Ha! Ye may not be using all of yer fingers to count my years of institutionalization? 33+ years livin’ with this shite, Verlaine and Rimbaud relationships, bankruptcies &etc. No, friend, not to brag, (I cannot wade) but I have inched my way through the shite, face-first, face-down. The REAL reason that I know what happens is because, every day, I wrote the book.

The piece, convoluted or no, needs Seer Stones to unravel (I got mine wholesale from a couple of wholesome LDS missionaries).

Ya, yarbles, ye can jest infinitely roil in the slop with the porcine-bros or ye ken join the band - I spy you as a horn, the euphonium? - and shed the shame.

Proud. Pride. Funny words, ain’t they? We talk real funny down here.

Did ye do yer daddy proud? Is that bull the pride of yer studs?

By Jesus! With the interweb I can watch a Pride of Lions supping on a Flock of Seagulls.

Waller in your shame, cry out that it’s your disease that’s talkin’!

What I’ll say: I’ve buried the body’s in sanctified soil and erected lavish tombstones over each. (Book Break: “You don’t need to be sanctified if you’ve got a good car.”) I grieved until I died. Pain. How do YOU measure pain? Did you mete out (more or less) the same amount of pain that you received?

Ya wanna compare bull-shite? Ya gonna go Sinatra wit yer regrets or build yer own personal savior wit ‘em?

If I’m not ashamed of my diagnoses, yes, antithetically, I’m proud?

I don’t know about that.