Dear Ex-Boyfriend on the West Coast,

You and I date for nine months and you're still pissed off... even after you've said that you love me... that I refer to you as my ex-boyfriend.  You don't call for weeks, then when I'm out on a date with someone else because I assumed that we weren't together anymore you come to my house at 2 a.m. drunk and pound on all of the doors and windows because you're CERTAIN that I'm there and that I'm just ignoring you... the voicemails were precious.  All eight of them.  I'm sorry that I slapped you with my crutch when you were belittling me in front of all of your friends at your birthday party.  The quiche the next morning was excellent.  I'm also sorry that you were too blacked out drunk to remember me crutchslapping you, but I'm glad you made the quiche before you logged into Facebook and found your friends posting on your wall and making fun of you for being crutchslapped.  You always made quiche in the morning at your mother's (and your) house... and we had Spam sandwiches in the morning when you were at mine.  You made lovely quiche with that blender.  You left me to move to L.A. and then you gave me a lecture on how I was supposed to have moved to PORTLAND not CHICAGO because you and I were going to get married in two years.  I hadn't heard from you for two months, that was news to me.  I wish that your hypomanic personality liked me even if that meant that I had to put up with ManicMan's Outrageous French or Standard British accent, which were dead giveaways as to which pole you were swinging from.  Apparently, you only love me when you're speaking like a normal American boy-man and are depressed.  I miss your Apology Quiche and your Spam sandwiches.  I hope you get treatment.

Diagnosis: Bipolar I, unmedicated (you told me this yourself).