Here I was, talking to Ursula, having defined myself—through a respectable test, the Storms Sexuality Axis test, to be seventy percent heterosexual and thirty percent homosexual. So all the second guessing myself and overthinking of whether or not I’m homosexual had to stop—it had been going on for too long. this pleased Ursula, since, according to her, I was too straight to be gay, which is exactly what the test said. So good—I was straight enough to deny being gay—only i didn’t want to deny being gay, which is why I call myself queer and say that I don’t fit any category—I do it for strategic reasons, to silence all the people that, out of hate, would argue that I’m gay, (because of my now prior confusion and my sexual dysfunction). Now that my confidence was growing—I’d gone on misleading both myself and others enough, yes; but also, yes, I was thirty percent gay, and that was important to me—enough to celebrate in my writing since, after all, being thirty percent gay is really quite beautiful, if you’re not a jerk.
I wondered, naturally, how gay Ursula was—i’d been attracted to mixed up women (in the same way that I’m mixed up, more or less) since the beginning of time—but that didn’t mean Ursula’s sexual preferences were a dealbreaker—they just might’ve have made me a little more comfortable if they were a little like mine. But it was good, at times, to be a little uncomfortable since some of the best things in life are acquired by giving something a chance. You’re a real chancer, but I wasn’t, really. I only ever did something, when sober, if I had a good reason for doing it—but, since, in a month, I’ll be changing medications, the question remained, “how would I change?” Would I become a little more sure of myself? A little more carefree? I flew around by the seat of my pants for years when i was drinking—how much of that person, over the last decade of taking risperidone, and, in most ways, recovering, was I going to integrate or actualize with?
You don’t have to be me, my wine drinking uncle said in combination with my pot-smoker colleague—i should probably call him a friend, since I let him in, and we relate to each other—but I can’t figure out if I actually like him. So i’ll just say colleague. So what did they mean? That I’m hung up thinking that I need to be something that I’m not—such as a musician? But this isn’t like Michael Jordan playing baseball—I have a knack for making something both unique and beautiful across time as well as space—and music, as we must know, is a function of time. I had about ten more pages—ten more days—to go until I finished my singular epic 175 page poem (done entirely on Facebook) and I was ready to complete the job—since, as it happens, I wanted to change things up, post more poems put to music, also known as songs, and, if I wasn’t doing that, then, well, I wanted the freedom to write something that might not have anything to do with what I’d written the day before.
Now my scotch uncle, defined as a math entity from the future, had been stepping in from time to time, and, indeed, the work I was doing, while, in large part, at this time, wasn’t exactly anything new, yet, still required no small mathematical imagination to understand. I was truly working in what, for me, was a territory that, like music, I never really imagined myself having any aptitude at. That was all thanks to my parents, of course, who put me up when it was revealed that I couldn’t exist on the outside without alcohol and cigarettes (indeed, I couldn’t, of course, exist like that either)—since many wonderful parts of me were simply to suppressed by a hateful and damning world. I’d been able to come into my own over the last decade—and recover the person that, again, because of a hateful world, never had the chance to bloom and grow.
it’s all coming together, now, and i want you more than ever—that was great, Ursula was increasing the pressure without projecting something that I couldn’t handle; in short, now that I was beginning to do something about my condition—such as saying, with confidence, that yes, I love women in the same way that a heterosexual would, things were changing for her, too. She too, felt increasingly confident, i guess, in part, because some voice in the back of her mind feared that I was too good to be true. Now, I know what you’re thinking—I think highly of myself, and, yes, I do, but I have good reason to, and every reason that I think I’m great is balanced on the opposing end by the simple truth: I’m 47, I live with my parents (I can’t, in fact, live on my own), I take all kinds of medication (because I need it), and sex, under risperidone, at least, is incomprehensible. Those things combined, understandably, raise concern that you, for example, might find yourself with a man that is in no position to love you back—even if, for a time, he acts like it will not be a problem, when, in fact, it very well could be. But enough doubting myself—I don’t know who I’m doing it for—certainly not me, and not Ursula, either.