[ENTER THE MULTIVERSE]

(SUPACREEPS)

(And a suprise DJ set.)

LEGENDS:

ENTER THE MULTIVERSE

Fuck. What was it?

It was a p—

Well it was a *PR

Lol.

*PT cruiser

Yeah, but it was—

It was purple.

It was a purple PT. Cruiser

It was—but what else was it?

Ugh. I forgot.

Yeah, I bet.

GOOGLE SEARCH

shades of purple.

Ooooh.

PERIWINKLE.

You fucking dumb ass.

I mean, Jesus.

How long has it been?

At least a lifetime.

No, past that.

It was a perfect periwinkle PT cruiser.

So, start there.

‘Start there' what?

Everything since then, till now—

For what?

Enter The Multiverse.

That show is still on?!

YES.

What day is it?

Fuxk. What time is it?

What—the fuck.

What?!

CUPCAKES AND A MUFFIN?!

I don't care how fat I am.

You're not fat.

QUASIMOTO

Can I just say, your ass is like —woah.

CC/SUPACREE

Oh, thank you.

QUASIMOTO

I mean like—DAAAAAAMN.

CC/ SUPACREE

OK.

QUASIMOTO

i mean like—what the FAAACK.

CC/SUPACREE

Yeah. thanks, bro.

[an awkward silence]

QUASIMOTO

…Good job, though.

[light fist bump]

EARLIER:

MORE CUPCAKES.

NAH.

OHH, OREOS?!

Oreos are the G.O.A.T.

I WANTED CUPCAKES.

SHUT THE FUCK UP—

Before that, at the gym:

—do the butt machine again.

Again?!

Get the glutes.

But I'm tired—

GET THE GLUUUUUUUUTES.

Calorie Deficit Calculator:

-3423

Oh shit. Well how many calories did I eat?

BEFORE:

…chocolate chip cookies?

NO—

—CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIESzzxz—

[CC/SUPACREE robotically and autonomously ditches her bicycle outside of sprouts, not giving a Fuck.]

—s—noh! stop it! Stop controlling me!

THEY ARE VEGAN.

SO? STOP IT.

Ooh, what's this.

I don't know—

get it.

CC/SUPACREE stands awkwardly at the checkout with a varied selection of vegan baked goods.

*beep*

Yeaaaahh.

So wait. SUPACREE is controlled by aliens?

WE ARE GODS.

Knock it OFF!

[NEW ABILITY UNLOCKED: SUPASTRENTH ]

Nice.

Yeah dude. Watch this.

The Legend of Supacree is the #1 MMORPG in the world; it is also happening in real-time, in multiple worlds within the multiversial constrict of the actual Omniverse.

AGHHHHH

In fact, nobody even plays GTA or call of duty anymore.

YAH!

[Random objects falling from the sky. ]

SUPACREE

Oh, nice.

INSTANT MANIFESTATION.

JUST POST THE FUCKING EPISODE ALRIGHT?!

this bitch is fucking crazy. Watch this.

Watch what?

SHIA LABEOUF discovers The Legend Of Supacree franchise and becomes villainously obsessed with It, hatching a heinous and meniacal plan to hunt her down and capture her—tracking her every move and learning everything about her he can.

Wtf.

I don't know.

Is he a villain?

I don't know. I guess.

I'M A SUPERVILLAIN.

…He's a supervillain.

I guess. Why?!

I don't know.

This is creeps.

It is creeps.

[lifts one eyebrow.]

SUPACREEps.

Scary monsters and supacreeps.

Heh.

NO, NO MUSICIANS.

Heh.

SHIA LABOUF is straight up gangster.

HE'S CRAZY!

[SHIA LAUGHING MANIACALLY.]

Oh, wow–

That dude is a straight up psychopath.

You're a straight up psychopath.

I'm not arguing.

What is THIS part of the story?

Well, son, you made it through.

WOODY HARRELSON? WHAT.

Woody Harrelson?! WHY?

I don't know. He just fit the part.

WHAT PART?! WHAT/!

Nobody quite understands what's happening in ENTER THE MULTIVERSE, however, THE LEGEND OF SUPACREE has taken an incredible turning point, intersecting with the world of LEGENDS and THE SECRET LIFE OF SUNNI BLŪ/ THE SUITE LIFE OF SUNNI BLŪ.

IT HAS?

YES?

WHERE?

I WANNA DIE.

OH!

That's not SUPACREE!

[CC HULK SMASHES her bike onto the rack on the bus. THE HULK, sitting just in front stares at her wide-eyed as she boards the bus over the rim of his sunglasses.

Oh, maybe, nevermind.

Wait! Is it THE HULK, or MARK RUFFALO?

I don't know! I don't give a shit!

Why are you even writing this?

Uhhhhhhhh.

[CC's brain is slowly melting as she rides the bus to work. THE HULK–

OR IS IT MARK FUCKING RUFFALO!?

I DON”T FUCKING CARE–

THERE'S A DIFFERENCE

WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE

IT – DOESN”T– MATTER!

‘It doesn't matter.'

Chal's words echoed in my head almost too loudly–as boldly blind and sometimes even dumb as he was, he was also wise, and as it turned out, right–it really didn't matter. Nothing mattered at all. I had gone through the motions of reaching out to him, to of course as expected learn that he and whatever her name was had gone their separate ways;I understood that would be the case nearly immediately back in Mazunte, but as he was insistent he would woo her–and persistent in doing so, that I thought maybe after all love– or what really turned out to be his obstinate lust would win the day–and yet, it hadn't; he was again single and on the prowl– and although at one point I had even lusted after him briefly, trailing behind him in nonchalant platonic carelessness as he obsessively followed another woman, had allowed me to become comfortable enough in the friendzone that i could just simply exist next to him; Now, again faced with homelessness and factoring in my inability to travel much further than south of the border, especially now knowing well how to travel throughout mexico and into Guatemala, I wondered truly if my own self-worth had really been lowered to the point of allowing myself to meet Chal in Guatemala–even full well knowing that he, too, preferred perfect and illy white to my dark skin and quite seemingly matronly features, and, knowing for myself that I wasn't hsi first choice– as he and I had of course met in Mazunte around the same time he had met whom he considered to be ‘his Goddess'-- albeit while on a topless beach and thus hynotized by her breasts. Men were hopeless.

Then, here I was, waking up every other sleep cycle in the cold sweat of a wet dream, the subject of which I typically at least tried to keep deeply hidden in my subconscious psyche as secrets, although by now it seemed there really were none, and all that I knew and that I thought were known and seen by some other than myself–though somehow still holding true to my belied that there really was none other than myself–in my own broken and twisted world, alone and punished in the depths of mediocrity and shame.

Woah.

Riding the bus.

There's nothing lower.

There's walking.

To the bus.

Yah.

And all the sick people. And all the crackheads. And all the–what are those?

Demons

[demon hacks.]

Ugh, fucking–ugh.

SHIA LABOUFF'S obsession with SUPACREE is helga petaki-meets Tom Cruise jumping on Oprah's couch.

Oh, wait, we're back on that storyline?

I mean– I don't know how to write this.

Just write it.

he's a villain, right?

I mean, that suit.

SHIA LA–

FUCK.

WHAT?!

Worst last name EVER.

Well, not ever–

Wait, is he black?!

–It sounds french.

GOOGLE SEARCH:

‘How Jewish is Shia LaBeouf? ‘

–no, he's Cajun –

That's french-black–wait—

–what?

Cajun AND Jewish?

–Yeah–

Jesus!

JESUS

What?

(raises one eyebrow)

SUPACREE strategizes a plan of attack.

Attack for what?

{ATTACK}

YOUUUU INCEPTED ME!!!

AGH!

{COUNTER ATTACK}

NOT ME! DISNEY!

(DODGING COUNTER ATTACK}

Yeah, Blame “Disney!”

I JUST DID.

Oh, yeah, right!!

RAVEN SYMONÉ

It was Disney.

THEY OK'D THIS?!

They bought Marvel!

THEY OK'D EVERYTHING.

—Even the SKRILLEX?

Especially the Skrillex

—Especially the Skrillex.

AGHHHHHHHH——

———-AAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!

SHIA LABEOUF VS SUPACREE:

FIGHT!!!!

Everything looks good—

—everything looks good.

Everything looks fine—

—Everything looks fine.

But wait—

What?

What about that guy?

Oh My—

—oh my…

Is he gonna be alright?

Is that guy

—gonna be alright?

Is that guy gonna be alright?

Is—that guy gonna be alright?

Is that guy gonna be alright

Is that guy—

Gonna be alright?

Is that guy gonna be alright??

Is that guy gonna be alright?!

Is that guy gonna be alright m?

Everything looks good—

—everything looks fine

Looks good—

But what about that guy?

…I don't know about that guy.

Is he alright?

Yo.

Yooo.

Stop writing songs about Skrillex.

((I literally can't.))

What?! It doesn't have to be about Skrillex! It could be about anybody!

Here, they call with disco balls

Stars in my eyes, but stars do fall

First true love dies hard after all,

No star shines bright as morning comes

—(for) Sonny

…I didn't write that.

CUT TO: CC writes automagically between sets of heavy lifting.

IMAGINARY FRIENDS, PART III

DEADMAU5!!!!

okay—one more—then cupcakes—

Cupcakes? No cupcakes!

I WANT CUPCAKES.

Uh—No way!

YES WAY.

Mmm—no

I'm sick of this diet!

I'm not on a diet! I eat!

You eat GRASS.

I'm a vegan.

This shit sucks.

I told you, grass tastes bad.

RICK?!

(I also want cupcakes. )

Mmkay—ohh.

You said that was the last one.

No, more more.

NO “one more”

But I like this one—and it has the right amount of weights on it already—see?

Jesús Christ

He's not here.

(Yes I am).

Why the Fuxk.

I also want cupcakes

Okay, one more

No “one more”

The power of Christ compels ye!

…

Is that how that works?

No.

Maybe.

(((Yes.)))

AGHHH.

The celebrities of Hollywood are gang stalking SUPACREE

Can we—

No.

But I didn't even get to ask the question.

The answer is no.

THE CELEBRITIES OF HOLLYWOOD, after assembling with the Bampheramphs and Morherfuckers, have formed a supergroup tasked with bringing SUPACREE to THE HOLLYWOOD PEOPLE—so far, they have cunningly out-bested and outwitted THE US GOVERNMENT, including but not limited to THE FEDS, THE CIA, THE FBI and THE SECRET SERVICE.

REALLY?

I GUESS.

HOW?!

—

DRAKE snoops on SUPACREE as she writes working half heartedly at THE NECK MACHINE with peaking curiosity, peaking over the time of his sunglasses.

Whats it called.

“Nautilus 4 way neck “

BPM: you're a jerk

Do the Drake

Do the Drake

Do the Drake

Work that neck

Work that—

Neck, Becky

Work that neck,

Work that neck

Do the—

“new note:

Purchase

‘Honestly, nevermind'

I had worked an entre month at LVAC before the circus went underway; Not a single drop of Skrillex had ever been played over the loudspeakers at any moment, for any of the time I had been employed there, nor had it burdened me any of the other time I had spent bettering myself within what I once cherished as sacred walls–now the illusion shattered, as nowhere I could seem to run – even the rural coastal jungle of Mexico-was far enough to escape the clammerings of something I quite honestly very much still loved, but wouldn't allow myself to enjoy—

Or maybe, now, couldn't.

