So there’s a bit of a conundrum: I couldn’t watch TV past 10:00—I got too restless, and just wanted to go to bed, even though I didn’t feel especially tired, which meant I was lights out before 10:30, so eight hours would mean that I’m getting up at 6:30, which is earlier than 7:00, etc.  Was awake for a little while, woke up around 2:00, then around 4:00, then around 6:00, couldn’t go back to sleep, laid around, got my clock a little before 7:30, I guess, probably can’t go back to sleep with all that ticking—it’s like a beating drum that keeps me from drifting off, counted, prayed a little, counted, prayed for another moment, counted, etc., until about 8:00.  So another restless night, even if I made it, in bed, anyhow, to almost 8:00.  Because of this, I’m thinking of getting off my .5 mg of risperidone—getting off the risperidone completely, for good—sooner, rather than later, and I’m even thinking of dropping back down to 50 mg of trazadone, as it doesn’t seem to be doing that much, at least it doesn’t seem like it, and it could, possibly, impede an orgasm, so, well, I figured, what do I have to lose?  Another restless night?  If things turn out worse, I can always get back on both the .5 mg of risperidone and the extra 50 mg of trazadone. 

   Well, I woke up at 4:00 a.m. again and couldn’t go back to sleep—made it until 7:00, couldn’t take it anymore, and got up.  Didn’t have a lot of caffeine yesterday—so I don’t think that’s what this is.  Something else is happening, something that started with the medication change and something that has been exacerbated by whatever I am going through right now.  I’m taking 100 mg of trazadone a night, so this shouldn’t be happening, and makes me wonder how miserable I might be without it, or if it’s possibly backfiring somehow—I don’t know.  Maybe I should drop back down to 50 mg and see what happens—but I don’t want the whole thing to get worse—to have, basically, a miserable night with no sleep, so I might not do that, I don’t know.  It’s very frustrating as getting a good night’s sleep, in my opinion, is essential to being truly happy.  That is to say, both you cannot be truly happy if you are not getting a good night’s sleep, and, furthermore, you are not truly happy in the first place if you are not getting a good night’s sleep.  So, if you made some change to your life, you could probably be happier, and more yourself, in real life.

   My heart was bothering me yesterday, and I have to ask myself, how much of my heart pains was a function of living out what I was meant to write about—and how much of it was actual, real, heart pains?  Well, the heart pains were real, don’t get me wrong—but what I mean to say is, how much of it was method acting?  Or how much of it was a function of space and time deciding what I was meant to write about, and forcing me to feel it, in order to produce it?  When I was losing my mind, a long time ago, it seemed that when I wrote about things, they, or something like that, actually happened, a little before, during, or after the writing process—throughout that day, and sometimes longer, depending on how much writing I was doing.  I still consider this a possibility—that time is not entirely linear, that the things I type shape my experience and the world around me, that other people, and what they want, affects what happens around me, what I feel, and, consequently, what I write—that people in the future read what has been written, and send it back, to me, in the past, which shapes my reality, and I end up writing, then, what they read, what they wanted to read.

   My breasts will be any size you want in the next life, but, for now, you have to get used to different kinds of breasts, including smaller breasts.  Once you get used to me, and my soul, you’ll be just as turned on—no matter what my bra size is.  In the back of my mind, I understood that to be the case, but it didn’t change the fact that if I didn’t know you, or your soul, and I wasn’t projecting anything, then, in the ordinary case, I preferred larger—not fatty, but larger—breasts.  That may be a real downer for some women, and, maybe, considering that I don’t have a giant penis, it may seem a little shallow, or hypocritical, but I can’t help it.  Does it get me down that women might prefer, if they had a choice, a larger penis than mine?  Maybe a little, but, honestly, I feel the same way that Ursula does.  Once a woman gets to know me, and falls in love with me, then my penis will be as arousing as any other.  Now, granted, I feel sorry for men that have abnormally small penises, as that could be a stumbling block, but if you imagine Greek and Roman statues, and how nice those penises look, then, I think, you, and your lover, can make that comparison, instead.  Just as, without trying to sound like a pedophile, a woman with small breasts might resemble a young girl, which can be arousing enough, if you imagine you live in a time period in which a woman is viable as soon as she starts having her period—when people married young. 

   You’ve got to hand it to yourself—you’re a wiseass.  What now?  Did I actually want to make pornography with my partner?  I don’t know about that, but maybe—it was a far off possibility, if, that is, I didn’t, in doing so, ruin my chances of becoming the president, which would never happen, of course, but that mattered, and, I imagined, there could be a world in which I could get away with that, if I went about it the right way, and I was really lucky in life, however unlikely.  But anyhow, I put the pornography off for a day and a half now—the imagery got a little distorted, a little ugly, in my mind, and I wanted to wait for it to pass.  I wanted to wait, too, because solid telepathic communications did not always mean watching something.  You had to use your imagination—and see what came into your consciousness.  That was how you got some idea of who you are, what’s going on, and how thing are taking shape.  I would never do that, except I might, if it didn’t stop either one of us, in whatever universe, of becoming the president.

    Well, putting off pornography became too distracting in and of itself, so I gave in, got to see naked people again, which basically hadn’t happened ever except maybe while watching Game of Thrones on HBO a while back—and that only lasted an instant—so it’s not like I could really absorb anything, as an artist, or perhaps anybody, would.  It wasn’t as perfect as I imagined, which is why it’s a good thing that I went through with it, and was a little let down, because allowing some perfect fantasy—i.e. porn in heaven, with heavenly bodies—to continue was more distracting than the imagery that happened to get imprinted on my brain.  I still didn’t know how I was going to deal with all this—I didn’t want to become addicted, or get used to watching it, limp, such that I became impotent, or more impotent that I would have been without it, which a doctor of mine said was a possibility.  I didn’t want to get too much imagery in my brain such that it became a distraction, either, but, on that note, I figured, if I had a partner, well, I would get all that imagery on my brain anyhow, and be thinking of it, whenever, in the same way.