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Living with Schizoaffective Disorder

Hell Hath No Fury

Perhaps I would have been better off had I wandered the desert
wearing a hair shirt while beating myself with chains.

Who Moved My Cheese and I were once friends, but very long ago.

When I got back in touch she didn't remember me, but was willing to communicate because we had a friend in common.

Three years later she tells me that she still does not remember me and requested that I never contact her again.

She is a powerfully attractive woman but every last man she's ever been with surely contemplated suicide; doubtlessly some completed it.

I try to comfort myself by reminding myself that Who Moved My Cheese has but two emotions: fiery passion and furious rage.

My lady in a far-away land is far gentler and warmer than Who Moved My Cheese.

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