BANGARANG.

‘Fuck this shit.'

I wanted to move, but didn't—I wanted leave, and probably should have, but wouldn't. I just sat there through it as my coworker, standing at about 5'4 ½ in a pair of tight black skinny jeans sang along and bounced rhymically.

What the fuck.

Then, as it had just been earlier that I was thinking of Sonny himself, and how, be it that any of my premonitions were actually accurate and true as I had once thought them to be, there would perhaps come a day that I regretted not listening to his works, just as one regrets not spending time with a loved one before their passing not giving enough attention to the little things, the tiny details, the time they had missed, but never missed without missing their loved one until it was too late. Then again, for me, any time in the then- present was too late, as I had only been followed, taunted, and ridiculed, openly humiliated and embarrassed, and never really paid directly for anything I had done, whether it did have to do with Skrillex or otherwise –and so I had made it more than a point to distance myself from it, anything having to do with it, or him, or anything really, music related—of course besides relying heavily on deadmau5 just for my own existence–that is, willingness wake up, move about the world and its endless, pointless constructs, and even so, completing a worthwhile workout with enough satisfaction that I could allow myself to leave the building–and now, with my commute taking up a grand total of 4 hours of my entire day—I didn't have the time or the energy to stay late into the days and even afternoons as I had before, or to arrive early as I had in the days and weeks before; Now this job was amounting to nothing at all, and I was surely less than breaking even.

Whats the worry?

You've got 20 minutes to write a story!

Don't be sorry

Mind your orders.

You're a war chief

Marry me,

Oh pretty please—

I plead to you, just sing for me

Just think of me as a

Never ending fantasy,

At the very least

When you bury me

—and you buried me alive,

Just for the look of things

What makes us even

Slitting wrists

Or splitting things unevenly

(Either thing benefits me,

And my penis,

I think.)

Make me famous—

She said

Hate me or debate me,

I have everything I need

And I have everything you have,

But I can leave,

All with my dreams intact

I do believe

You think I'm evil

Either way, unnecessary

Why would I sit down and write a story—

When you just did it for me?

Why would I pledge sllwgence to old glory

She's ignoring me;

Why would I change my name to satisfy your needs

When mine sit idly by waiting

Why would I dream of you,

When you dream of me

I have all I need,

You have all of me in the other room

While you watch cartoons wirh your lady

I hate anime and now I hate you to,

But I'm so stupid,

Nothing soothes my moods,

Except playing your tunes,

Or music

Whoop De Fucking do

Would you Marry Me?

He said

(He never did, he just let her—)

She said,

I do

And now they're doomed

I built a tomb for two

The bride and groom

In music

Two by two

And used by Tuesday

Music I presume

To the beautiful

Music I presume

For the usual

Music I presume

For those who —-

SHIA LABEOUF

JUST DO IT.

That is not how the end of the song goes.

No, but this is how the end of the episode goes.

Really!? How?

[CC stares lifelessly forward out of the front window of the double decker bus; a man dressed in all blue catches her attention—another telepathic shapeshifter.]

You brought…an umbrella?

I told you there was a shit storm coming.

Oh, nooh.

Where's yours?

I— don't care?

That's right you don't.

I don't.

That's good you don't.

I really don't.

You don't give a Fuck, or a shit.

I—don't give a fuck or a sh—wait—

DILLON FRANCIS?

I'm good at what I do.

What do you DO?

THIS.

“A Silent Partner”

Oh.

I like that.

That has all kinds of insinuations.

Doesnt it?

Hermph.

Youre a creep.

A Supacreep.

PAUSE

ITS MISTER MAGOOoOOOOOOOooO0oO.

No, it's the IRS.

Fuck.

HOLY SHIT SUNNI.

WHAT.

HOW DO YOU OWE 100,000 IN BACK TAXES?!

Student loan debt.

WHAT. THAT DOESNT MAKE ANY SENSE.

Yes it does.

HOW.

Calm down Marci

—MY ÑAME IS—

[Sunnī Blū subdues her instantly with one if Supacree's mysterious rave weapons]

Sit down, please.

…what is that?

You like it?

Yeah.

[she gives her another dose of strange vapor, she relaxes even further.]

See.

Yeah.

Now that you're happy—

—am i “happy” ?

[she gives her another relaxing dose]

—are you Happy?

Yeah.

Ok. So. I never filed my taxes because I had so much student loan debt, I would never get a tax return because the stupid government would just take it away.

…They're so stupid.

It's s supercomputer.

Huh.

The government is a supercomputer—it's a giant—unfeeling—

Huh?

Nevermind;

But Sunni—

Yes, Manuel—

You finally got my name right!

Yeah. I did.

—but you're rich now—

I'm very rich. Yes.

So then (hiccups) it doesn't matter if the stupid government computer takes your tax return away, cause you're—rich.

Yeah! Rich people don't pay taxes dummy!

Shhhhhhhh…be happy.

[sunni sighs and takes a large huff themselves of the mysterious vapor, however still quite visibly insetttled.

MEANWHILE,

(IN A PARALLEL DIMENSION)

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUCKING—FUCKSAUCE

Ooh—fuckity fucksauce?!

FUCK!

Haven't tried that one. Is it purple too!?

SHUTTHEFUCK—UP.

Ooh. It must be really hot. Let me try.

Hello, Dillon Francis.

Oh, no.

Ha.

Did you fuck my best friend?

…I didn't know you…had any friends.

I don't now.

[he hangs his head.]

ALSO MEANWHILE:

(IN ANOTHER PARALLEL)

DIPLO, in a villainous rage nearly murders DILLON FRANCIS, stealing his portal gun and a vast supply of his magic to track down SUPACREE and all of her living incarnations.

Is this along the same timeline as Shia La—

Fuck this dude's last name for real.

For real

_!%]_€

Is it on the same timeline?

I mean, that's insane—SUPACREE is being stalked—

—Hunted—

Hunted by not one—but TWO super-buff celebrities—

Hey, to be fair—I didn't know Shia La—

Whatever—

Whatever. I didn't know he was that buff.

Who expected this?!

Literally no one ever.

How did this happen?!

CUT TO:

What if I threw myself in front of a school bus!?

That would be the 16th time you've died, since you committed suicide

So is that 16, or 17?

Does it matter?

I thought it was 10 to get to Skrillex.

I thought we weren't trying to get to Skrillex

I thought we never left.

We never left.

Fuck.

You've got to run.

It's not a race.

He's very fast.

What if he's spent as much time in the gym as you have?

Huh.

What if he's spent as much time in the studio as you have in the gym?

That's it.

That is it.

This album is really.

Golden.

Golden? Really?

Probably.

Ive never seen gold before—

Oh—

Look.

Look.

What would they even tell the kids?

“Some of you will grow up to amount to nothing and, and out of those some of you, at least one of you might just have the guts to throw yourself in front of a speeding vehicle which represents the very institution which disregarded your existence entirely in the first place.”

Oh.

That's…a lot for a bus full of kids.

Not high schoolers.

Benny Benassi (and the biz) was the word of God today.

Tell me what your spirit says

Show me what you pray

Teach me every single part

I'll be your guide

You are a prisoner

Looking for to be.

Like heroin through a junkie's veins, the song poured through my Hesh 3's like the golden waters of a sacred fountain of wisdom; it made me reflect on the everythingness of all at once, and I was at bliss, even if only for a moment, briefly recalling how I had almost allowed it to be a bad day—but there were no more bad days, I had decided. Everything was in synchronicity, and exactly as it had to be; everything was going along just the way it was supposed to, and I had nothing to worry about. All was in time with the motion of the great flow of life—then, just suddenly—thinking of such synchronicities, as I pulled out my phone to write in the moment—

You can change your face

But can't change your mind

No matter what do you do

No matter what do you do

No matter what do you do

No matter what do you do

No matter what do you do

No matter what do you do

No matter what do you do

No matter what do you do

11:12.

‘FUCK.'

I cocked my head in complete awe to the side

‘Hard flex, Dillon Francis.'

It was still hard to compute that such a man had become my literal muse—and though I knew not the exact meaning of the word—I knew what it meant. It was fascinating to me, and astonishing that something so simple could in my state of once fragile and benign vulnerability, be used as a tool to help complete this hypnotism, whatever it was meant for. I wasn't exactly making music, or anything good really—and I felt like I was bleeding money and certainly not making my worth in dollars for all the effort and energy I was spending just getting to work at all, let alone to work out—but there was still this, though I could finally falter to being irreversibly in love with Sonny Moore, or at least who he might have once been ( or the idea of such, anyway—) I did very much think of Dillon quite fondly and quite repetitively through each and passsing day, and oftentimes in my dreamworld, quite uncontrollably and involuntarily, in whatever way I was, it was forever. It didn't seem to matter, and though I purged myself from actually becoming as obsessive as I had once been with Sonny, I simply left it alone;

‘It doesn't matter!'

Chal's voice sometimes overcoming my own, in the way that I did now wholeheartedly believe that pretty much nothing mattered, especially my emotions or feelings, which I wished would disappear like the title of the album I had actually written and completed but never had the chance to release, and had just the night before eaten in record time 4 entire vegan cupcakes to myself,

—even when I had at least thought to share with my coworkers—a feast which usually took between 24 hours and 3 to four days, if I was moderating correctly. But I hadn't been—I was over stressed from riding busses full of people who didn't care that as the natural empath I had always been, I became gross and dysfunctional as anyone else who rode the bus just off the Las Vegas strip between the hours of 8 PM and 8 AM. Gross.

I successfully pretended not to know who deadmau5 wash and upon being asked what I was listening to on the bus, I simply replied ‘progressive house'—and just later that night, as my coworkers, most of whom were about 10 years younger than I was, clammoired about fame and famous Individuals; dead-mau-five came up randomly in conversation; to which I coyfully resigned from correcting the falsity that it once had “actually” been the correct way to prounounce the artist's name, and that he had “actually” changed it—and still, later on, when for the first time over the loudspeakers, a song by deadmau5 (besides the new kx5 track) came on, nobody but me could seem to recognize that it was him playing—and though I had heard the song by now at least hundreds of times, I couldn't name it…which embarrassed me, and I failed to even look upon the screen to fact-check or correct myself—it was deadmau5, it was good, and at least it wasn't Skrillex…

—who had also, though just behind deadmau5, also “coincidentally” come up in the conversation—this time less sarcastically forging a “who the fuck is that?”—of course, only to be met with what had to be a good minute and a half of my gullible coworkers explaining to me who Skrillex was, as I shrugged and nodded unassuminglu as if I didn't want to shoot myself in the foot just to dance to the tune of my own funural music.

(Whatever that means.)

Back to Benny Benassi

Are you sleeping? Ooh. I'm sorry.

Back to the Diverging lateral pull down, st a weight that looked too heavy, but was actually almost too light.

