I GOT YOU NOW, MOTHERFUCKER.
Oh my God! It's Pat Kirkpatrick!
Oh great, so he's some sort of Diety, I guess.
yessssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss—-
You're not the professor.
I'm the GURU. This the dojo!
Yo, FUCK JIMMY FALLON, alright.
fuck. Where the fuck is this kid?
Woke up with Dillon Francis in my head—
I don't even like that song, it just gets stuck in my head.
Apparently Emma Watson wants to know what to do in the festival project. I still don't know.
My ex went to Golden Corral to cheat on me, then got sick from pizza; I got some kind of job at a weird party place for kids; the dude was weird and only hired non bianary people and dudes; I left to help my friends who were getting married with car trouble.
Lol Emma Watson though, was like—
I was like, I don't know. Then I woke up.
I was starting to develop scabs in my ears from alternating between headphones and earplugs, which couldn't have been good—I needed to work, and was disasterously fat, however, toned, and I assumed that the extra weight had come from muscle. My legs were smooth, and all of the clothes I had picked up along my walk fit—all extra smalls and smalls, which included even a tiny bralette I was certain would fit when picking it up, and it did—I only wondered what the world might be like after a panniculectomy—though my thighs seemed massive and I was certainly bloated, opting for less running and more lifting until my energy recovered, I was still anywhere between a size 4 and 5, sometimes a 6–which did kind of rather shamed me in all of the ways that it could—6 was much greater than 2–and those praised as the ‘world's most beautiful women' were anywhere between 00 and 2; I wasn't sure where I was going to move my thighs or my arse to, but I was determined to be celebrity skinny—even without the added bonus of actually being a celebrity, and however oddly enough with the star studded dreams I had been having, there seemed somehow still some kind of hope, though even if in the next life, that I would become into a world of my dreams. It was the anniversary of my son's death—he would have now been 9, and I often was drawn to remember him walking about New York—seeing beautiful children about with long hair, and beautiful brown skin, with eyes like mine, moon shaped and dark…I began to softly weep as I remembered how beautiful he was, and that I had no pictures of him at all. It was better that way, really—the hurt that had come from holding on was too great—and yet, subtle reminders, in the way that sometimes, however music would just come to me, there was my boy; he loved my guitar, and the sound of my voice as I would sing, and had even once, just before his death, tried to sing along, as I clamored about the house, singing Seven + Mary—which he seemed to like enough that he found the need to make his way over to the table to get my attention, and sing with me.
Back in my current reality, the overall bored of the shower running and my demon neighbors slamming things around angrily as if something was wrong, shaking the building brought me back to the monotonous world, morning coffee over the toilet quite remincent of Lyndon B. Johnson, the morning sifting through my Google documents for Emma Watson and John Slattery part of my morning report— and though I was due in the gym, there was nothing I wanted less than to go anybody or see anything at all—everything was just a reminder of my apparent “living hand to mouth”, and the more I kept on dreaming and writing of these people, the more grandiose and and delusional I felt—I had just been blindsided in court by my ex's attempt to discredit my ask for a protective order against him by using my mental health in the wake of his physical violence and our sons death, against me in such a way that the victory, the judge's granting of my protection against him, was still pyrrhic in such a way that I didn't feel so much protected, as he had lodged his way into my dreams once more just to cheat on me—though however had been twarted in doing so, by some particularly sour Golden Corral pizza, and the young girl accompanying him quite receptive to the speech I had given her on karmic justice. Strangely enough, the dream almost appeared as in my favor, that things were changing, and yet—I still didn't like to see him or think of him at all, and luckily enough, it was Emma Watson who had intercepted this sort of nightmare with the conjecture that I should keep writing, however with an American accent, which only forced me to wonder, if perhaps, too she had become some sort of Cosmic Avenger—or even so, as written, was JK Rowling in disguise as the actress playing her own character, some kind of magician's practitioner —who had herself been for some time one of my living spirit guides since childhood—finding as I grew older for us to be more alike than not, especially as a writer.
I stepped into the shower, still writing, and without the amount of coffee I really needed to move more quickly, but still in some sort of stupor—
‘I should probably get out of here.'
Another day trapped indoors would simply be unhealthy, however I hadn't the slightest idea where I might go.
Wherever it was, I would take my guitar—and at the very least—I knew which direction Manhattan was, anyway.
‘Fuck, I gotta find that episode with the earthquake…'
LADY GAGA aka GAGA has been tasked with strategically marking the grid with
Various entrance and exit points; a job which she has tak quite seriously, and honorably.
You're not going to expand on that?
HARRY POTTER, HERMIONE GRANGER
Did they not get a divorce?
That just sounds dumb, I'm not writing that.
