Well, I was just flying off the rails . . . dreaming of tanning the prime minister of Italy’s tail. What did that mean with respect to my relationship with Ursula? Should I tell her this? Why would I do that? Why wouldn’t I do that? That just might be all the excuse Ursula needed to dismiss me and treat me like shit. Well, maybe she wouldn’t treat me like shit—she’s not a bad person, so why would she? What would she get out of it? What else was going on? Were we going to get term limits for members of the supreme court, given the racist bullshit we were now experiencing? And what else? Well, I don’t necessarily think that the prime minister of Italy is a good person—I can only assume, given my history, that she might not be. Perhaps all i could do is piss her off when I refused to think of nothing but her.
But she told Jack Daniels off once or twice—and she was white skinned and blond, so naturally (although I doubt I would have gone for her otherwise, considering her weight), well, it seemed natural, but, actually, this was something new. I’d known of the prime minister of Italy for a while now—I had some sense of what she looked like. So what changed? Well, my medication changed, for one thing. So maybe I’d get used to the weight, like you get used to anything, I don’t know. That’s what people do that get married when they’re still thin—they get used to each other and ignore it or overlook it—everybody needs to backchannel now and then, unless, of course, you’re very old, and you can’t ignore the consequences of aging anymore. In that case I guess you talk to your partner about what’s important—and you agree to be married all over again. But I wanted to avoid that—I wanted to be in contact with the bulk. I wanted to backchannel. I wanted it all. Hence my attraction to powerful women—real women, not movie stars—on the contrary, women that not only make more money than me, but women that, God forbid, are simply better than me—that don’t suffer from the same inflammatory impulses that, if given free reign, would ruin my life.
But, I have to say, I thought about the prime minister of Italy, and I thought, hey, this is the real me—i have people behind me now; my work has caught on! So I am that much closer to the man I aim to be both inside and out. And that left me feeling adequate—and sexually interested. But I’m not going to tell Ursula about that—I’m especially not going to tell her that she was there, too, observing this go down. She’ll find out when she reads this, or if somebody does read this, and points it out to her. By then the fantasy most likely will be used up—and I’ll need to think of something else. Such as getting a woman pregnant, for example. So I was making progress—anyhow, when it came to the amount of desire i was able to entertain; and I’ll i’d done was shift down to 3mg of risperidone from 4mg—so I was looking forward to how I’d feel, and getting back in touch with a part of myself that’s been on complete lockdown for over a decade, when I was completely off this risperidone drug—a drug with so many side effects that you wouldn’t want to use it unless your schizophrenia and your thinking was so bad that you would do anything to make it stop.
So what? Was I going to move to Italy so that I could be with this woman? I can’t even remember her name. Or was this going to be a one-off, something used to enrich my telepathic bank—my backchanneling bank, or, on the other hand, would it be something that continued on and off as if we were in orbit around each other, and, as such, not getting any closer and not getting any further apart, either? Well, given the fact that i think Italians are crazy—maybe just a little bit, I didn’t really want to move to Italy. I wanted to remain in the US with my family. I’d ventured out on my own and, although this time it would be different, since I’d have my medication to keep me from thinking invasive things, I’d done so poorly on my own—i was so unable to fucking function like a normal person, that, well, it would have been a mistake to isolate myself from my family for any reason—unless, of course, there was enough money to go around—which might change things a little, such that i could visit with my family several times a year—seeing them, in effect, about as much as i seem them now.
But Italy? Well, would I rather live in Italy, the Bronx, DC? So sue me—I wanted to live in the fucking suburbs, with a little distance between houses, such that, if I lost it, and started screaming, nobody would be able to hear me. Not that that would happen, but, yes, in the past, one of my greatest horrors was going on a rant and then having to try and remember what the hell the bad person in me that was doing the mocking and the ranting had said. I knew what it was like to have thoughts that I couldn’t keep inside my head—that I couldn’t push away; there were plenty of times, when, leaving the house, I couldn’t keep myself from making crazy statements to the people that sold me my groceries, for example. That was a fucking nightmare. If that started happening again, well, I’d bite the bullet and get back on the risperidone, wouldn’t I? Life on risperidone wasn’t all bad—I got a lot done, I was able to think and work. There were things that, over time, I’d retaught myself how to do—with that assistance.
But that, of course, would mean the end of my relationship with the prime minister of Italy. Well, I couldn’t help myself and I told Ursula about the desire i was feeling—maybe I shouldn’t have because, again, “Why would I do that? What would anybody get out of it?” But, also, why not hear it from me—it’s not like we’re in a real relationship—at least not the parts of me that lived here, on the other side, far from her physical touch. She was doing things with her partner—and her partner was connected to a direction that I didn’t necessarily encompass. So I told her. She didn’t say anything. But I think she was thinking, “I’m glad he’s a normal guy,” although, well, that was obviously not the case. I took a little offense, actually, because I think what she was really saying was, “O, good, he really does like girls.” But maybe it was just me thinking that, since I couldn’t explain my feelings for women in any other way. I didn’t want to say I wasn’t gay because I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being gay—but, if we’re being honest, I’m not gay enough. I see myself, for example, with both Ursula and the prime minister of Italy at the same time.
I wondered if Ursula might reevaluate her relationship with her man now that she couldn’t take me for granted—but had she ever taken me for granted? She didn’t take anything for granted, did she? That’s why she was with somebody in the first place. I certainly didn’t take her for granted—but the fact of the matter is that she was a little too close to home—the relationship was serious, and, honestly, I couldn’t believe—I could barely even fantasize, about having a sexual relationship with Ursula. She was too far out my league in the real world—in the world of real numbers. Now i know what you’re thinking . . . at least I think I do, but, then again, i don’t know, because my ego exists, in this realm, without bounds, but are you thinking that one day Ursula might feel the same way about me? Wouldn’t that be a problem—especially if i was in love with her? So I did my best—through the prime minister of Italy, for example, to build up my self-esteem so that i would feel good enough to backchannel with Ursula, and Ursula alone.