Whose job is that?

Ehmm— Skrillex!

Is that what he does?

Is that what this is?

—BABY, ID LOVE FOR YOU TO TOUCH ME BAAAAABAY—

ALSO:

THE US GOVERNMENT has gotten a new fleet of JEEPS.

Who is this.

[American flag automatic antenna extends from the back of the vehicle.]

Ooh.

What is that?

WE GOT HER

GO ARMY, BITCH!

Why is the Army following me?!

You can time travel!

So!

They can not.

Oh. I can shapeshift, too—why didn't they follow me when I started doing that in public?

They sent navy seals!

They did?! When?!

Flashback: SUPACREE is swimming when caught in a rogue wave, quickly transforming into a whale, before washing up on shore and transforming back into her human self, right before the eyes of the navy seals team.

What the fuck.

ABORT.

WHAT?! She's right there!

I SAID ABORT.

MORPHEUS.

What. I'm retired.

I know, look—

Don't call me—

I need a pill!

How did you get this number?!

It's The Matrix.

Touché.

I know, huh.

Don't call me. [hangs up]

[she calls his other line, he picks up unwittingly ñ]

Hello?

I need a pill!

You—have them!! Don't you?!

No!

What is “no”?

I don't need the red pill, or the blue pill!

Then I can't help you!

You're the only one that can help!

Have you tried Jesus?

Jesús is busy! Listen to me!

—Jesús is always listening—

I need the purple pill.

The what—what?!

The purple pill!

…you know what?

…what?

Dont—call me anymore.

[hangs up]

What the fuck!

[redials]

Call from: MOM

Hey Mom—

Hey, Morpheus.

What the Fuck!

You what the fuck! Help me!

God Help You! WHERE's my MOTHER?!

I AM GOD.

WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY MOTHER

—I Am your mother, Morpheus. And I just made your favorite: pecan pie—…

…

—without pecans.

…

…

…

Meet me at Fatastik.

Uh…the swap meet?

Near the Rugs.

What?!

—bring the pie!

[hangs up]

Damn, what's gonna happen now?!

I don't know. Ask Dillon Francis.

What does Dillon Francis have to do with this?

I dunno. Apparently a lot.

[shrugs]

MEAHAHILE:

DILLON FRANCIS screams uncontrollably.

CUT TO:

BEYONCE is a big fan.

Oh wow, that's incredible.

No, LITERALLY

BEYONCÈ, mastering her shape shifting abilities has transformed herself into a giant fan.

WOW.

That is cool.

(Literally.)

Get it?

SHUTUP.

[CC in a high intensity workout-induced trance merges with the character DUFF as she locks her legs across the rotary torso machine. ]

DUFF is paralyzed from the waist down after crash landing feet-first from her pod; She has landed in present day earth, first spotted by millions as a UFO; upon rescuing her from the fiery crash, recovering the remains of her futuristic vehicle raises questions from the whole world about her true origins and mission's purpose—however, stricken wirh Amnesia, she only recalls that her name is DUFF, and has very few memories preceding her discovery—it is clear that she is a human, and a high-ranking military trained space explorer—but remembers nothing of her own origins. It is suspected that she may indeed be a time traveler from the distant future.

WOAH

I know, huh.

That's what's happening in that series?! Damn!

I know, huh!

Sometimes I surprise muself.

And I'm not even listening to deadmau5.

So what's Beyoncé got to do with this storyline?

Something, I'm sure.

Synesthesia.

Oh—yeah, that.

She's so pink!

Don't be gross.

I— whatever. duff.

DUFF!

DUFF!!!

[DUFF is caught in a lucid dream; the original SUPACREE is in a coma after her failed suicide attempt—their worlds collide.]

Beyoncé's voice looked to me as if butterflies had long streams of silk woven wings, fluttering eloquently in hues of fluorescent pink and painted shades of rose-tinted streaking blues, auroras of bubblegum entertaining with breezy mellow waves of yellow and flooding bursts of bright purple—a pure joy in my ear sight, which meant nothing to the world, but everything to me.

Creating literal auroras I had only ever before seen in the frigid arctic night skies of Alaska, sometimes I simply had to close my eyes and breathe in deeply the fluid and sometimes glowing and velvety cascades—more so pronounced than the ones I had observed in finally linking kaskade's unique electronic sound to his name—probably because rather than having come from a synthesizer, it was Beyoncé's naturally unnatural voice—and by unnatural, I only meant that it was such a singularity that divinity itself had to have put her hands into allowing such a phenomenon to exist.

I had indeed fallen In love with the talent and aura of this too-perfect southern belle—but one doesn't simply aspire to be Beyoncè at the ripe old age of 30; a lifetime of dedication to artistry could only result in such an immaculate perfection in performance—perfection I humbly honored, but tried my best not to crave.

[CC, on the brink of being BLŪ but not having yet arrived in the true belief of her own accomplishments or potential. emotionally stuffs her face unforgivingly with Oreo cookies; a silent, friendly ghost, the ghost of the late great COOKIE MONSTA seats himself softly beside her on the bed. Another guardian Angel.]

What up, Cookie Monster.

I Am Cookie Monster— ugh—

[Realizing she is once again confronted with a ghost DJ, after having been visited by Avicii and I_O now years earlier, but still an ever-present memory.]

COOKIE MONSTA?!

[He shrugs as she stuffs another cookie in her mouth, literally overflowing with cookie and reeling in the discomfort of double-stuffiness.

Ughhhhh—I cant feel my face.

I can't feel anything.

Consider yourself lucky.

I consider myself ‘dead'

Yeah, me too.

Well, you shouldn't.

Says the ghost.

Youre the gh0st.

Oh yeah, huh…

[he shrugs and nods]

Huh. Yeah right.

But it seemed like I would never make dubstep—working two jobs, riding the bus—and despite my sweet tooth, my shrinking waistline and quest for physical perfection in the peak of my absolute loneliness, distrust for the world, and disdain for the injustice of society. All it seemed like I did really have that was mine, was deadmau5 blasting through my ears at any given moment as my dirty little secret—Oreos, my synestetic facination with Beyoncé, and, of course, one of the best athletic clubs in the world at my disposl, given that I had the time or energy to use it.

Altogether self-serving, señf-soothing, and best of all self loathing—navigating life had become more outwittinglu experiencing infinite death thsn not—an endless ego death in the confines of my own limitations and judgements. I had put myself in a shelf entirely—and now, I didn't know what I was writing for, but I was still writing. Even without making music, music seemed to make itself out of the words that could connect with my broken and tired spirit in whatever synchronization it took to type out a song, or a novel, or a suicide letter, or a screenplay—whatever it was. I didn't know.

And…

‘It doesn't matter.

COOKIE MONSTA fades away into the reminiscent whisper of a ghost, as CC falls asleep, hugging a pillow and still clutching an Oreo in one hand and her crystals in the other. The room spins as she fades into the dreamworld, lost in her self and the world within.

Might be a saint,

But the back doors open and

The oven's on so,

I won't close it,

If it gets too warm, you know

I'll want you to hold me

I might be lonely

I might be lonely

I might be

(((A)))

S-s-s-superstar,

Where are ye?

Real nice car,

A mazzarati you bought me

High speed dodging the paparazzi

I got to be lucky

I got to be the lucky one

We sure are lucky, aren't we

Darling, you're sparking

Park this thing

Spark me up

Let's party

What are we?

S-s-s-superstars,

Yeah

Red carpet party

Set the alarm,

No harming a full carbon body

Yah

You want this blonde fawning for your autograph?

Or you want me?

What are we—

Let's party;

Just us three

Right here in the lobby

Oh my god,

That's just raunchy

Stop to talk

The audacity

Or night at the odyssey

Whichever one

Haunts me less awfully

C'mon! We don't follow the models!

They follow me!

What the Fuck

Kind of husband

Does this

1x1 = nothin

The marriage was loveless

But honest,

I'd honor it over another,

And that was the start of

Another concept album

FADE TO BLUE

TO BE CONTINUED.

Copyright 2022 The Festival Project

All Rights Reserved

Here, they call with disco balls

Stars in my eyes, but stars do fall

First true love dies hard after all,

No star shines bright as morning comes

—(for) Sonny

Do you remember this place?

Yeah...woah...yeah…! I remember this! This was one of my first raves ever! Whoooooaaaa! How did you—? How did we—

She pauses, looking around. Lamarus has disappeared.

Lamarus?

She walks forward, taking in the memory.

(To herself) ...How did I get here?!

Then, she sees the shadow of her former self, in the distance—she is enamoured by seeing herself.

Dubstep plays, as ravers dance and play in the warehouse.

—Wait…is this…it can't be…

Her former self heads outside—she follows her.

Her former self looks around hesitantly, nervously scanning the grounds in search of something, or someone—she looks lost.

Oh *yeah*...

Her former self sits on a tree stump, slumped with her head propped up over her knees, squeezing her round face as she sort of pouts. She sighs, then—a boy smacks her shoulder, as he runs up from behind.

Bryce! Doooood—*there* you are!

Oh my God, Bryce…!

Here I am!

He grabs her hands, swinging her up, as they swing into a circle, spinning and gaining speed—until they both fall, laughing—her glassing fling off of her face, as she hits the ground, leaves crunching under her.

I was so *fat*...

As she lay on the ground, staring up at the stars, the world spinning—a bass drop shakes the warehouse, even rustling through the trees outside—

Are you okay?

She chuckles.

Yeah.

He helps her up.

Thanks.

More bass—inside, the party has gotten even more wild—familiar music plays—back outside, she and Bryce walk along the back of the building, as she produces a pack of Marlboro Smooth 100s from her jacket

Can I have one?

Uh—it's my lucky…

Oh—nevermind.

No, no—we can share it.

You sure?

Yeah, dude.

Sweet, thanks. Oh—here.

He produces a lighter, from the pocket of his skinny jeans, lighting the cigarette for her as she shields the flame from the wind.

Thanks.

They lean against the slde of the building, then slide down to sit, in sync. She blows out a puff of smoke, takes another drag, holding it in briefly, then passes the cigarette to Bryce.

What time do you have to be home?

He takes a drag, then blows it back out, answering her.

11:30.

She looks at her phone (an old school phone with slide out keyboard), as she illuminates the screen, the digital clock turns from 1:10 to 1:11.

She tilts the screen his way, they both begin to laugh.

From a distance, she lurks in the bushes, watching herself and Bryce. Lamarus reappears, startling her.

Oh, my God—

Yes—oh my God.

—what the—how are you doing this? What are we doing here?

—you don't remember this?

Yes—of course I remember it, I just never really think about it, it was so long ago—are we in my memory?

We're in *a* memory, yes—but it's not just yours. Each and every being here has their own memory of that night—including my Master.

—your master—what the? *WHO* is your master, anyway? And—why would he be in my memory?

—*A* memory.

—*my* memory. I've been reliving it since you disappeared.

—I didn't disappear, I can't. I've been here the entire time—I was *always* here. Literally.