HARRY, HERMIONE, AND RON have accidentally shifted dimensions and into the bodies of their real-life counterpart, DANIEL RADCLIFFE, EMMA WATSON, AND RUPERT GRINT
Oh damn. I finally found something cool for Emma Watson to do.
I need you to read all these, and watch all this.
SUPACREE leaves the three magicless, frietenghned, and shocked–
They're English, they should be flabbergasted.
[They are Flabbergassted]
I can't. I Have a hard time writing action scenes
Cause i'm not getting any.
(Holy shit, that is probably why tho.)
So that dude from Drake and Josh is in all these episodes, but we only get one Harry Potter Episode?
–Don't forget Jimmy Fallon.
Yeah, I still don't get that.
[Watching Saturday Night Live}
Hm. Mm…working on something.
If I stand quietly at the door, and await you;
And and open it, to let me in
Let's read between the lines;
You weep for me and deep into my dreams
Then see me in the streets, and think
“It cannot be the she for me;
Maybe, if she were pretty.”
Despite the never having time to
Now I'm desperate just to find you
I wrote this story years ago.
Are you going to listen to the album?
NO. And I don't expect Skrillex to listen to this, either.
TIMMY TURNERS NEW BALANCE TENNIS SHOES TAP SWIFTLY ACROSS THE PAVEMENT AS HE RUNS FOR HIS LIFE
Well, that is a good place to start—thanks Emma Watson.
Oh shit, what's SHE like?
I don't know, isn't she like, irl an American diplomat?
Now hurry, we gotta do this before Jimmy Fallon shows up and
Enter that one scene here with John Slattery?
Which scene with John Slattery?
You're right. I have been writing for John Slattery a lot.
Bipolar disprder and other multidimensional preceptory functions could more likely be reclassified from a disease to a hypersensitivity to energy which one does not identify as belonging to oneself, which therefore counteracts within the mind's ability to alter or project and/or maintain balance in one's mood, as certain energies may be ‘absorbed' empathically or observed as a negative or draining energy; An elevated sense or shift due to the overstimulation of energy which the subject may receive as ‘“positive”, or shifting the mood undesirably by the overstimulation of negative sources, sounds, or persons within the subject's realm foreign, undesirable, or unwanted within one's field of energy—a heightened sense of awareness or vibrational field which inhibits or limits the ability to contain or transmute such energies.
It is, within its own sense, a sort of elevated mechanism for survival, ie a superpower, given the subjects placement within the proper environment, within the functional vibration of the subjects natural mood or state, whereas, lows may be the subjects own sensitivity to numerous outer sources of negative or prone to certain toxicities to his or her natural state, and highs whereas certain higher vibrational energies result in the conglomerate evolution of such energies as a newer form
I think I don't know what I am, and nobody does—so nothing you give me will ever really fix me, because I was never really broken, or
Or I was broken rightfully so in that I should have been treated as a trauma victim, and not the subject of some cruel experimentation as an attempt to assasinate whatever force of nature is actually keeping me alive in the only survival mechanism it's been naturally given to battle the psychopathic standards and expectations of today's society.
Why is this J. slatts again
Cause, I've got a beautiful vocality for narration.
Fine, I'll work on that character next, I guess.
John Slattery is in this!
I guess I have to watch it, then.
Collect the actors, again!
JOHN SLATTERY (as himself)
“I'll do it, “, I said, “but there better be money attached to this project”
This is—probably going to take longer than an hour, I'm betting.
[He sits at the had of a long table]
I don't know what you did, you fucking idiot, but you did it.
Tell me what I did again.
[unseen, on the opposite side of the room]
[Like, an entire generational gap of innuendos and pop culture reference.]
Your presence is appreciated.
This meeting is now officially in session.
{Enter The Multiverse: LEGENDS}
What is this? Is this Scotch?
No! It's apple cider vinegar!
I heard you were a Method-ist.
No, apparently I'm “the medicine man”
Nearly forgot what this was like
Too many sunny days, no friends
Overcast clouds say stay,
But it ll seems worthless
Almost, Amazon, Ten dollars
I should be smarter than to call the code
I should be smarter then to call him over
The hypnotists wish lists
What happens at number ten
I should have left him as
The protagonists, of supporting roles
Now number one is number four
And number four is often gone
The storyline and plot is
New York has hospitality, though
New York's got hospitality, though
How's Tokyo sound when November rolls around
How's Paris now, that were Marlboros on parliament
I had woken up with an overall feeling that something was wrong—I had overshot my 3 AM target time by 6 hours, realizing of course that I was a day ahead, and that the construction—more drilling and hammering, was out on hold thanks to an apparent oncoming rain, which hadn't come yet— my wavering mental state was apparent in the mess I had left in my room, clothes strewn across the floor and atop the bed, but at least otherwise clean—I had slept dressed, or at least half dressed, a protection stone lodged in my bra, as the necklace I had worn for my son had become somewhat damaged in some way—it was no longer protective, but had somehow defected; probably in the way that his father bearing over him, allowed the stone some sort of portal to be able to invade my dreams with nightmarish hauntings, and I instead opted to keep the necklace aafelu tucked away, until I would be able to give it to him as I had planned. But still, it seemed that the intention of his father was to ruin my life, and see to it so that I may never do well enough to visit my son, and it seemed no matter how hard I tried
I would not miss the band.
