We were coming, in some ways, to the end of one road, and, as we did, we were approaching another road that, according to my bad angel, might not exist.  I was down to 1mg of risperidone and up to 80 mg of Latuda—i’d also quit the benztropine, so I was waiting to see if my involuntary mouth movements returned, which was a little difficult since I would make the movement if I was thinking about it.  But the risperidone was supposed to cause that kind of thing to a greater degree than the Latuda, so I had my hopes up.  All this left me to one prescription before going to bed—atorvastatin for cholesterol, which I might not have needed once getting off the risperidone but, well, I figured it was good to have lower cholesterol than higher cholesterol, and I don’t think it was making me impotent.

     It had been a few days since I’d kept this appointment—talking to Ursula across time and space—basically like we’re occupying the same exact headspace—call me a negative Nancy but I was worried about her weight again—figuring if the last ten years is any indication, then, by the time she’s in the oval, well, she could gain another twenty pounds, which would have made her chunky, and then, well, if she had a baby—who ever comes back from having a baby . . . well, to be fair, some people do, but, on average, i’d say most people don’t lose half the weight they put on.  Now, these imaginations indicated, I’m quite sure, that I had real feelings for Ursula and I didn’t want to get off track from my true self—a person that sleeps with people that weigh a reasonable amount, not just anybody.

     I was in the middle of a mathematical jungle trying to make sense out of various things that both solve the Riemann hypothesis and explain certain physical properties in physics.  All i wanted to do right now was take a breath and get back in touch with my Ursula.  Her voice was coming from the center of my brain, but I was a long way off.  That happens when I do math—I’m so focused on other things that I forget to project her voice.  Maybe I’m doing it a little unconsciously, but she definitely gets pushed aside by unknown people that sneak in when I’m checking my email, so to speak.  I’m not saying I’m not reading Ursula’s email when this happens—I think a lot of times I am, but as all this math comes out of me, pipe dreams, i know, i lose the filter.  Others get in.  People that would disrupt my routine, make it difficult for me to focus and get things done, and, of course, to get to sleep at night.  I had no intention of living the tortured life of some archetypal artist.