A short story: Manic to Depressed with Bills to Pay:

Here I am, unemployed and sitting in my lonely, carpeted, one-bedroom apartment, forcing myself to write, to create something — anything. My alternative is looking like rotting in bed. Dreading my existence, tangled up in my comforters with my moods bleeding into one another until I feel as though they’ve actually morphed into something tangible; like my brain’s dark void is nibbling away at me. Not to be too dramatic (I’m a Leo moon and rising). As I’m writing this, my brain feels fogged out from all of the weed that I have spent the last two and some years smoking; my lungs slightly ache from all of the nicotine that I inhale from the moment that I open my eyes to when I go to bed. I never meant to pick up these habits, having grown up with strict immigrant parents and weak lungs to begin with (asthma), but I picked up nicotine to quit weed. In retrospect, I don’t recommend doing this because I never ended up quitting weed and now I am just smoking both. <a href="https://anlestory.medium.com/a-short-story-manic-to-depressed-with-bills-to-pay-175e5a10475e">Learn More</a>