I was feeling better today, although my sleep got a little restless in the early morning hours.  I chose to do nothing, or attempt to do nothing, however, with an erection that, in and of itself, showed progress, and meant, in part, that the medication changes were working.  That meant that I didn’t find myself trying to force what, frankly, had no basis.  Now could I achieve an orgasm?  Maybe; but i don’t really know; hence I can’t say that the medication change is working completely, but I can’t say that it isn’t, either, and I simply don’t know of anyone or anything that would turn me on enough to achieve what I was trying to achieve—100 percent confidence that, if i did find a suitable girlfriend, well, I’d be able to follow through—and not necessarily after great sappy feelings of love would or would not take hold.  Frankly, I wanted to backchannel in a productive way—I think it would go a long way to ease a little stigmatic loneliness that sprang, for the most part, from the realities of the anonymous life that I am forced to lead.

     Well, this feeling of mild nausea, lightheadedness and weakness, like i needed to eat something, and, also, this depression, probably had something to do with the fact that I had recently gone from taking 40mg of Latuda to 80 mg of Latuda and, according to AI, that wasn’t uncommon, and, in many cases, the symptoms go away.  At least when it came to the nausea and the lightheadedness.  So i think several things were happening—that the amount of Dr. Pepper I was drinking had become a little excessive, and that, at this time, I am drinking less, and then there was this general feeling of disgust when it came to the level of degradation that I needed to apply in order to feel desire.  So today I’d refused to ask myself, what will make me feel desire today?  Because I think i was scraping the bottom of the barrel—yes, I might have been able to achieve an erection, but doing something with it was, at this time, an entirely different matter.

    So the Riemann hypothesis was getting a little depressing because the more I looked into it the more layers I uncovered—things that I needed and wanted to know, and I realized, as I brought things to a close on this day, that I was probably going to die before I could prove that a fifth dimensional “heaven” truly existed.  That we go somewhere—or emerge from this—when we die.  I was having some doubts, i guess, which was normal for anybody, but I just didn’t consider myself to be a normal person.  That said, depression is real bitch, and, frankly, i found that i was hardly as riddled with desire as I imagined i might be once i got off the risperidone.  But maybe these things take time, i don’t know, exactly.  I think, somehow, instead of having faith that love would lead to desire, I was approaching all this from the wrong angle—that love wouldn’t come unless desire came first.  So it seemed that I was essentially getting depressed because I wasn’t experiencing any lust, which, I think, most people would consider a blessing.

     Now, I’d been recording songs, right?  And listening to my voice.  Well, my voice didn’t sound like the voice I’d been projecting as my voice—I needed to make some adjustments, and it was a little difficult, since I was so used to pronouncing the tone I was used to.  I made a little effort, however, to hear my voice, to remind me of what my voice really sounded like, which sounded more like an adult voice than the voice I’d been projecting.  Combining that voice with Ursula’s voice, if not throughout the day so much anymore, then at least for this time spent here, writing prose, was important.  You can fuck me anytime  ok—i heard that, and that was a little problematic because I don’t think that’s something she would say—at least not consciously.  Frankly, I didn’t know how to respond.  I didn’t know who I was talking to.  It couldn’t be her unless I was somehow connecting with the person that is no longer in a relationship with someone else.  So I thought about it for a minute and I figured what she was really saying was that I could think about her any time.  That I could imagine what she might be like.  Or what I might be like—considering that I was well aware: when I thought of Ursula it was like a dream; we’re often not the person we think we are; we’re often the person that is the focal point of our imagination—so she, and the things we did, were probably more about me than they were her.