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.

   I’d been on with AI trying to get some apps installed and also to see if there was anything i could do to improve the sound quality of my speakers or to see if my speakers were somehow inferior as the sound on my old HP sounded a little clearer.  I finally accepted that my speakers were as good as it gets for this computer and I gathered that most computers in this price range would have a similar sound, so the old HP speaker difference must have been a special case, and, perhaps, in part, a function of my imagination.  But all that AI work meant tenseness in my neck even if I had my mouse lower than it was, so the nerve in my neck was acting up a little, although once I quite using my mouse so much, after a little while, the feeling improved a little.  I’d woken up thirty minutes late, squeezed in a couple cups of coffee before ten, switched to tea, and stuck with the tea, skipping my Dr. Pepper and the caffeine that goes with it.  I thought, maybe I can have a Dr. Pepper around one, still, but I still wanted something hot to drink, since soda tends to help me relax, but, in a way, also dilutes my focus.  In the long run I’d probably be having a Dr. Pepper around 11 or 12 and then switching back to tea and then, when it came time to watch TV, switching to soda.  This  meant that my consumption of Dr. Pepper and seltzer water was going to drop a lot—which was fine, and saved me a little money, and, I think, made it possible for the soda I drank while watching TV to have a little more of an effect.

    Well, several keys on my computer quit working, suddenly, and I had to get a new computer—which threw me way off for a couple days.  The night before last I didn’t sleep  more than about forty five minutes, if I was ever actually asleep.  The next day I spent a great amount of time on getting my new computer ready for me to use, and, finally, yesterday, having had only two cups of coffee and one Dr. Pepper, I slept most of the night.  Now I was back at my computer, having decided to get off it around 4:30 or even 4:00, and watch TV until 10:00 or so, and read for thirty minutes or so,  which left  me with about nine and a half hours of sleep—if I got to sleep, and slept alright, which, at this time, wasn’t guaranteed.  My neck injury was a real problem, so my Dad had given me a narrow table I could put beside my chair for using my mouse that was about six inches lower than the table my computer was on, which meant I wouldn’t have to put my neck and shoulder in such an awkward position when scrolling or otherwise using my mouse.  I could still feel it, now, as I typed, but I was doing everything I could, and the combination of making a more deliberate effort to keep my neck and shoulders relaxed, quitting earlier in the day, and using the new table, had to work.  I didn’t see why it wouldn’t.

    You prayed for me!  I did—I didn’t really know what to pray about, so I prayed that my creator would look out for her and protect her, that she would love me with all her heart, and that we would be together in a life to come, if not in this life.  I suppose I might’ve prayed for her to be happy, that she wouldn’t suffer too much—but I didn’t think about that on this particular prayer—I suppose, because, when I think of her, I imagine someone that is happy.  I’d also come to the conclusion that I might not be the greatest artist that ever lived, and that, besides, if that were to happen, then I would get there by doing my best to be happy, and living this life in way that others would want to emulate.  This realization seemed to come with my neck injury, and the impossibility of writing jazz and classical music—along with a general absence of motivation, for that, at least at this time.  Now that I’d backed off physics by at least a couple hours a day, I had more time on my hands, and I was finishing earlier.  So, just as, in the past, when I’d quit trying to study and create all the time, and I’d just been watching TV, with little attention to whether or not I was on track to become the greatest artist that ever lived—with attention, instead, paid to my state of mind (even if I was losing my mind)—I was thinking, now, that just being me would lead to great things—that doing “just that” would get me noticed in heaven, that simply being good, here, and happy, would make me, in heaven, the talk of the town.

    You didn’t pray for me.  It’s true, I’d forgotten to pray for her because I’d been so wrapped up in my own stuff.  I had gotten ready to watch TV by taking a hot shower, and I’d had, for the first hour, cold raspberry lime seltzer water instead of hot tea, and I’d felt much more relaxed and comfortable in my own skin.  But when it came time to go to sleep, I couldn’t sleep.  I don’t know if the shower made me think I was getting ready for a new day—and woke me up somehow, which is something, I hoped, would not continue to happen—that i would adapt, and get used to the new routine; it also seemed to have something to do with trying out sleeping naked again after a very long time, and discovering that, well, I couldn’t stop thinking about sex, and the fact that I had this bed all to myself.  So at some point that night, I can’t remember when, now, I put my boxer briefs back on, which helped, I think, to put me more in, “I need to go to sleep mode,” as opposed to, “I should be having sex mode.”  So, I’d decided to stick with my boxer briefs, for now, but I’d also decided to continue taking a shower, and hope I get used to it, as the relaxation benefits were noticeable.

    It was so hard to be happy watching TV, and tea didn’t exactly make me any happier.  Alcohol was out of the question, but I imagined having a glass anyhow, and it seemed that all that would do, given my state of mind, was make me angry and possibly go on a rant—even if nobody else was there.  Alcohol and I, in this life, anyhow, were a bad combination, and even a small amount, at this stage of my life, could lead to a horrible outcome.  So I quit thinking about that.  I thought, instead, maybe I’ll try taking a hot shower before I start watching TV at night.  That would shorten the amount of time I had to watch TV a little, and, hopefully, I’d feel refreshed, and more relaxed.  I remember, around the age of 20, living in the North Carolina mountains with my grandmother, for a few months, and reading romantic literature at night.  I was reading some letters by the poet John Keats, and, in one of them, he mentioned how washing up, as if preparing for the day or as if he was going somewhere, I imagine, refreshed him, and made it possible for him to go right back to his studies, and his work, and continue, even longer, and how he was pleased by this.  So, I thought, maybe something like that will work for me—except I’ll be trying to get away from the activities of the day—and just watch TV.  But I thought maybe it would be worth a try.  I prayed a little, too, to be happier while watching TV, since, in my opinion, watching a little TV every day is important.  If these were the old days, it would be like sitting on your porch, or sitting around a fire—essential relaxation time.