Last night as I was ready to get some much needed sleep I got  a private message from a drunken women who had ripped me off by having me be sorry for her and supportive and kind, then telling me she made it all up.

I was furious and somehow the rage turned into an accusation that she was doing this for her sexual stimulation, and I was right.

In my elevated mood the whole thing went out of control into cybersex and then she suddenly withdrew.  All this in public, to a considerable bit of shame and blame.

She excused herself for being drunk.  I was Bipolar aroused and showing poor judgment, but nobody understands things like that, so what’s the use.

And here she was again, playing me in her drunkenness, coy and needy.  I wrote tender words that got her hot, then she stopped.  Bummer extreme.

Two hours we toiled through the mess she had made of her life: an affair with her husband’s best friend.  The lover died before she could leave her husband,, who was also sick, and the grief wound became infected.

A plot right out of a soap opera, but real, and I was hearing it for the second time, and making some pretty shrewd guesses about why she was drinking to dull the pain of guilt and grief.  And anger at her husband for NOT TALKING ABOUT IT DAMN IT!  and not going to the doctor with his serious symptoms, as though he wanted to die, and, as I was exhausted, she shared that she wanted to die, so I was stuck longer.

She had kept drinking, so she hadn’t sobered up and wasn’t more intellectually clear, but much more emotionally clear.   A huge mess and i did not want to try to unpack it instead of checking on the marathon site.

Two hours invested in a sloppy drunk, and i was tender and supportive, because I am a good boy.