i doubled back, low battery
I could watch the sun rising
Kelly Clarkson was the cutest thing ever—and sung so freely like a bird like I wished that I could—I remember breaking down in my car after just missing the cut off for entering her show, back in LA—more than likely over the fact that I would be missing a paycheck, rather than missing the show anyway— and I had almost thought to cancel my tickets for the View, had I not been lured by the blue hues of both their outfits—and though I hadn't meant particularly to be associated with the color blue at all, most people associated my name with the color anyway, as I hadn't intended.
Nothing was really intended, it had just happened. Whoopie Goldberg's fabulous denim cape forced me to wonder what I might wear the next day, had I decided to actually go—the colors of my closet mostly black and quite drab, and the denim dress I had acquired as a cleaning person the year before becoming a tired go-to when I needed to look nice. I almost wanted to wear my new Michael Kors stilettos, but was saving them for an actual party, an interview somewhere classy, or worse—my first date—as the anniversary of my cellibacy drew closer by the minute, and my need to continue my reproduction however with someone more fitting began to be the most harrowing thing on my mind, beside possibly returning to a homeless shelter, which I would not allow to happen. My exit strategy was simple, actually—in that if given an eviction notice for whatever reason—my neighbors seemed particularly afflicted as my former boss and lovers, roommates, and others I had become close to in this strange and seemingly cursed world with that thing I could only call a demon, since I didn't know what it was, and I was afraid they'd continue to report smoke coming from my apartment, although now I had been forced to switch to a diffuser with essential oils, taking a chunk out of what I considered my severance pay from The House of Illumination, which had indeed lived up to its namesake—the lesson had been quick, in that working for such a man, whoever he was or at least pretending to be, had taken me off my path, and had begun to dishevel my personal energy so much so that I had actually dropped my wallet—it had been so long since making such a mistake that I knew indeed that something was wrong, however, but needed the money so badly that it didn't matter—and besides, nothing could be so horrible as was my mother sometimes, growing up—and I had given Natural all that he needed to hurt me in telling the story of my own weight loss journey.
Telling, and in return, Natrual was showing that I had given the world the perfect excuse to continue trying to kill me—that perhaps, my time had passed anyway.
Kelly Clarkson looked incredible—the last I had seen, she was pleasantly plump, but never bad looking—now, she was. Incredibly veluptumous, and as she stated that she stood at merely 5'3, I was suprised once again that all of the TV people looked either taller or shorter on camera, and wondered what I might look like— I was almost stuck thin about 4 days into a water fast, but appeared and felt large otherwise, and most recently had been more tired and fatigued that ever, outraged that I had been dismissed from my only income in months over nothing, and that the income from anything else I was doing would simply not come at all if I could never wrap my mind around even trying to have it be seen by the right minds, with the right eyes, at the right time—and yet there was another force of evil, seeming always to stop me from the essence of true creation—this thing which had taken away my musical expression almost entirely by now, my sensibility wavering and all of my slayed projects, stagnant.
I was craving oats, and had even pre-prepared some, blending them in my magic bullet so that they would be easier to digest—and since Natural had made the suggestion that my BMI was to blame for my lack of focus and attention to detail, it had more been the combination of losing my wallet, having to deal with the public transit, constantly being reminded that Tula, a light skinned African was the music industry's new it-girl, and of course, that my son, now 7, was morbidly obese, probably somewhere discarded like junk under a cloud of cigarette smoke, head deep in a video game and surrounded by idiots—and that no matter how hard I tried to make the money to see him, something awful would happen so that I couldn't, and it became clear that his father's story—whereas I had simply and for no reason “lost my mind” and had abandoned my child, was the story he had told to all those around him, who believed him—that I was the villain in his story, and my son the tool he used to create a sympathetic picture of a loving and struggling father, though now he might have actually been trying, the damage was done; he had sent my son away unable to care for him to my mother, and in the time he was given alone, of course, created another child—all of which of course I wanted, in hopes that the one he had chosen for his new family would have some sort of love an appreciation for my own son, enough to have created a step mother, but alas, was some underwhelming someone with nothing to offer but her own struggle—and I wanted nothing to do but to be gone from this drama, however my own blood had been caught up in it enough so that I could feel it, knowing that at just 7, my son was as sick as I once was, depressed and miserable as the child of a narcicist becomes once the damage is done.
