risperidone love me, and risperidone love me not; she loves me, and, therefore, risperidone does not—unless a miracle happened, such as seeing you seeing me; how you channel your desire—making a weapon out of it, something you can use to bludgeon your mate into submission—my genes, my way. but you have your genes, too; very funny, Ursula, but what would you say if i told you that, in the future, long, long into the future, my kin and kind would be unisexual—getting themselves pregnant, so their genes can rule, and, well, “that’s my whole reason to get you in bed—to make you want it so bad you do whatever i say. raise the kids how i see fit—that kind of thing. so risperidone—stuck with you for another six weeks, at least. Maybe she’ll keep me on it? Because of the antipsychotic potency? there must be another way.
now, it used to be every six months or so . . . I’d have a fit and find myself incredibly ashamed; it couldn’t be helped; i forgive myself, since, well, i’m perfect, so it happened for a reason. risperidone loves me, and then it loves me not . . . “and i was just thinking, Diana, that you should know that so you can understand what I’m going through, and put our lives together into perspective;” if, that is, we have a life together yeah, she was keeping me honest. True—risperidone loves me not but what happens when i get on something else—something that lets me recover parts of myself that made me an innovator, someone looking to the future, and interacting with it? check; check; risperidone not working? But yeah—i wanted, well, to be able to have sex. I wanted to be in touch with parts of my brain that might’ve been casualties of war due to the imperative nature of getting my life together, safe, secure, and stable.
it all comes out, don’t you see? you can do it in my butt, but that, in fact remained to be seen. things like that were unspeakable in some regions of the space-time continuum, such as the state of North Carolina, the state of Utah, the red states, those with ties to the red states, etc. The prejudice was grandfathered in—no matter how “woke” they might’ve been. I guess you might say they weren’t really woke, and, well, nobody really is, there’s always some tid-bit ahead of us that we find gross: you have to understand, don’t you, that, to birds of a feather, there’s nothing unspeakable about a way of life—that works, especially. so I try very hard to make my life work—to prove to posterity and those leaning one way or the other that no, this behavior is not a function of darkness—on the contrary, when we, kind, accept it, we step into the light. you won’t find me chain smoking—as, well, i didn’t see any other way of making it through the day, and failure was unacceptable but, naturally, accepting help, real help, is not failure; when things aren’t working, then, on the contrary, help is a portal to actualization—what we really want: 1: to find purpose, and 2: to extend that purpose into “a” or “the” life to come. Everybody wants to believe it—and because it makes us better here, we use it, and because we use it, well, it develops a relationship with us—it, God, speaks the language of love.
You’re going to lose a large part of your audience if you talk like that that’s not good, but it can’t be helped—“don’t you see that I must be true to myself—and allow my audience to follow or choose darkness?” Ursula was the queen of my world—she really had it together; now, i knew that things might unravel a little over the next few years, and, although I don’t want it to happen—i fear that the relationship will reach stumbling blocks a little before and or if she runs for office. ok—so maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part—as if I’d ever get close enough to speak a word; it was more likely, i think, that the relationship would end after the presidency was over; but no, that doesn’t sound right either; so yeah, I guess i was just putting my foot in my mouth. I really didn’t know what, if anything, was going to happen. Ursula, in my mind, would be judged on how true she was too herself—if she was happy, then, i’d eat my words. Clearly, then, I would have been talking to someone else—not that Ursula, but, on the contrary, this one.