But—

—And it's not just *your* memory—this is in *my* memory, and in my Master's—

That's impossible! I don't know your master, I've never seen you in my *life* before today, and this...this is clearly *my* memory, because there I am, right over there—

Right over where?

She looks through the bushes—but Bryce and herself are gone.

What the—

She stands up, standing above the bush, looking on in disbelief, then looking back behind her. Lamarus has disappeared.

FUCK!

She heads towards the warehouse.

The rave has grown into quite the wild party. She moves through the dancing crowd, steps over circles of people playing games, making out, reading palms, playing Ouija boards; making her way through the smoky, room, as strobes flash wildly to the music, which is familiar but distant in her memory. Then, as she approaches the center of the dance floor, a familiar song begins to play, it is “My Name Is Skrillex”, with an elongated intro, as we see her literally discover herself.

...No way…

She squints through the smoky haze to try to see the DJ booth, where the silhouette of a young Skrillex graces the decks, puffing on a cigarette.

...No fucking *way*...is *that*...is *this*...?

Lamarus reappears, popping out of nowhere.

AAHH. ((Real Monsters))

See?!

See—*what?!*

You still don't remember?

...Remember…?

The first portal. This is the night we met. You, and my Master.

Portal, what portal? We've never met—I don't know your Master, and this is getting strange—because, if I remember correctly—

If *I* remember correctly—

This was the first time I heard...

He holds out his arms, waiting to receive it.

She squints at him, realizing herself.

No.

What?

Just no.

What?

This isn't happening.

What? It already happened.

No.

Can't be undone.

Stop following me.

I can't, I am bound to you.

Bind yourself to someone else.

I am.

Oh yeah—who?

My master.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

No, for goodness' sake. He needs you.

I told you, dude—I don't know who *he* is. I don't know who *you* are, I *don't* know who your “master” is...and at this point, I don't even know if I know who *I* am.

You are S Ū P A C R E E.

I'm not super *anything* right now, except fucking *pissed* and sort of nauseous—I wanna go home.

You are home.

No. I want to go back. Take me back.

I did—look—*listen*—

No, you listen to *me*—I've been listening to you for...for...for—-

An entire decade.

Tssshh. I've barely known you ten minutes, let alone ten fuckibg years.

10 years is the amount of time you've been listening to me—I've known you nearly my entire existence...

Right.

I *am* right. You know me me

I know nothing.

Leave you? I can't—

You can. Promise.

Promises.

You can—

Eat shit and Fucking Die?

I wish you'd stop.

*Stop*

Really though, knock it the fuck off.

Psh...you really don't remember me... do you?

No.

She sits by the edge of the pond, looking at the moonlight in the reflection, letting out a sigh.

His voice changes, as he morphs behind her into another being, which she doesn't seem to notice.

Well...what if I sounded like this?

His voice is familiar, but she doesn't know how. She remains distant, looking up at the night sky, then back down at the water, as a slight reflection appears in the pond.

Look at me.

She turns around, to see SONNY/SKRILLEX standing behind her. It startles and shocks her into a breathless silence—she falls backwards into the water. .

She looks up at the surface, sinking down in slow motion—her eyes wide in disbelief, air escaping from her nose and mouth.

One of Lamarus's long tentacles reaches into the water, wrapping around her to retrieve her, pulling her toward the surface—as she gasps, a million memories flash forward and backwards, tearing through time and flashing through the voids and corridors of space.

*gasp* “ARE YOU OKAY?” ((echos))

_______________________

So you can just...change into whatever you want—whenever you want?

Whatever I *need*, sure. And, not just whenever...only when I have to, really.

...does it hurt?

No. Just takes a lot.

Yeah. Seems like it. That's...that's a cool power to have, though. I wish I could do something like that.

Psh. Are you serious?

Um like—I was, at first—but now I'm just trying to uhh...focus on the positives—

You're far more powerful than I'll ever be.

I have a hard time believing that.

You have a hard time believing anything, seems like—especially yourself.

I don't have powers.

But you do. You just don't use them.

Oh yeah.

Oh yeah, Koolaid Man. That's…

...what?

That's...why they sent me—to help unlock your true potential.

A flash, as the world begins again, and we fade to white.

How long has it been?

Forever, Cree. Literally forever.

How can that be?

This is infinite.

Infinite—what, exactly?

Everything.

Everything—Everything?

Everything.

Everything.

Yes.

So… what am I supposed to do, now?

Anything.

Anything? I can't do anything.

You can.

I...can? How?

Just do it.

Do—what, anything?

Whatever you want to do.

...I want to do music.

Then, do it.

Might be a little too late for that.

It's never too late—if anything, I'd say you're Right On Time.

Oh, come on.

Really. You can do anything you put your mind to—music, especially.

You think?

It doesn't matter what I think—what do you think?

I think I think too much.

No such thing.

—Overthinker, INZO—

I love music.

Well then—Try It Out.

O...Kay. Imma try it out.

Ok.

((Try it out, SupaCree Mixx))

I wanted to give a sacrifice to The Eye, however my circumstance in the working world, and being the practically unwanted houseguest of those at least charitable enough to allow me to stay for the time I had—was unable to remain in silence as I had wanted; I wished not to speak, or to concern myself with other people at all—but, forced into the worlf, had become subject of the forced smiles, hellos and goodbyes, please and thank yous, good mornings and good nights, and other irritating niceties of humankind that I hadn't wanted to participate in at all, but needed to. It would be too risky and difficult to complete a true fast, my commute alone consuming large amounts of physical and mental energy—and so I searched for something to give up; a sacrifice was needed to ensure I wouldn't die in this realm of mediocrity and purposeless. There had to be something I could do to display my true self; all I asked in return was a mere space of my own and the time—the precious time—to complete my various works.

THE WORLDENDERS are a secret band of superheroes—their secret identities include the various roles on the overnight shift at a popular chain of super-gyms, Las Vegas Athletic Club—

The Night Shift

A miniseries

The Night Shift is a mockumentary style miniseries which follows the secret identities of a band of superheroes in their day-to-day working the graveyard shift at LVAC; before forming The a world Enders, they comedicly attempt to mask using their multi dimensional and extraterrestrial superpowers, each unknowing that they are all respectively some of the most powerful beings in the universe, however, after SUPACREE is spotted by a mole from one of the various agencies tracking her, a plan is hatched to turn the unwittingly suspicious and mysterious strangers into an intergalactic multidimensional task force, forming the WORLDENDERS.

It's WORLDENDERZ.

Yeah, that's what I said.

With a Z.

No, that's stupid.

YEAH IT IS.

DO IT.

Alright—

WORLDENDERZ

The World Enders are an elite task force of super-powered extraterrestrial hybrids developed to aid in post-apocalyptic recovery and planetary regeneration after imminent doom in other worlds as well as parallel realms and realities.

They all share a multitude of each other's powers, some carrying variations of respective powers and abilities, which include telepathy, invisibility, teleportation, invisibility, and super speed/strength, but also each have a set of specific special abilities unique to their individual selves. All gifted shapeshifters, they use these skills to cloak their true hidden talents and ulterior motives—though no players intention ever goes against the grain of the greater good.

MELLO

Gift of gab. A demon slayer and chaos magician, who uses her bubbly personality and friendly demeanor to mask her dangerous and destructive rage—which actually summons previously-slayed demons, to use against the enemy in attack.

THE ORANGE JULIUS

Turns junk food into nuclear energy; sometimes glows (bright neon orange) in the dark—he also makes incredible smoothies, which, if consumed transmits some of his nuclear power to its consumer.

UNC

A demon slayer, who uses his shape shifting ability to appear in his 20s, but is actually 75.

QUASIMODO

Brings inanimate objects made from planetary or organic materials into living form, usually used for repopulating planets where a mass extinction has occurred.

DOCTOR OSBORNE

Doctor Osborne is paying off his medical school debt by working a night job across town at a nearby gymnasium—he spends his other 16 hours as a brain surgeon, using his power secretly to save lives by performing miracles during operations in which the survival rate are slim to none; this accounts for his beyond tired and lackluster behavior during his time at the gym—however his certain onset narcolepsy is often a conviniéndote key to success in many of the world Enders missions.

ORION

“A real nigga”

A world builder

DILLON HART FRANCIS is laying in a lush green meadow, centered in a field of daisies dressed in all white.

Though I'm not sure we're meant to be,

I'm sure that we could be;

Or have been—

But that's just me;

My memory expands further than the eyes see;

You're like me,

But likely,

Another lesson I need

So here I am

Rolling in the deep

Keeping secrets,

Sleeping with my grip

Tightly wrapped around the key;

A lock that doesn't open,

Another thing I don't need;

And I don't need you,

But I'm thinking that I probably shouldn't think

I need a drink—

(Of love)

Another drink—

(Of blood)

It's something wonderful, or was

A pigeon turned to dove,

And then a duck,

Right before my eyes

I'd be lying if I said I never cried so much

Over one

Lustful

Stunning

Something

What? You woke me up for nothing

I was someone in my dream,

And now I'm up,

And I'm no one

I'm no one, huh

But funny, sometimes

Why me?

I just keep on writing,

I just keep on writing

I just keep on writing

I'm deprived,

I'm not alive anymore—

No one ever loved me before.

He certainly must be dead; he thinks; his bright blue eyes glisten in the light, and as they begin to change, one single daisy stands out to him–unmoving, he stares at it, her petals rustling in the light breeze of the wind, however–they, too, begin to change. He takes a slow, deep breath in, still, however unmoving, as the daisy seemingly begins to dance and glisten; now he seem curious at best, but still unmoved. The daisy begins to flutter and twinkle, dazzling as the light seems to move around it, the meadow fading into a picturesque blur as the flower blooms, now changing color into a swirling array of flashing colors, now emitting a lulling hum– a peaceful and calming lullaby of frequencies and tones, cosmic and otherworldly and yet somehow natural and familiar Dillon becomes flush with bewilderment and awe, as the daisy continues to flash strobing patterns of lights and colors, now opening and growing as its petals stretch out, reaching into a flush and glorious cascade of pure white light–as his eyes widen, he moves slightly towards it; it opens up and swallows him whole.

INT. LIVING ROOM. DAY

THOMAS WESLEY PENTZ is slightly stunned, still glued to his screen; his good friend DILLON FRANCIS, an actor, has invited him over to watch his newest movie.

What the fuck.

The daisy returns to its natural state, and a warm wind blows through the sunlit field.

FADE TO BLACK.

What the fuck did I just see.

I swear, you're in the weirdest movies, dude –

He turns to his side to see an empty space on the course where Dillon had once been sitting.

Dillon?

He looks about the room confusedly, then pauses the movie, getting up from the couch and starting to the kitchen.

Dillon. Your movie's weird, bro.

However, the kitchen is empty. He approaches the counter, where GERALD is placed–he looks awkwardly at the pinata, staring into his eyes before turning it around.

Ugh.

He departs to search for Dillon in the bathroom.

Dillon! Where you at, bro? I paused the movie!

He checks the bathroom; also empty.

YO!

He turns down the hallway, hearing the sound of the shower running–

Are you in the shower?

No response.

I'm not about to come into your shower bro; it's weird and random that you're in the shower when you invited me over to watch your movie.

