bipolar paradise.