One twenty five. I played my Precision Bass and it sounded awesome to me. The low notes down around the third fret especially growled. I’m really happy with this instrument. Then I walked over to the store for a Sprite and cottage cheese. Cathy was cute even with a mask on. The gabapentin is probably doing something, but I don’t know what. I feel more easygoing than I did. The sun is out and, indeed, I feel different today from yesterday… While I was out walking on Silver Lane, the thought of my brother surfaced a few times, ridiculing and deriding me. I said screw him. He said I was worthless— totally unfairly and cruelly. But he was two faced with everybody, saying bad things about them to other people. He did this with Polly and her family too. He got caught doing it more than once, but I was the one who paid the price. My siblings played cat and mouse with me. I never mattered to them. I was their sacrifice… Hindsight is 20/20, as they say. If I had been distant from the situation, I could’ve seen more plainly what was going on. My siblings were more worldly wise than I was. The disillusionment I experienced was good novel material. But as it is, I can blog about it. When did Balzac write Lost Illusions, and what was the plot? Henry James would’ve read it. Every great writer owes his greatness to his influences. Without Balzac, there would’ve been no James. Without these two, no Freud could’ve existed. And without Freud to get it wrong, no cognitive therapy could’ve sprung up. Now the question is, was Freud really wrong with the sexual theory? I should read more of James Baldwin. Once I’m past the shock value, there will be much food for thought.