Still, no response.

Bro!

Again, silence–the shower continues running.

Alright…you better not be naked.

He steps into the master bedroom, the steam of the hot shower crawling out of the master bathroom and into the bedroom.

Are you okay?

He winces as he looks into the master bathroom, shower running at full power and the room filled with steam, to the point that even the roof is condensating; a drop of water drips from the ceiling and into his left eye–

–fuck–

–rubbing his eye, he observes the room to be empty–his friend is nowhere to be found; He is in the house alone.

---

It's was incredible magic, even if it was my own—and I didn't exactly know that it was, or at least not surely, as my day had been anything but enjoyable, not that I was allowing myself to be convinced of such—The Secret had at best instilled the fake it till you make it technique of always being “good”, even when you were bad—and that there was no such thing as being bad, even if you were feeling it; and that if you were feeling it, you were just allowing yourself to feel it. Everything is always good all the time no matter what—bad thoughts and feelings were a result of something you were lacking—something you were doing wrong—though, really, there was no wrongdoing, as for the truly practical use of The Secret says that everything that happens is with purpose; the power the awareness of that purpose, and the consistent application of that purpose no matter what action or circumstance.

---

Describe this feeling.

I don't know.

Does it hurt?

Kind of. But—

But—

Did you cry?

I didn't cry.

Good.

I wanted to.

Good.

There was no way I could finish The 48 Laws of Power and The Art of Seduction, or The 33 Strategies of War by Sunday; but, already knowing the 48 laws of power, I understood that even attending Dillon Francis's show would be an obvious forfeit to whatever game we were playing; it indeed was war, and as my fragile mind psychologically bent and twisted, wondering why it was I couldn't let Dillon out of my hindsight, foresight, or insight for much more than a brief moment; there was something powerful at play if not my own mind, crafting the world into a game which was fixed in my favor.

However, this day was odd, with no reason or rhyme—and now I was burning with a new sense; one with which I couldn't do anything, and though far from stalemate my next series of moves would have to be played well in order to peacefully withdraw from the match.

It was a different feeling entirely than with Kayla Lauren—and however fickle it may have seemed, it was still some sort of hurt— though, rather than a deep stab wound which pierced through my heart and straight into my soul, instead it was in fact a fire, which burned in my chest and, although in the place where my heart once might have been—an incinerator of panic and frenzy of chaotic, mischievous unrest had welled up inside of me.

There she was—

I assumed, the blockage I had sensed admirably, having prayed for peace and happiness, However—it was clear that in all the nonsense I had indeed become attached and outright infatuated with the idea of obsessively wanting Dillon Francis, which had, admítedly halted the overall creative action in anything including him in The Festival Project, and though there were still subtle hints of things maybe even going my way—I had to find something, anything that would help me cling to rational, stable thoughts. I had, after all—just wanted a [expletive]—and now with any luck or without any grief I could find one, without having the image of his face or his eyes burned into my mind. I had a healthy denial of having fallen in love with him; after Sonny, there was no love—and there certainly wasn't any falling into it, especially not with Dillon Francis.

Now I had to do everything I could to at least rid myself in the very least of everything I had written of him, I was looking forward to somehow disbanding the account and all things associated with it, as I was sure any monitors, trackers, or hacks were to be through there, and—as things seemed to have gotten serious in one way or another, with the “demon” coughs still following me everywhere I went, mostly possessing the bodies of white, skinny women—I couldn't trust that whatever was being done was being done to anyone but SupaCree—as no one yet even knew my true new name, besides the social security administration, and I had long since gathered that it it was indeed my own United States government trying to kill me, or rather, have me kill myself—they had by now realized I was more of a valuable asset to keep around in some way, if not just for my intellectual rarity alone.

The fact was, I wanted but not needed Dillon Francis—and as painful as it was to simply subsist in medocrity and corporate slavery, I knew myself to be powerful enough at least on my own to be constantly stalked, watched, and followed—and by Some standards or whatever other interests, I was valuable enough for consideration, but also replaceable enough to be let go. I had nothing else to live for, and so cared less either way, but having the weight of The Great Big Book Of Dillon Francis off my shoulders would at least allow whatever would take place thereafter to be duty-free.

She was long and frail looking, at least by the arms and the hands, and the shot was perfect enough that I could only know one thing about her, even watching the video multiple times. I didn't know why I was there, but something was scratching and gripping at me to look, and so I did—and to my atrocious delight, there was a woman beside him—stuffing the innards of a double double with hot fries—the kind I used to like: I was at least glad it didn't show her biting Into the mess, but I had already seen Kayla Lauren do so, minus the hot fries, in her very own In-N-Out commercial; this, however wsd just a hand model—a demon dressed as a woman showing off what she could do that I couldn't—and Dillon unremarkably making a statement, as if to say without saying “things I can do with her.”

The next slide, however, took and shook me, prompting me to realize I would have to change all of the names in my upcoming would-be novel, had I ever the time to finish it—of the means to put a middle or end to it, as it just seemed ever-never-ending.

[EDIT]

The dog in the photo nearly distracted me from essentially the most shocking thing I could have ever fathomed seeing on Instagram, and actually rocked me at the core; nearly vomiting with excitement or confusion, neither of which I could place, and setting the aforementioned fire with a gaseous fume—I played the story over in a fit of rage, and for the next few hours I would come to again question my own being and existence, unable to place my feelings but however, fully aware of them, unable to understand what they exactly were and why they were there. Now, I had probably another album underfoot, and though I was as wordless as ever, there was something to be said about the fit of fury and rage that was inescapable, the tears I had been able to hold back in the early morning hours that same day finally pouring out, as now I was certainly again in the grips of deep growing pains, none of which were wanted or needed, nor was I ready for. It was a dangerous, disastrous love—or something enough like it to be equally as painful and destructive. Everyone had a Kayla Lauren, and here I was, trapped in a body too big and too black to be cared for in the way I had only ever wanted or needed; at least by anyone I was actually drawn to, which was in itself a rarity.

Hell indeed hath no fury.

Auto-Magic

Don't stop me now

Uh

I'm on auto-Matic

Auto-matic

Auto-matic

Auto-matic

Daddy's home

Yo—

I gota boner

Or bone in my body to roam

I'm going rio-to roam.

You do not know me

I am not lonely,

But no beef with my rice-aroni,

No cheese

Oh please don't need me

I was just sleeping

I am the king of kings

You see me, Jesus?

He be calling on me

We don't sleep

Where are you mr mau5

They call me mr mouth

They call me mr mouth

I'm here to eat you

O-o-o-o-out

The limit is 5;

Times it by 9

Now that's a new paradigm,

I blend it up with lime

A Diamond

Now you are mine;

I am your mind

I am time

Bruh.

I like what I like

I have to hype you up,

You have to buy me

Blimey, my—

you're suicidy.

Fuck. Grow up.

I just opened up a notebook,

Now I'm shook,

Don't look

And don't look me up,

I'm a muffin,

Crunchy,

But no nuts

What?

Shut up.

Bruh.

Oh.

It's you again.

I think I'm in love with

Being In love with

Being in love

I think I'm in love with

Being in love with

Being in love

I think I'm in love with

Being in love with

Being in love

I think I'm in love with

Love with

Love with

Love with—

Being with—

Love

Love is

Love is

Love is

Being in

Love is

Love is

Love is

Being with

Love js

Love js

Love is

Being in

Love is

Love is

Love js

Being—-

Love

Is

In

You

Oh.

Diplo & SIDEPEICE on your mind

Sometimes I

Try a little harder

Do a little more

Work a little longer

Thinking of you

I

—-

One day I'll be perfect

One day I'll be famous

One day I'll be a shining star

You'll wish upon me;

But I'm far away now,

I'm far away now

“One day I'll be pretty”, she said

‘One day you'll be with me', she thinks

One day there will be no secrets, or regrets

But that's far away now,

Far away now

Here we go

Alright, alright

You all strapped in?

I'll be here all night, all night

One day I'll be famous,

Nameless said

I'm saying grace at picnic tables

Lady Faith ain't reading fables

I think I'm disabled, maybe

Run like a horse out the stable

This is unstable

This is unhealthy

This is unwritten;

This is a fairly tale!

Very well,

Very well written

Hot as hell isn't it?

Isn't it intermission yet?

I'm still on a mission;

I still haven't read the texts

I'm still sitting in smitten,

Drifting, but I haven't driven in centuries

Sifting and lifting my misery into Ascension

This my invention:

I need invitations for Satan's epiphany

What it is?

Skinny as Whitney,

Stiff as a skeleton

No more jello-or gelatin

Animal product again—

Hey this is my agent, or management;

Animal planet isn't as infinite as history channel

If I wear a flannel to funural

Call it a habit or programming—

Haven't I had it?

Goddammit, my dad is just

Random

I miss him

I can't take advantage

I'm packing my bags for the promised land

Plane hasn't landed yet

I just made management

Damaged like can in the back of a

What the fuck is that thing?

What?

What is THAT?

A semi truck.

What's it for?

Uh…

Sometimes God asks questions

I can't answer

I gotta get to Alaska

I think I'm crashing rapidly

Yeah, I'd eat a can on spam for my dad

I'm having a panic attack

But I'm laughing out loud

Cause the law of attraction says

Disaster is

A product of imagination—

And mine is bigger than Disney's

If you're gonna miss me,

Admit it

Cause I'm disappearing

I mean it

I gotta get to Alaska

I gotta get to Alaska

I gotta get to Alaska

A flatline

Can't be

Gotta get back on time

Gotta sing like Whitney

Shit you not

I'm not kidding

This shit has got to be

Offa my rocker

Or rocking chair

Dad, I'm a rockstar

I'll be right there

A delayed reaction

A trap;

A plan to get me back to alaska

“I'm a trash can”

I'm a beautiful black man

Man,

This is savage,

I can't handle this madness

Where's my man

Where's my mantras?

I am a Grammy winner

I am an Oscar winner

I am an Emmy Winner

I am a Tony winner

Blow me

Get below me

You owe me

You don't own me

I'm the only one who knows me

Okay

I'll eat banana cream pie

Just don't die on me

Just don't lie

Like there's no time

Please believe me

The only Interaction with Jesus I need

Is pleading

Please don't leave me hanging, dang

I'm on my way

Don't hate me for praying

Don't hate me

Hey,

Don't take this the wrong way

I only changed my name

To get away from

A murderer

I'm sorry

It's all my mistakes

I—

I'm wasting away

I'm wasting away

I'm wasting my days procrastinating

And eating cupcakes

I'm a size 4

I'm adorable,

But what will I do with these legs

Eggs and bacon

Any day of the week

And some pancakes, please

Anything for my daddy

Anything

Underwater plays on the radio station

I'm an over eater, but not lately

Haven't been sleeping

Haven't been playing the game that I made up

I'm an alien

No, I'm an Alaskan

With black skin

Pity the fool,

But I can't pity you

Maybe time for the pool

But can't stop a panic attack

When it's happening

Dad. Wait for me.

