Ursula, Ursula, counting in my head. Six more days to go until I change up my meds! the way i feel about you hasn’t changed so this is real life—but does she know that I live with my parents—and I like it here? she must know that if she’s telling me that the way she feels about me hasn’t changed. but i know what you’re thinking: his old meds are wearing off—he’s gotten used to them, his brain has adapted. there may have been some truth to that, since I was developing an expensive soda habit—several a day, now. I’m an addict, what can I say? Everything is so expensive—don’t know how I ever thought i was going to get my life to work when I moved out in the first place—thinking, back then, that I should be close to a woman, getting sex whenever, but i was always wondering whether or not i could get an erection, so, in a way, it was torture. Add that to the fact that I had this secret homosexual (30%) box that I lived in—that I had to keep secret, and, well, you might expect that i’d have problems even without the meds to take my impotence to a whole other level.
But no wonder I was miserable—I was working a job that I couldn’t keep—a job, also, that was not paying well, even if it was more than i ever made before—so that tells you something about this country—I wonder about this country—and so I couldn’t afford all my addictions and my art supplies and my soda and my blueberries, etc. I didn’t have a chance. I was dumbstruck for years, unable to realize this, but, now that I have, I chalk it up to experience, food for fodder, a well that I draw from when I dedicate myself to creative endeavors. You’d like me to stay? “Of course, my love,” and she was happy to hear it, looking out into the world through the other end of my social media, seeing me, I think, when she sees anything.
But that’s just the schizophrenia talking—or, if not the schizophrenia, a colossal ego. I would argue that my ego is not that big since the things I dream about aren’t just dreams but, rather, a logical progression toward an ever changing reality. But a reality that was held together by the connections I established when I was interacting with the universe. You’re making art and, indeed, i was, and that was what connected us—my art was the means by which I attracted people to me, people that, otherwise, wouldn’t even notice me, since I’m only as good-looking as what I do, which keeps me humble, I think, since a lot of people, I find, do not find me attractive. Some do, but those people usually appreciate what I do, too, which tells me that, on my own, well, I am not so handsome as I might think—even if giant brains turned into a thing of interest in the future, since, I imagine, our brains are bound to grow a little, especially if, for a time, we spring from a Caesarian section.
“When are you going to give him up?” But Ursula was fiercely loyal, and it was unlikely that she would assume that someone could love her any better than the man that asked her to marry him—a relationship that had stood the test of time. I can’t imagine how used to each other they are—and how uncomfortable it would be to leave that behind. Who’s to say, also, that Ursula didn’t identify with her fiancé and what he represented: the perfect partner to remind all Americans that yes, she was getting it, and no, she was not an overly ambitious ice cold bitch. She could run off that—so I’m not saying she was using him, but, maybe, unconsciously, in a way, she was. But whose to say that he wasn’t using her, too? Do people always use each other, and what counts as using somebody? the lines get blurred when you unify with another person—you can’s separate somebody’s relationships form the perks that go along with it. If you think you can, then you’re naïve.
what does that say about you? yeah—it crossed my mind; what if I used Ursula to become president? “I would make a good president,” I said. What was she going to do? Disagree? Or quietly walk in the other direction—before everything I’d ever written was exposed to scrutiny—and taking things out of context—or simply misunderstanding what was going on—but, well, I was clever, and I know that almost everything I’ve ever written would serve to expose the person that was trying to expose me—since, as it happens, the things that I write can mean many different things, and you interpret it in such a way that, if you seek to hurt me in doing it, you make yourself look like an idiot—not to mention a cruel and heartless jerk. heartless? “Yeah, I have a heart, or I had one before you stole mine away,” so, in my defense, if I ever turned out to be heartless myself, I could blame it on Ursula, and because of her beauty, people would understand—since, basically, to be with her is to exist in her orbit—as opposed to what we might otherwise orbit directly, such as the sun, or even another person.