“The bipolar life can look like a bloodthirsty but beautiful war more than anything that resembles peace. It is love and the disaster of heartbreak, the dreamfight that must never end. It is the black and jewel quickening of the mind as it relates to the spirit and the soul.”

 

A Letter to bipolar Wildlings,

Rat-a-tat-tat. Are you listening? I said, rat-a-tat-tat! Well, looky what the scary wolves and feral cats brought to the Bipolar Clown’s door today. You’re a bit rough and ready, I have to be straight with you. But, I do respect that it must have been quite a ride if you’ve ended up knocking on my beaten up, stripped down and raunched up dungeon door. Well, calm the farm kiddo. You are welcome here. Always. Yes you are. At your ink black worst, and your sparkly manic best. My home is your home. You’ll be safe here. Actually that’s a lie. You won’t be safe here at all. Because the only thing to eat at the Bipolar Clown’s house is the truth. And you and I both know that the truth sometimes tastes like velvetine bread and butter pudding or medium rare t-bone steak with creamy peppercorn sauce. If you’re really lucky, truth is the flavour of Lily Allen‘s angel song. By the way you will see plenty of celebs on here, on account of the fact I’m rather grandiose sometimes. But moving on…the flipside is that sometimes the truth is not like Lily Allen at all. She’s much more like icky gluten free cake or white supremacist hate. When the truth turns on you, she’s midnight like a murder of death crows, but you know all that. Anyhoo, the good news is, that means it’s all on the table here at Clown & I. From hypersexuality, to celebrity dreaming, art and drugs, to those swampy badlands and all that desecration that seems to hunt us down like a perennial tyrant storm.

Oh, how rude of me. I almost forgot to say, come on in, take a seat. Have a cup of tea, or a shot of tequila if you’re not a drunk like me. That’s it, sink into the lounge and take a slug, Sugarplum. I have a surprise for you, my bipolar friends…and even your friends, and your families…and my foes. Yes, them too. I have written a book. I wrote this book just for you and no-one else. I was thinking of you the whole time I was writing. I didn’t use a computer and I didn’t use a pen. Neither felt right for this particular project. So I wrote this book with my blood instead. And my heart, and my spirit and my soul. It got messy at times, I do admit. But only those sacred story tools would suffice for my special Wildling readers, who I know very, very well, can see through bullshit like it’s the surface of a pristine lake somewhere in beautiful Chile. My book…which is now your book…is a bipolar memoir, and it’s called Clown & I. I’ve been told it’s rather saucy, very dark, very funny and oh so bipolar. But what the fuck would my crazy ass friends know, right? So you can make up your own minds about that. As you always do…

Yours Lovingly,

 – The Bipolar Clown

 

“I don’t even know what bipolar is. And who is this Clown? This is not a book. This is a gun. A smoking gun. I am taking it hunting with me.”

– Ernest Hemingway

“Well knock me down with a feather Mr Clown & I. What I would do to share a bottle of champagne with you at the South Street ferry dock. Oh my, how I blush…”

– Marilyn Monroe

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