I’m here, Dad.  But I was seeing Ursula.  i wonder, then, if Gwen had the ability to reach me, then maybe she also had the ability to contribute to my creative endeavors.  Sounded plausible.  You’re not the only one  that was Ursula talking to Gwen . . . i can’t manage all that.  The were saying I’m wonderful—was I privy to the line?  I am a kind of switchboard operator.  Calls come and go through me—a hub, of sorts.  Still feeling this annoying semi-drunk feeling (minus the feel good chemicals) and couldn’t do much math today either—although made critical progress in the time allotted.  Oh, well.  Sometimes it’s better to quit before trying to learn so much that you run out of space to store it and process it between one working day and the next.  What was I also thinking?  I’m freaking hungry; don’t  know what that was about.  “Once I get off the risperidone, and I can eat lunch again, maybe we can have lunch together.”  Sounds good  but, i wondered, does Ursula eat lunch?  Maybe not.  I know she doesn’t take a lot of breaks—and her teeth look kind of white so she must not fuel everything with coffee.  Hey, that’s great.  I wonder—is there anything negative about her?  Other than the fact that she likes to argue?

    nice to know that someone else goes on a rant every now and then—but what if we blow up?  “that’s a chance i’m willing to take for love.”  then somebody said, and it sounded kind of like my Dad’s voice, “we appreciate the prompt response.”  that was probably Mozart talking; i don’t know—maybe it was just my Dad talking.  I suppose that’s possible.  but if it were my Dad talking I might expect to see Mozart in my mind’s eye, for example, since my Dad represents Mozart and Mozart represents my Dad.  How is the music going, anyhow?”  “Well, I’m trying to talk myself out of it, but I’m thinking of recording another song today.”  And the instrumental pieces—the work that, given the size of your brain, people expect from you?  Good point.

     Now i was tuning—I’d done some tuning while painting, which wasn’t something i normally did—i normally just used my own voice—if i even thought about it at all—but today I was touching base with Ursula’s voice every so often.  Not as much as I should, but enough to count as a change in my pattern.  i like clothes!  I can’t be seen wearing the same thing too often!  Now, Ursula would never say something like that out loud, but I often saw her in outfits that I’d never seen before—and I was wondering how she fit all those clothes into her closet, especially when, considering her net worth, it didn’t seem likely to me that she could afford a large apartment with a spacious closet.  So was she buying clothes and then giving them to good will?  I don’t know.  She must have been storing them at her mom’s house or something.

     So my Dad caught me writing a poem about “Ocasio-Cortez,” and warned me not to use her name because the FBI might get the wrong idea.  Don’t know what he would think of all this.  Maybe it would give him a panic attack.  But I haven’t done anything wrong—I could do something wrong if i tried to trick people and put words in her mouth—or say things that people might think were true, but I wasn’t doing that; i was clearly talking about telepathic communications, which, clearly, are not believable.  Now you might say, yeah, but you believe it.  And you’d be right, but, again, I’m not trying to make this woman look bad—the worst thing that could happen is that I’d come off as a creep and she wouldn’t like me, but nobody, so far, could punish me for having a crush on this real person.  Do you have any idea how many people have a crush on this person?  What are you going to do, put them in jail because they hope that she’ll break up with her boyfriend and be with them?  There’s not enough room in prison.  Anyhow, if she wants to be president, that’s something she needs to be conscious of—that people will fall in love with her.

     taking a Dr. Pepper to the head; wondering, basically, if we can change the subject—since, somehow, I feel i’m in hot water.  You have made me angry  but that wasn’t her talking to me—that was her talking to her boyfriend—but since the things she said to her boyfriend might’ve been meant for me, well, she was talking to me, possibly, and, if she was angry, then, well, she was angry with me.  Did it have to do with my ingrained, visceral, almost instinctive racism?  I didn’t think so, because i think deep down Ursula knew, despite her need for assurances, that she was, in fact, superior to most white women, if not all of them, both because of her looks and, also, because of her job.  I never met a blond that compared to Ursula, and it seemed more likely that I’d die a bachelor because of it.  When it comes to relationships I didn’t want to feel like each new person was a step down—beauty-wise—from the last.  If anything, they look better—to a point; the wild card being their age.