Everybody knows I have them. My problems were bad then. I have value now. I actually love chugging green juice. Dialectical Behavioral Therapy is the name of the holy game. They give me homework over there. They put ice in my hands. They take the sunglasses off my face. Yeah, I miss being a terror. I miss living for kicks. I miss the way trouble felt. I miss going all in on the cowboy stuff. I miss nightclubs, women dancing, the hard feminine shoes. I miss name dropping, social climbing, jumping to conclusions. I miss the night flights going nowhere. I didn’t know their destinations. I was dragging myself all over town. The same year I learned I was adopted. The same year I got my diagnosis. The same year I lost my license to drive. Wish I could say the only person I was hurting was myself. I would prefer if certain records were sealed. These open records keep me up at night: borderline unforgivable, a memory cancer under my skin. I even kicked the dog. These days, I cradle her freaking ashes — just an unfortunate case of old age. Lola. On the other hand, she’d wanted a fight. 
There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence