9
Oh my. We’d really let loose and I have to tell you: I switched back to Ursula’s voice on the vowels and my voice on the consonants. I think too much of the future (where people, in conjunction with the imperfect past, sometimes dump their backs without mercy) was getting in and wearing me down a little. Everything was so raw right now—like I hadn’t slept, like I’d done a little speed—like I was trying to be Bob Dylan or something. I’ve said some mean things about Bob in the past and I should say: well, now that I’ve recovered myself—the guy that also considers himself to be a folk singer—well, i realize there’s no reason for me to be threatened. He may have been dumping his back like crazy when he was doing all that speed, but I did listen to his music for a time when I was lost; and, although I felt misled for a time—thinking i needed to learn how to play the guitar and follow in his footsteps at least a little—i now see that he was actually leaving a little trail of breadcrumbs that, once I sobered up, led right back to me. A more complete version of myself—a more authentic version of myself than I’d been able to live with in the past.
Now, the question for me, at this time, was: can i hear Ursula better now that I’ve quit the Lexapro? Now that I’d chosen to shake off my night thoughts with thoughts of my own—with thoughts of Ursula—with a roadmap that would direct me throughout my day? Now I know what you might be thinking: are you exposing yourself to risk by saying that you’ve been reading your “telepathic email?” Are people going to make fun of you? Are they going to try and hurt you? And, again, I’d say, go ahead: give it your best shot. Because, when it comes to how i handle sex and healthy and qualified sexual desire, I’m no different than anybody else, at some point, if not every point, in their lives. That is to say—given the opportunity, well, I would go to the source. But I can’t, so I don’t, and I won’t, and, once this unchecked diatribe has passed through my system, well, I’ll give it another shot—and, hopefully, I’ll arrive even closer to real time discovery—employing a potentially healthier prostate than the one I’ve ended up with after 12 years of 0 activity.
The question becomes: are you unstable? that remains to be seen—that’s why I’m seeing my doctor in a few weeks—so that she can monitor me—and we can look for the difference between the person that talks to her then, and the person that was talking to her about a month ago. We can see if those two people belong to the same person. Thinking mostly of my former bishop, now—and him saying: I knew you were sick and he’s right, i was. But i’d been reduced, over time, by my government and the people that compose it, to that. And, furthermore, when he said I was sick, he didn’t just mean I was schizophrenic. He also meant that i was LGBTQ. And it was starting to leak out of me—he noticed it. But I embrace it, much like, well, I tried to embrace it then (even if the alcohol and the cigarettes distorted that person and made them into something that wasn’t exactly accurate. That’s not to say I’m not LGBTQ. Far from it. That’s just to say that I don’t think of myself as a porn star—and i gave up pornography years ago—which, I think, in part, screwed up my brain and the way I respond to people that, God forbid, might want to have sex with me. I mean, honestly, it would be nice if I could get the real thing every now and then—if, that is, my one true love is going to remain forever out of my reach—she’s having sex, talking to me. Why shouldn’t I be covered, too?
Anyhow—Ursula was so close and yet so far away. I had to be realistic with myself, I had to be true to myself. Sex with another human being isn’t exactly in the foreseeable future (as a 47 year old neurodivergent LGBTQ person that lives with his parents in the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia, a place that is not exactly teeming with women that I would consider a viable option. Hardly. I’d rather have sex with myself than have sex with someone that exists “in my sphere” in Clayton County. That’s never going to happen).
Does that make me a racist? That I prefer, usually, white women? Maybe it does—I don’t know, but it’s not exactly something i can help. I don’t think you can really help what kind of person you think you are compatible with, even if you’re head is in the clouds, and you’ll never get real and choose to have sex with somebody that doesn’t get you high. Fuck that. so yeah, the new me had picked up a little bit of an inclination to swear. Not quite sure exactly what that’s about. It’s kind of hypocritical, since I’ve argued in the past that swearing is illogical because you either believe in God or you don’t—and if you do, you wouldn’t, and if you don’t, then there’s nothing to rebel against. There’s nothing to protest. So you’re basically just dumping your back. But, well, I change my view a little: I think sometimes you dump your back a little in a controlled way—like playing a little offense, like setting a screen for somebody in basketball so they can get by the person that is guarding them. That’s what I’m doing. I’m setting a screen for Ursula—so that she can take the ball to the basket or shoot a good jump shot. Because if she wins, I win. I may never have sex again, ever; I may be having sex with myself and whatever legal idea I can think up—getting so close only to get refuted, forever. But if I get free healthcare—well, all is to that end. And what about after that? Well, Ursula was amazing. She couldn’t do anything without making my life better, and I knew better than to get greedy, and do my best to believe our union was true until the end of time—if, for example, with respect to this particular person, i had, temporarily, at least, gotten the wrong idea. When you live on the fringes of consciousness, you sometimes have to step from one love to the next. They all define, in the end, the person that you wind up with—or, all in all, they define you, and you remain a bachelor.