I’d been watching Anna on social media a little and i heard her talking about people getting rushed into a relationship with a loser, and by loser she meant someone that doesn’t respect women, but i got the impression she might have meant a little more than that, even if she wasn’t saying it, and I also got the distinct impression that she would define me as a loser, in part, i guess, because of my desires, which could be interpreted, by some, as involving a lack of respect for women, and, also, because of the fact that I had written, in the past, about her relationship with her boyfriend, what i viewed as a certain degree of being in love with herself, and, also, her weight. I think she would definitely assume that I was disrespecting her, when, well, what am I supposed to do? She’s a public figure, and I wasn’t trying to attack her—I was thinking out loud, trying to process the fact that she doesn’t want me, and, that, after a while, I began to lose interest in her. She no longer seemed to be my Ursula, and, while I do not rule out the possibility, as time goes on, the possibility, even in a heaven in which she might like me, seems to remain unlikely. There are other women out there that I might want more, and, in saying that, well, I mean no disrespect. Just like I mean no disrespect when I write a book. I don’t go overboard, I changed the name around, it’s a work of fiction, and, also, it’s just a book—it’s not a confrontation.
But enough about Anna—I was happy for her, that she had her stuff together, that she was growing into something great, that she was something great. Nobody, including me, could take that away from her. And I had no interest in doing anything but making her the next president of the United States—i saw no reason why my book wouldn’t help with that, if it was read, which, of course, it wouldn’t be, so what, really, was the issue, anyhow? She had my vote. That’s what everything boiled down to. That’s what really mattered. Now, I know I’m not a loser—I have a mental illness, but I’m not a loser; I’ve taken what I’ve been given and made the best of myself that I possibly could, which is all anybody can do. Making the best of yourself and your circumstances is what makes you a winner, in my opinion, not the fact that you might like various forms of sex, or the fact that, well, you don’t have a good job and or a wife and or children and or a lot of great friends. Some of us can’t have a family of our own, perhaps, in part, because of a mental illness, but, also, perhaps, because it simply wasn’t meant to be—and, likewise, having a lot of friends doesn’t always come with being a sort of introvert that thrives in solitude, and, frankly, doesn’t have the time or the interest in cultivating a multitude of relationships, that, frankly, at least for me, would seem to diminish in importance, or at least in intimacy, the more numerous they get.
So what was my Ursula up to—the real one, this potentially variable woman that saw the best in me, and wanted to be with me, as I am? I hadn’t been in the bath—I’d been saving water and drifting well past my alarm—until my parents would have been in the shower and potentially without hot water, or until it was simply too late to spend a couple hours getting ready for my day—when my day, essentially, at least based on what time it was, or would be, once I finished getting ready, needed to begin. She was here—she was there. So, was one Ursula referring to a different Ursula? I couldn’t help but wonder what people did when they lost a loved one and remarried and fell in love all over again. Did they simply allow God to choose one of them for them? Or did God permit them to be with both lovers in heaven, and, if he did, did they all live in the same house? And what if the person you remarried also had lost a loved one? Did you live together as a group—and, if you did, did you share partners?
Or what if one woman you were with wanted more attention than you could give her when you were with both your 4D spouses? Did she leave you for another? Or did she take on a second lover? And were you okay with that? And, if she did, did that new person settle with just half the woman he got—and no one else? It seemed that somebody, in these situations, would end up sharing one person with another person, without having another person of their own. One person, at least, would go without. And maybe that was fine in heaven. I don’t know. Who’s to say, or judge, what people really want? Anyhow, I concluded that every situation was different, but that, if it were me, and it was just two or three spouses, I might live with them, possibly, but if they wanted another man of their own, then, I figured, I’d want everybody to live in separate houses, if, that is, we all loved each other equally, and nobody was to necessarily spend more time with one person than with another.
But I was most likely never going to find myself in such a potential conundrum, or with such a potential blessing, depending on how you look at it, which, if it’s heaven, then it’s a blessing, anyhow, and it’s exactly what you want—and what God wants—exactly what was meant to be. What did I imagine for myself? I couldn’t say. Why shouldn’t I be completely in love with two Ursulas at the same time? Why shouldn’t I live on my own, and visit my lover(s) whenever I felt like it? Or why, and here’s the big question, shouldn’t I live with one, and only one woman, for my entire 5D existence—which, of course, would be forever? There was no reason for me to think that I necessarily had to have more than one Ursula, that I was destined to go, across time, from lover to lover—or share myself with more than one partner at the same time. I only prepared myself for such a scenario, since, well, i wanted to be completely in love most, if not all, of the time, and I might have wondered, a little, if that was really possible, with just one person, for me. But I would have been more than happy to accept true love with one and only one person forever. To have, as it were, one, and only one, soulmate.