Don't leave me with mom

Please

Please

Take it easy

The universe doesn't understand

Don't

Or know

But I hope she won't

Take him away from me

Before I see him again

Radiation

I hate this

X-ray machine

A display of hate

I'm so mean when I'm hungry

Just trying to be as lean as I can be

Just want to be happy

Just want to be me, and I mean it

I see you see me

I see you see me, too

I see you in me, too

I see myself in you,

But I'm selfish boo, so unusual

So, so cruel

Eat a spoonful of

Fuck you, dude

Watch YouTube to get in the mood

I pity the fool

But don't pity you

You're just shitty

And I'm in your living room

Wishing to just end it

By admission, I didn't risk it all

Just to

Envy you

And I don't

And I can't

And I won't

Have it bad?

I don't believe you

I can't see through anything with the

Steam on my lenses

No steam room

Stream of consciousness says

Get out of bed,

From midnight to noon

I'm a human

I'm dead in the eyes

I'm dead serious

One minute to write

And I'm furious

Curious

Put me on ice;

This is ludachris

Losing my life to a human

Some bullshit

Digital love >< the veldt

Discoveries to Discovery

(That's Daft Punk)

I'm in no hurry;

Have a McFlurry

If life isn't wonderful

Isn't it wonderful

Isn't it dumb when you wonder what month it is

Isn't this physics

Collision of science and violent

One tiny violin, silence

Displayed as the sermon is read

Syrup with bread, or something

Guess I'm inbred, but well-read, or something

Guess we'll wear red, or something

Guess I'm just dead,

With no regrets

Surfing the internet,

or something

I'm channel tres

Let me express my regrets,

Or regression

Excersise to exsicion,

Expression

Express self check out

I'm wrecked,

Write a check out

To bounce

Where's Mr. Mau5

I'm still Mr. Mouth,

I'm sour

Didn't forget where this started but

It's been 5 hours and I'm just now feeling the power

I got you a flower,

Now I'm the man of the hour,

Turn the page

I'm starting to look my age, I'm

Starting to have nice legs, I'm

Starting to miss the stage a bit

I'm starting to see the deficit to my attention

Split the Bill, and fit the picture

Simply put, I miss her,

I miss him

I miss this

I miss that—

I'm miss América under this hat

I'm African American, yeah

I'm black—

Well, half

In the back of the pack

With a sandwhich

This is a masterpiece

Or just an album

Or just a - - -

Or just a problem

Or just another mistake I made

I'm starting to look my age,

I'm a raisin in the sun

Having fun yet?

Not without a flat stomach

And a gun,

To blow my head off,

Cause I never got it

That's raw, huh?

“I'm awesome”

“I'm so lost.”

I'm an apostle, Paul

You got it all wrong;

Imposter God with an awful lot of pasta

Without any sauce

Cause that's got carbs in it..

And I'm made of carbon or something

But not for long—

$10 an hour?

So wrong

Get me off this rock.

It's always too good to be true

It's always too good to be true

It's always too good to be true—

If you think so

It's always too good to be true

It's always too good to be true

It's always too good to be true—

If you think so

I'm always too me to be you—

Till you need me to;

Now there are two in this room,

And it's blu in full bloom,

I assume,

Make some room for me

Build a tomb for me, in your womb

Don't bury me

Burn me instead

If I'm worthy

“The earth,

My creation”

—she said.

The end.

(But it isn't,

It's infinite.)

Amen

07. -home. [-the kidd.] ft. Gerald And Sunnï Blū

Home

Oh, oh, oh,

Now–

Let me get in my zo–

Oh-ohne, now…

I gotta go now;

I got a show now

We ‘bout to turn out

“Wow–

You got me a blouse?”

Mm.

Huh.

You came to my house,

You gave me the mouth,

–I gave you the mau5

How's about a downer?

Do you want the powder?

It's been half an hour,

I am just a–

Flower;

And let me show you–

Power

(Let me show you.)

You Love Me

Especial…ly

Different

Every—

Now…

You Love Me

Especial..ly

Different

Every–

It's been half an hour..

Let me show you the power;

Hm.

They call me ‘The Man of the Hour'

Do you wanna know–

Where I go

When I leave the show–

Before the rest of the audience?

[GERALD]

Yes, or No?

I'll tell you,

I go order a drink,

And then,

I sit down, and I think to myself:

‘Have you really got it?'

‘Have you really been on the brink of, uhh

A positive thought, or–

Maybe a–

Million dollar deposit

Or–

Contract with, who was it?

Or, Maybe I shouldn't have said it,

Or–

‘Maybe I shouldn't have wrote it'

Or shouldn't have read it

(Or read it on Reddit)

Or wrote it just to–

[EDIT]

–What did I do?

Hmm.

Well,

I might have a sandwich;

And I might be a savage–

They already call me a ‘bad bitch'

I…won't be mad if you

–call me a fat bitch,

‘Cause, you know, I'll–

‘Eat you out of house and home'

Or, Whatever…they used to say,

“It's like a negro spiritual”

And uhh…

“A negro clerical”

I could be your hero, bruh

I could be your favorite girl

I could be the—

The pearl you discover upon

—How the fuck you even get a pearl out of an oyster?!

What the fuck!?

[laughing at self infinitely.]

Omg Beyonce's cute dimples.

Right?!

Stop fangirling.

…no.

THEY ARE CUTE.

Bitch, shut up.

BEYONCÈ is alone on an elevator—more specifically, THE HELLEVATOR; when it breaks down suddenly.

Why is Beyoncè alone?

I don't know…

Seems dangerous.

It does, doesn't it.

Everybody needs alone time.

I heard that.

How do you get alone time when you're Beyoncè?

Aha. You don't.

[Beyoncè being followed by paparazzi]

[Beyoncè being mom]

[Beyoncè being Beyoncè]

Oh, hey Beyoncè.

[very serious stare]

What you need?

Some alone time.

[Laughing in infinite dimensions]

Are you done?

Are you Beyoncè?

Though I found it to be strange, I actually did still have a soul, somewhere, seared deeply in the confines of my body, which sometimes I found to be hideous and others to be beautiful— not that it would depend on the day, but rather my state of being, I would have considered it a state of mind, but there was something else at play. Now I hadn't been into the gym in 24 or so hours, and I was still happily getting along with myself to know that I needed a break from Las Vegas Athletic Club—at the very least the North location, which was the closest and the only one I would be finding myself making the trip to at all, although I now had a bicycle and a bus pass to go with it, which made things so much easier than it was before—I was still being drained of my energy from various sources, here-and-there—but especially from Jessie, who at times seemed like a vampire, and even though I had started to understand this reflection of myself and her purpose, I still hated it; nothing was mine, and everything that was seemed to be falling apart, and though I had more than I needed and was actually genuinely grateful, I would have never been willing to admit it—mostly because for the most part, I was still incredibly homeless, mostly—and even working away ⅔ of my day no matter how beneficial the job had become to me, was wearing me down into nothing but the tradegy of a corporate slave; this job certainly wasn't going to get me the money I needed to repay all of my debts, or a chance at a sane life—my ex husband had stolen everything from me that made me feel even the slightest bit human or whole, and I wondered, in all this loveless, careless, homeless neglect—if that was it for me; if I was meant to have stayed with the person who consistently belittled me, cheated, lied, and stole from me—and though he was never willing to admit it, knowing he could have been being recorded at any time, became violent enough to have altered my entire headspace (not that it hadn't been crumbling,) but more than likely wouldn't have shattered entirely and so suddenly without having been punched in the face, choked, or strangled.

But I must have somehow deserved all of it.

It was a strange world, but not a strange day; I hadn't worked out, but things seemed normal and not as robotic as they had been, usually—and though I knew there was in part a certain structural programming at play—Jessie's childish ability to flaunt her spoiled laziness about, as if she knew she both didn't and never would need to work, and on the opposite end of the spectrum, I was a literal slave; I hadn't felt guilty about writing about her from literally under her nose for quite some time; I was a fully-unapproachable, untrustworthy asshole now, and I did it to everyone, often jotting down everything I could see in my experience that was noteworthy or captivating—more or less the entirety of my human experience, which at times felt less and less human with each passing day, and more and more surreal; not only did I not believe in myself to yet be alive, the looming sense of purposeless as a heavy cloud on my shoulders at all time, knowing one day, maybe even soon, I would finally wake up, knowing all of this to have just been an excessive fairytale—a nightmare of cosmic potions, where misogynistic men and other wrongdoers ran the world, where the ugly and poor remained slaves, and where the unjust nature of inequality had become a normalcy, amongst everyone in this existence, surely a lower realm of such—it wasn't possible at all that this dream, or nightmare, would be anything a proper God would have imagined—not one worthy of worship, anyway.

It was the American dream turned American nightmare—rich people living in excess with not a care in the world, and even those not having aquired a desirable amount of wealth, still living in privilege and filth, as I had observed in all my homelessness; everyone who had welcomed me into their home seemed incapable of taking care of it—which I found to be nearly unforgivable; how could one have something as precious as a home and leave it in ruins, letting trash and such excessive materials pile up into corners with the dust and the grime that was so simple to get rid of?! There was a clearer, deeper lesson at play here; though some had lived in literal shacks, they had been kept explicitly clean—and though during my childhood the discomfort of visiting anywhere less than middle class had given me an itch of discomfort, most of the households I did visit were also kept immaculate, save for those who had become addicts of something…and maybe that was the focal point of it all— that almost every American was addicted to something, and had to use another something in order to supplement for whatever the first addiction caused déficit to; I didn't care anymore really, and was willing to work, obviously for pennies on the millions of billions of dollars all of these corporations were scooping up—and though I just as stupidly as anyone else had spent a mentionable portion of my tiny paycheck on music, which I didn't technically need, but it kept me sane—and I was willing enough to keep my delusional dreams of becoming a DJ on hold, just to have a home, or a hole of my own that I could crawl into when I wasn't working for someone else, or working out the poison I had put into my body just to cope with being the kind of human that hadn't yet been lucky enough to be loved, or liked, or cared for and hadn't been lied to, despised, and betrayed in the same breath and by the same people that did once claim to love.

——-

The new Beyoncé album made me upset in a depressing kind of way; I wasn't black enough for it, to begin with, or at least wouldn't let myself be—it wasn't made for me, or maybe it was—but I was struggling with self and doubted any supposed greatness, probably more than ever needing to get away from Jessie and her sadly-something family—I didn't have a word for it, and since white people hated more than anything being called out for their privelege and racism, was straying away from even being able to write about it; I knew I wanted to be somewhere or anywhere in the middle of the obviously apparent race war—but there was no middle, just black-or-white— and I was neither. It sounded something like Skrillex had worked on it, or Sonny, or whoever the fuck he was—and in fact, I was almost certain he had, that I had strayed from the blockbuster romance that was supposed to have resulted from whatever out of bounds otherworldly shit had happened, and that the Dillon Francis I had romanticized was more than likely the Dillon Francis that probably belonged to whatever “organization” my ex had claimed he did— the organization that was more “willing to kill me and bury me in the woods where no one would find me”, than ever put me on or give me any worthwhile status; but how else could he—Dillon Francis—have known my deepest and darkest secret? I figured mY ex husband must have told them— whoever they were—everything.

