two-tone skin a thing of the past just something to think about huh? i’m just talking shit idiot girlfriend, i knew better all along; but, even still, some effort to interact with people on a friendly level proved to be progress. are you going to screw me? Don’t know why this particular Ursula—the Ursula—was being so vulgar. If she was trying to turn me on—then good luck: my prolactin levels are through the roof. I just went to the doctor the other day. that’s a downer ”yeah, but I’m doing something about it—it’s just not going to happen overnight.” I still can’t believe I broke up with you know who. I get a similar feeling when I look at her as I do when I imagine any ex; a semi-meaningless passage of time that could’ve been spent getting ready for someone else. So what if i didn’t find the right person until later in life? that’s the way this pans out.
now she was mumbling things, talking about doing a book report, et cetera—what grade was she in? And was it really appropriate for me to be talking to her if she was? But I guess what was actually happening was that I was guiding her, shaping her into a person that both she and the future wanted to be. And when we spoke I was talking, much of the time, with the bulk, this person, existing both in the future and in the 5D realm. No worries, then. I’m definitely not grooming her—that is to say, tricking her into being my sex slave. I didn’t have time for sex slaves. I never did—and I wasn’t interested. Everybody knows I want a partner for an indefinite period of time—someone that I will never stop loving and someone that will never stop loving me—even if the honeymoon period comes to an end, and, a little while after that, we go a little in separate directions—both important directions, directions that lead to the same place, but, nonetheless, different, and, as such, being in love would no longer define the relationship.
Being in love was important—more important than I’d given it credit for; of course, in my youth, i thought a little differently—I actually convinced myself that I was in love with someone because of how bad I felt when they weren’t around. So maybe i was a little in love. But they were bad people that took me in the wrong direction—one in which i couldn’t work, which, as anybody that knows me can understand, defines who i am to an incredible degree—much more deeply than any ad hoc relationship for the sake of getting some experience in so that I have something to draw from when I settle down and get creative. Start producing a body of work. But what I know now that I didn’t know then? You don’t have to make a slew of mistakes, call it experience, and draw from that to become the greatest artist that ever lived. All experience is equally valid, whether that experience stems from looking out or looking in. So instead of going with bad people, I could have been talking to Ursula, for example—or developing my telepathic communications.
Ursula was showing me pictures of licorice, now. I could kind of see her in my mind’s eye, a conglomerate blond resembling an older woman, and, on top of that I saw the licorice. Used to chew on it at school when I was advertising how important i was because I was quitting smoking. Didn’t work, anyhow. Why was she showing me pictures of licorice? Red licorice, like i had, to be exact. The color red was dominating my mind’s eye—what was she telling me? What was my female God telling me? That red represented what—in conjunction with being young and pig-headed and also in conjunction with seeing all that blond hair? My female God spoke the language of love—it was the language of the universe, the fundamental formula and basis for everything that is in the universe, and, as such, everything that is good in the universe. It was the translator. So what was being translated?
Seeing some Chinese calligraphy figures, now. So we’re basically writing to each other, i think. The images send packets of information straight into our backs which we unpack over time throughout the day. Little by little, sometimes. Sometimes it comes gushing out. Ursula appeared to be saying that the color red was an identifying characteristic for her—so that I might know when she was speaking to me. That made sense. But she hadn’t been doing much but making fun of me and saying stuff that had no importance to me in my present frame of mind. I’m just a kid. Yeah. pork chops ok—pork chops, like sideburns or the meat—a meat, that, on occasion, looked a little gray? I wonder—does she like eating pigs more than cows? Or does she like those things about the same? I am a pig, silly. I’m crying now. Well, that was too bad. But when you find yourself totally out of place and misunderstood in what is actually a cruel world, that can happen. You get over it eventually—sometimes you never cry again.
That’s what happened to me. I’m too happy and secure to be crying—i let my suffering out in advance, these days, as it happens, little by little, so i never end up with a deficit that would drive me to tears. That’s what the pros do. Crying, in my opinion, is bad, at least if you can help it. Which I think some people can—some people cry because they want to cry—they like crying, they like the way it makes them feel. I think that is ridiculous. It’s like taking a bunch of pictures of yourself. It’s vain, and misleading. It’s fucking confusing. It’s not good for you. Feeling sorry for yourself becomes a bad artform—a means to dump your back, in the end. I mean it. People that cry a lot are either in deep shit or they’re bad people. Who wants to hang out with someone that takes pictures of themselves constantly and then gets high off what amounts to emotional masturbation. Now, masturbation? Is there something wrong with it? If you do it all the time, there is. You’re just dumping your back in a slightly different way. It’s like crying. it confuses you, makes you think your better than you are, makes you a little cocky and self-righteous. Unless, of course, it’s not that easy; in that case you’re working, a little, and, in so doing, telepathically communicating.
I hope Ursula understood this. If she didn’t, then, well, she might end up being a total bitch. At least for a while. I guess it would be better to say that she would wind up being really obnoxious for a while. If I knew her then, I might be able to do something about it—i could do what nobody ever did with me—fucking talk to me, for Christ’s sake. But I don’t think, if we were together, she would be obnoxious. If she was being obnoxious it would be because she was expressing frustration at her inability to bridge the telepathic divide with her physical presence. Teleporting? Yeah. I used to think I did that off and on, at least a little, to the extent that I almost convinced myself that it was real beyond the bounds of my house, in which all my mysterious ideas about who and what I am and what I am doing surfaced and remained hidden and protected—protected fiercely, i think, because, deep down, I knew I had to live a life on earth.