mh±, adhd 

sometimes I feel like I have the opposite of depression. everything is too interesting. is this adhd flaring up? amphetamines? mania? am I misdiagnosed, bipolar rather than adhd? I don't think our history looks like bipolar. most of the time we were just depressed all the time, with random hyperfocus bouts of 2-3 days tops. this love for life, this hunger, this is post-transition.

but I am doing something with my hands, some chore – what I was just doing just now? memory is weird, it just, like, *blanks* – my fingers are cold, I must've been washing something, oh yes sticker glue from the door, then I went looking for new stickers, then I gave up, was gathering pens to bujo – and listening to a scifi audiobook:

one part of my mind is following the voice, running the plot in the simulation module, while at the same time continually delighting in the touches of Anglo-Patois in its Haitian English,

another part is handling the manual task at hand,

a few automatic interrupts keep beeping, "you didn't water the roses", "put bread in the shopping list—now, go, before we forget again",

a planning routine is floating randomly as usual, "if we open up some space on the shelf we could buy food in bulk from Netto which foods are both long-lasting and low-energy?" (starts weighting foods one by one, sputtering, stacatto, context-switching—)

argument emulation module is arguing about Romani imagery in umbanda and how cultural appropriation can be a good thing when it's not appropriation but giving back—

2-3 voices of the permanent trialogue are discussing "the task at hand", the tip of the iceberg that's what I would reply to somebody right now who asked what are you doing: "setting up bujo for the month",

(with one of them insisting, impatient, you can't run away forever, you have to deal with the bad thing.)

this is the *ground*. this is our mind, this writhing, seething mass of tentacles, latching, grabbing at everything, ever talking, my mind, our mind, a bukkake of stichomythía.

and it hungers. my mind is a Cthuluan abomination of mouths and feelers and it hungers, it wants everything. it latches in all directions;

it thinks of our girlfriends, the one who's coming, how to meet the other one who's been some time away now, could bake with that first one what could we try next? tapioca cake? cheesebread? vegan cheesebread uses mandioquinha, do they even have mandioquinha here—
(interrupt: remember to evaluate online grocery shops—)
dang I wanna sit down with Rust—
could one combine the figure 8 of the flogger with the samba backstep swing, I'm going to create the samba flogging lol—
there's that inner child ritual our ex bf gave us, we have the materials now—
I want to weave through a guard and *hit* someone in the *face*, when is boxing back—
I wonder if it's ok to join that Roma dance online class, the real is so cheap rn—
this is some great weather to go out and do nothing with a cutie, we could do it right now on impulse—
I miss Vietnamese food—
I want to take up Icelandic again—
what if we start a garden of useful herbs?—
let's get into, into something, someone I don't know, something new and shiny and sparkly, I want more, more experience, more sensation, fun, body things...

everything is fascinating, everything is beautiful, everything is appetising.

feed me.

except, of course, what I am supposed to be doing. anything we want, we stop wanting it the moment we're told to do it. we... don't take well to being told to do things, none of us.

is this anxiety? is this what anxiety looks like for us? just desperately plugging ourselves into the matrix, the full package with a thousand channels please, loop all of them in shuffle, surprise me, spin the neuronal gears in any direction as long as it isn't the bad thing...

maybe it's time to increase the meds dose already and see if it helps >.>

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