One

Somethings wrong with me;

Mums the word

Don't look at me, you my son,

I am the one you want.

\BIG FREEDA and BEYONCE are stealing souls with their new hit dance song, aiding JESUS CHRIST in the fight against evil.

RELEASE YOUR SOUL.

RELEASE YOUR SOUL.

RELEASE YOUR SOUL.

By the millions, members of Beyonce's massive fandoms release a number of things; Including their jobs, their vibes, and their souls– all of which, luckily, end up in the right hands.

BEYONCE has lent SUPACREE her soul.

Don't break it.

I would never.

However, BEYONCE'S soul i incredibly fragile, and after a series of near-breaks, SUPACREE has decided the only way to keep it safe, is within her own soul; which has been encapsulated in an unbreakable vault by the use of magical cosmic forces yet unseen, but soon to be unmasked.

Key: villed grey

And everybody's miserable,

And everybody's miserable,

And everybody's got just cause—

But it doesn't make a difference, does it?

It didn't, and it never did

And never will

When will we believe in

Anything, again—

That we did as children,

Or kids?

I've never hated myself or

Debated suicide more often,

Than I have now, at least for awhile

Or a minute,

Whichever's of lesser or greater value

Get it?

I'm in remission, but

Living is cancer

And dying is the only thing that cures it

I hate being human

It's a curse

It's a cause

It's a movement

I can't move Into the future without you

But I guess I'll have to

And I'll just keep on writing

Songs about you

Song about you

Songs about you—

Sounds about right,

But it does t seem right at all

Without you

Without you

Without you

Without you

How about now?

Am I powerful enough to fight you?

That's right

I left right on time

Just to spite you

I am sad today

But I have t had sunlight,

And I haven't had a bike ride

But I needed rest, see

I almost died

I've got no light on the front

And reflectors don't work unless

Someone close to you has lights on,

I found out

Wow

Everything my mom said makes sense now

I get how

It's dangerous to ride your bike when it's dark out

And there are dark clouds overhead

But somehow

I made it

And I get

Sorry, am I in your way?

I can reach over you…

It's me.

I know it's you. You fuckin' dick.

Let me explain.

I heard Beyoncé's new album.

That wasn't me…

So you're trying to tell me you're everyone in the world but Beyoncé.

…yes!

Whatever.

Listen to me.

I'll do anything but that.

I have a plan.

I don't care.

Yes you do.

You don't know me.

You don't know me!

Shut up, Mrs. Pancakes and listen to what I have to say.

Unless what you have to say is, “I'm sorry— “

I am sorry!

—I don't wanna hear it.

I said I'm sorry.

I said I don't wanna hear it.

Cool. Fucking cool.

If it was a 7-year curse, I had 4 years down and still nothing to show for it but literal blood, sweat, and tears— there was no joy in anything except for food, which kept me in the gym and trying my best to stay in shape—and I was fit, but not petite, like Kayla Lauren; all the finest men wanted child-shaped women, or at the very best so petite that anything could do, and I could do nothing but sulk in my self-hatred. But perhaps I had spent too much time around Jessie, who for exactly 3 days had tried to mimic my neat and tidiness by cleaning up after herself, only to go back to the laziness and chaos that I had begun to get used to; however, realizing I had become quite the parasite, often exchanging the energy I was losing for other valuables I myself wouldn't purchase without having my own space; laundry and dish detergent, shampoo and conditioner, and the entirety of the spice rack—which I did feel tinges of guilt about, but nonetheless, an automatic housekeeper, justified using such things by having to take after the laziness around me, which drained my energy entirely—and promising to replace them when I could, though undoubtedly only feeling as if it was okay because of the apparent over-abundance, and my own shortcomings.

I didn't want to go back to Mexico, really, but probably would—the United States was too expensive, but I had gotten used to the luxuries and without a thought didn't really want to return where everything was broken down and dirty—and, where I was expected to pay more being “rich” because I could earn more by going back “home”, however, without a true home to go to, it was only a waste of time and energy to even be back; at least I could gym, and I did in part have Kayla Lauren, or at least the whole of white supremacy to thank for that—the fact that she and girls alike were automatically just ‘better' and had more advantages for being more fuckable pissed me off to the point that gym time had become part of my daily regimen; though, surrounded by petite-bodied fredcked faces did nothing for my own confidence or self worth—I still had Sonny always in the forefront of my mind, and somehow somewhere someone had figured him as my ideal enough to make this all happen; now all I wanted to be was 108 pounds and petite, knowing at that exact measurement anyone who wasn't really a racist would want me—and know knowing I wanted more than to be wanted, but to be needed.

My dreams were seeping Into reality and blending with astral projections of the past, whatever that was; I had been gladly visited by my dead son and however traumatizing that was, I had at least seen him, healthy and tall, 7 years old as he would have been at the time—and of course, taunted in the dream world as always being there, but not—in another room, in another place—aware of him but not with him, always thinking about him but not there, as I had truly been. It didn't matter that the universe or whatever evil was in it was haunting me with my motherhood—I had actually tried to keep my marriage intact, and I knew it in my heart and soul, or whatever stardust was left of their remains respectively, that I had done no wrong. It was a damned-if-i-did and damned-If I didn't situation; there was no remedy for whatever had taken place but to forget with time.

Jessie's house really was depressing, and I feared for her that she would never actually leave it, however spoiled she was. It had to have been a rampant sickness, her father, a slave driver who used his ex wife and daughter as laborers for his business, and while keeping them well fed, not paid well enough to actually go into the world and succeed; he was just as evil as any other corporation or business, and just as powerful; using his Christianity as a guard against being considered truly harmful—and his graciousness of allowing me into his home was at the very most a kindness I couldn't look past, trying not to judge but understanding over and over again how one can fail to use a trash can; he wasn't in a rush; in fact, he spent his days watching Evangelists talk about the coming apocalypse, while his ex wife and daughter toiled away making fishing lures for his business, apparently very profitable. For something I admired him—perhaps his musicianship, or perhaps just my strange and undying affection for Caucasian alpha males, or even that he did have such a power as to keep his ex wife and daughter underfoot, when my own ex husband had moved to physically subduing me as his only means of control, later keeping my son from me as the ultimate power play——and of course, throwing in the Dillon Francis monkey wrench, a true nod to whatever Satanic backwards magic was previously thought to be at play. Now i understood it just to be my mind unraveling—the only person I had ever truly loved, had never truly loved me; however, i was useful and sweet—besides being ramapantly obese, the perfect wife and caretaker. Now, I was preparing for a steady non-existence, loneliness, lifelessness, friendlessness, and homelessness; and I thought myself soon to be dead again, in one way or another. All I wanted was home, and home was said to be where the heart was—but thinking back to a tragic time, I had foolishly given mine to Dillon Francis, in pieces, after Sonny Moore had used Kayla Lauren to break it.

How many women were in line to see The Great Sonny Moore, on the same ride I had been on, and with the same deal signed-sealed-and delivered to The Devil Himself, if not the messengers at the pearly gates for God's eyes and ears only? I had to think the number to be in the hundreds, if not thousands, if not millions—as I had finally founded the integral magical practice of hypnotism through music, as it had been for eons and centuries—and now, as programmed as I was neither happy nor unhappy to be, having lost all but the body, devoid of feelings or true sense of livelihood at all, even having misplaced the ability to be music at all—I was just a thing in a world full of other things—neither woman nor man, nor any feeling thing at all; most American dogs were more loved and well cared for than I was. My obsessive brain allowed for infatuation beyond my wildest content, and though either self-control or self-pity kept anyone at a safe and proper distance, I still craved something or someone that wholly didn't exist. My head was on a platter, eyes still blinking and mouth agape, though without the life force I had once garnered and cherished to have been brought about into time with merely the mind, and the mind alone.

Jessie was a petite virgin who was so moldeable it was hard to see myself as anything but less-than beside her, and on two opposite ends of the spectrum of inequality we existed; she would never have to work, or leave home, or lift a finger—almost any man would be willing to take care of her without her having to do much, and, as historically proven, any man would look past her ridiculous laziness or an unideal facial structure in exchange for a hot body he could claim all his own, nonetheless for one who wouldn't bother to leave the house, who he could keep at home ready for use at will—and here I was, washed up without any of the fame of glory to accompany it, used and abused and put through the wash enough times to shrink, but not to remove the stains as had been set in stone since they were made.

Nothing was right, but everything was good—practicing The Secret had to eventually have its effects. No matter how miserable I felt, I was always good, or great, or awesome—but still, daily, combating the consistent and ever-constant thoughts of back-to-back self hatred and loathing.

I hate myself

I hate my life

I hate myself

I hate my life

I hate myself

I hate my—

I love myself…

I love my life

I love myself

I love my life—

Ugh.

But I was sleeping on the floor below one of the laziest people I had ever met, who I loved dearly since the age of 12– but couldn't help but hate a little for not having to do anything, ever, and somehow knowing we were both complatent and self-assured that some wealthy man would undoubtedly swoop from out of nowhere to marry the forlorn virgin goddess—

Ugh.

She was an energy vampire.

Meanwhile, my promotion to Manager, with bonus commission and all the overtime I was pulling in still wouldn't be enough to amount to affording my own apartment, and it seemed, as I had been warned before, that it was true—I would never be safe in my own home country of The United States of America, and the more and more angry white women I literally bumped and brushed shoulders with, receiving deathly stares and glances from blue and green eyes like something out of a dystopian race war nightmare, the more I realized that there was only so much unfairness and inequality that could take place before things had to change;

Rich people were racing corgis—children were selling coffee in the streets; the National air guitar championship was underway— people were dying of hunger and thirst— Skrillex and Dillon Francis were superstar DJs—everyone had a Kayla Lauren or something similar to show off—

And I was the overnight manager at a mega-gym.

Fuck this life.

I was probably supposed to hate myself,

I was probably supposed to kill myself, too—but I was too afraid to do that again. It was all Ali and I talked about, for years—how this existence was merely a blemish in the ever-expanse of time and space; how we were bound to our earthly bodies as punishment for some Mistake we had made in an inmemorable past existence —probably murder or rape, or something horrible—our loveless, hopeless bodies bound to be forever unloved, unsuccessful, and overall unhappy.

A burning cough lodged itself out of the depths of hell from the ugly fat woman in front of me—not that I was any different, really. It seemed and was apparently so that the ‘coughs' demon, as I had come to call it, inhabited the broken bodies of sick individuals, usually visibly weak in some way—typically obese or otherwise unhealthy, if I were willing to give the beast the time or day by looking, as I usually was able to ignore it, washing it out of my peripheral or continuing to look forward, or wherever I was looking. Assuredly, Sonny had surrounded himself by powerful demon-like practitioners of [the type of] magic I was unwilling to use or even acknowledge, though admittedly—this coughs demon to a certain extent had to have been more obessed with me than I had ever been with it, oftentimes lurking in places I felt most vulnerable, acting as a push into suicidal ideation and the other great realms of non-existence, my synesthesia acting like a painful ailment when such a nasty sound did rear it's ugly head. It had been four years living with this awful thing—no matter where I went, someone would make their way Into my personal space just to cough, or hack—and, though by now having grown mostly immune to it, I was still annoyed as ever when it came down to it—my sanity not breaking, but somehow pieced together using frail elements such as deadmau5 as duck tape; unbeknownst to me before doing so, anyway, it actually did properly seal the bullet like wounds in my being…call it universal healthcare, perhaps.

I was the only one, really, who could make myself laugh anymore. It had become a game between God and I to see who could do it the most, and though most people seemed programmed and robotic or unreal entirely, there were few in the three dimensional realm occasionally that were human enough to make me forget that the rest of the world had been for the most part a dysfunctional computer—if I was lucky, I might have been having a heatstroke of some sort, as sometimes pedaling furiously on my bicycle, the entire world would in-fact smell like the innards of a windows 98 computer, having just overheated; I was a vegan, hadn't drank or even smoked in years—and now was fighting off a rampant sugar addiction with both hands tied behind my back, which was huge—and though still fitting into a Nike small, which might have been an achievement had I not figured there to be a size such as 2XS—the roundness of my backside couldn't outweigh the deathly amount of guilt and self pity even only the occasional Oreo brought on; I needed to be devastatingly thin for anything to make sense, and nothing really did (make sense, that is.)

I was hungry, and angry with myself, and mad at the world; I couldn't understand what I had done wrong to deserve my life the way it was—the worst part, though, was there was no exit button. There was no easy way out; I knew that death was not the end, but just the departure from another realm—and that as infinite as love and life had been, death might have been, too. Preparing for the worst and never hoping for the best, for fear I would only gain the opposite, I wondered where I would go and what I would do next. Ali was making his presence in a greater realm more and more apparent with each passing moment; it was always 2:22, and every time it was—something cosmic happened.

I wanna go to sleep

(I wanna go to sleep)

And never wake up

(And never wake up)

Cause I don't give a fuck

(I don't give a fuck)

I don't give a fuck

I don't give a fuck

I'll be up all night

(I'm up all night)

Doing three things at once

(I don't give a fuck)

Every crunch is a coffin

I don't do this often or much,

But look forward to eating my lunch

It's in the oven

That's probably my cousin

I don't give a fuck

So what does it matter?

Putter patter goes the blood spatter,

Since you had to ask

Spread my ashes at

Madison Avenue

Nobody asked,

But I spat out the answer,

Then finally laughed

How about that

Aha

How about that

I wanna go to sleep

(I wanna go to sleep)

And never wake up

(And never wake up)

Cause I don't give a fuck

(I don't give a fuck)

I don't give a fuck

I don't give a fuck

I have too much to do,

I can't be pretty, too

(You used me)

Pity the pitiful fool

(But I let you)

Write me a check

So that I don't regret you

Forever

(Never say never)

A bet is a bet;

And I'll never get to see you sweat

It's for the better

It's for the better

It's for the better

For better or worse?

Whats the worth?

A million followers, and dollars

What does it cost for a daughter,

Your honor

I want her

I want the—

I want the

I want her head on a platter

Goddamn

I wanna go to sleep

(I wanna go to sleep)

And never wake up

(And never wake up)

Cause I don't give a fuck

(I don't give a fuck)

I don't give a fuck

I don't give a fuck

I DONT GIVE A FUCK.

(I need water.)

Fn Pig, deadmau5 >< I AM BASS, LSDREAM

That's just a container;

I'm going deranged,

It's crazy—

Conditioned,

I guess I'm detangler

Looking from all different angles

I used to have angels

But they've been replaced, lately

Been displaced, lately

Need some space, lately—

I guess you're part of me

You're part of my soul

You're part of my soul

I mean probably need a lobotomy

Bottom to top,

Something is hunting or haunting me

Got a lot of nerve

I'm terrified, nervous—

Might as well swerve on the nerd

Swerve on the nerd

Swerve on the nerd

Oh. My. Ghetto.

Yes.

She's fabulous,

80-inch-weft

With her bad ass self

But I'm just not

One of them girls

One of them girls

Yes,

She's fabulous

Better get it!

Better than best—

With her bad ass self

But I'm just not

One of them girls

One of them girls

Just got a text;

I better ignore it

Fuck this shit;

Guess it's just another level

Just another level

Leg day

Cardio

Arm day

Chest

Put myself to the test

Cause I'm tryna be

One of them girls

One of them girls

One of them girls

One of them—

Oh, fuck

It's just my luck

The nigga is stubborn

Or stuck,

Or something;

Guess it's not nothing

Guess I gotta get back on my

Buttocks;

Pushing all my buttons,

Guess it's not nothin

Guess it's McDonalds,

I'm lovin it.

I feared that by spending too much time around low vibration people, I was becoming one myself; I knew that eating toxic processed foods was one way of lowering my own naturally high vibration into a lower frequency, but I was spending too much time with people who were dwelling on all of the awful things in life and none of the good; people who had homes and families and still had the nerve to complain to me, of all people, a homeless “black” woman with literally nothing to live for but music (not that music was living for me—the industry was outright dominated by privilege, and leaving color out of it, the odds were, if I was hearing their song on the radio or overhead station at the gym, their parents had been well-to-do in some way or another, if not musicians themselves, or well-connected industry people.) Gone were the days of the rising stars who actually pulled themselves up by the bootstraps-everybody on the map had a leg-up and a foot-in-the-door. At least ESPN'S ‘The Ocho' wasn't on; I didn't think I could bear to see any more frat boys pogo sticking ‘professionally' while working myself to literal dehydration trying to be one of their girlfriends—or at least look like them. Pretty white boys dated pretty white girls, period—they fucked everything—but dated pretty white girls. Existence was futile.

I wanted to take my eyeballs out of my head.

Oh, he's beautiful.

A dark skinned man with fresh braids and a blue shirt shuffled his way smoothly past me, and I gleaned a little—not my type, but beautiful—and I wasn't going to cop to not having a type. Then, rounding the corner and into the abdominals section, a giant tattooed man in the stretch machine (whatever it was called) managed to startle me from afar, just due to being monsterous in height alone but also stark white enough so that it seemed he could illuminate an entire room by himself.

What the fuck. Why be that tall?

Not that it was his or anyone's fault for being large or massive as I had once been, however in width, rather than height—but tall men always struck me a particularly bizarre way, no matter how broad or handsome—and definitely terrified me a little, or a lot, depending—though no more than blue eyes did.

Why am I here? Jesus Christ.

I had blinders on, but they weren't working, and every moving body that worked it's way into my peripheral reminded me of something or someone; i began to feel the onset symptoms of depression kick in; I just wanted to eat and sleep, and not be bothered with the world—but unlike Jessie I hadn't the luxury of doing so, and even though I had been working I was really no closer to having a home than I had been before. I was back in The Matrix with a working telephone and every regret possible, as it was obvious the trackers were having a heyday with my psyche, the world now more populated—especially with Kayla Lauren's—than it had been without a phone. I wanted desperately to run away, but had nowhere to run—and though I loved my gym, without having a place to call home or the energy to properly work out the way I wanted to made it a special kind of Hell.

At least I had the new Beyoncè album.

There's a light.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA —

—-JUST KILL YOURSELF.

I—did that already.

Do it again!

No!

Oh, come on.

Whats the point?

The point is:

…

What?

What?

You didn't finish the sentence.

Neither did you.

Go away, Satan.

Nowhere sounds nice.

I would have spared the greatest expense if I could afford it just not to exist—

I had written entire novels, created film sagas and night after excruciating night at the gym whether actually on the clock or not, I was always working. In any event, a good gym session was also at least a chapter or two in one of many novels, an episode of some sort, or a concept album—if whatever pre-workout I was taking made me angsty enough to focus on writing out thoughts and phrases between sets on my favorite machines. I had actually purchased over $50 of music with my first check—and while I should have felt stupid and remorseful for it, $50 wasn't going to get me my own apartment. $50 wasn't really wasn't going to get anybody anything—especially a tank of gas. My daily 45 minute cardio consisted of an earful of deadmau5, deep breathing in sequence to my long strokes of pedaling so quickly I thought my legs might turn to propellers and I'd start hovering like a Helicopter fueled by angst, poverty, and progressive house.

That's what it was.

Progressive house.

And I loved it, like I used to love anything else in the world, but had forgotten what it felt like if it wasn't buzzing in my ears propelling me across a loveless, lifeless desert. Everyone was miserable, no matter where I went, besides the daily gym goers who I came to know at my work and play play place.

A gross sounding cough from across the room told me to kill myself—and I thought about it momentarily, but couldn't think of a way, so went back to writing. Misophonia or magic? Either way, I didn't know if I hated myself more, or Skrillex and whatever deity had granted him this sick and twisted power.

I want to die.

Coughing, coughing, coughing—

Working working working

But not making enough to live

I mean really live

Like the DJs did

I might throw a fit

If I don't get out of this

everybody is sick

And all it is is

Coughing coughing coughing—

And I'm just

Walking

Walking

Walking

From bus stop to bus stop

Dropping a coin for all of my thoughts

I want off this planet

I want off the clock

I want to go to bed—

But I don't have a bed

If it's all in my head

Why haven't I Put a bullet in it, yet?

I want to end it

Use this song as an admission;

I'm guilty, I did it

I didn't want to see the world the way it is,

Case dismissed, then

Case dismissed, then

Just one last kiss—then

Fade to black

Now we're back where we started

don't forget to reflect

Respect is earned

When you enter through the exit

No guest list for this one, kid.

You better get moving

Just selfish intentions

Just shellfish—

I wish

That's not kosher or vegan

Indecent exposure, for sure

Is your home in foreclosure?

She did it all for exposure

I just need closure

And a door to close, I suppose

What's worse?

Homeless, or hunger?

Woah, I've done both,

And meanwhile, she's never left home

No wonder no one loves us

No wonder no one loved me

No wonder someday never comes

Funny

I wanted a hug,

I got nothing

Diplo follows coughs.

Everyone follows coughs,

She's a boss I guess

Only downloaded this app to—

Crap

Fuck.

No sense in censorship

All the world is is tits

And slavery

Damn,

—This is brave you would write this.

If I end my life with a knife,

Is it suicide, or

40-to-life?

You know, sadness is a crime, here

You want one of those?

Well, he has ten of ‘em

(10 of ‘em?)

(10 of ‘em!)

We're all women here—

And we have the worst of it

We're all 1:2 here

2:1 here

1:2 here,

Fuck it then

He wants them all

Well, then

He can have all of them—

But one

He wants them all,

Well, then,

He can have all of them

But one

Bring a plus one

Bring a plus one

Now we're all done here

Now I wonder

Now I wonder

What was all done here

I was nothing,

Then something

then someone

Then no one,

Then all of us

You want one of those?

Well, he has ten of ‘em

(10 of ‘em?)

(10 of ‘em!)

We're all women here—

And we have the worst of it

We're all 1:2 here

2:1 here

1:2 here,

Fuck it then

He wants them all

Well, then

He can have all of them—

But one

He wants them all,

Well, then,

He can have all of them

But one