I was only eating blended foods, and had become obsessed with being stick thin—celebrity fit, which is how I had found the video at all, my love of Whoopi Goldberg and Kelly Clarkson creating a quick draw, a star studded combination I could not resist, though I wasn't resisting much—I had drifted back into the realms of television and film, my first loves—or rather, my first conscious endeavor, as I had been attracted to the piano from a toddler and learned to play around three, therein my is being my first love, however with a mother like mine and a life like ours, there truly never was one thing I could ever just ‘do', as anything I loved would soon be subjected to be taken away for some reason or another, whether it was a messy room, or just a mood swing—whether or not I wanted to watch lifetime and be best friends, even after a day of being yelled at and scolded for one reason or another—as my mother often seemed to forget ever being cruel after being so, often saying “I would never…” to whatever she had done, a narcissist's mark, in denying actions and words that had only ever been witnessed between the other party and God.
I had blended the ancient seed oat bend into a porridge with agave and sautéed apples and pears with cinnamon, and though I felt awful eating more than once, was struggling enough with this bout of depression which working at Temple of Illumination so briefly had caused that it didn't matter at all—coffee was simply not enough, and my Amazon package which would deliver my vitamin supplements and whatever else I had ordered—things I had gotten into the habit of pocketing at the Whole Foods market during my homelessness, but in trying to recover from the spiritually twisted and evil place the homeless system had put me through, I had, with all my might, been insistent on purchasing everything I had needed—and even though it was indeed wrong of the white supremacists movement to have been true health and nutrition almost unattainable to the common workforce, my food stamps never enough to actually supplement a full month of food—whole food veganism which would allow me to train for at least an hour a day to sustain clean energy, and of course, water in order to stay hydrated in doing so — I was getting better at keeping what I needed in stock, but almost always needed to run to a food bank at least once a week, hoping that I would collect there things I actually could eat, rather than processed junk my body no longer saw as food at all.
I peeled a mandarin into the watered down oats mixture and was worried that the dried cranberries I would pour over the top would be too much sugar, but I almost didn't care; I was on the verge of tears, and some evil, penetrating force had been altering my sleep patterns, my heartbeat, and my dreams—there was some group of motorcyclists who for months had been circling at any given time, and though some might have been able to ignore the roaring and awful vibrations of such, I could not—these motorists seemed to rip through my heart and up my spine like a serrated knife, a gesture that indeed noted that it was some evil or devilish, demonic force, as when in relax and meditation I often pondered with his, these striking forces would come, often creating a wave of fear, anxiety, and worry—terrorism, by definition, and disturbance of the peace, it was—but nobody seemed to care that it was pain for me, in fact, the more I began to wonder what or why it was, the more it became clear that this was intention to hurt or kill me, whether by an organization of some sort, or simply the force of evil itself against the divine I had become, not with intention at all, but in seeking my own freedom from such a world as cruel and unjust as I had come.
My neighbors had lodged an impressive amount of complaints against me for smudging—and it was 36 complaints before I had even been made aware that my neighbors were trying to get rid of me; not once had a note been left on my door, or had I been approached by them In the hallway to ask that I not use smudge—then again, sometimes as whites were, they were more concerned about themselves and their dogs than whatever might have been the cause of such heavy saging occurring—the motorcycles at all hours tearing through my heart, the slamming doors, the sound of their televisions or voices penetrating through my walls— the unwelcoming energy which at all times I was surrounded by, and though I loved New York, 3 stories above the ground floor and on the border of queens was simply not far enough away from the Godlessness of the cursed and usually dark others, whom could not understand the conciousness I had drawn from the long fasts, prayers, and summonings I had done in order to free myself from the force that had done away with me to begin with—my deep love for the man with whom I had fathered my sons, and a daughter, the two of the three were gone, though I had seen so that if I had not lost my daughter and my son, I would probably still be with their father, in attempting to give them a family—another poor, single, black woman and mother, I was now willing to be to my son, but was not; I had forgiven his father, however, it seemed some sort of curse he had done in my departure was still in effect, the demons he had called onto me not called off—and even in the reflection of my own self and flaws upon entetering such a relationship—the other things had been inherited from him; the homelessness, the toxicity and mismanagement of energy—however, my lack of control over time, I realized early on, had been inherited from my mother, who was more like my ex husband and her own abusive father than I ever was.
I wanted bread, but could not dare;
J[r was 6 ft tall, and for some reason, that bothered me more than anything else I had learned about him, for some bizzarre reason almost suddenly obsessed with the public figure, though at first the dollar project had been more of a game than the actual idea, and the festival project itself was at all but a halt, as I wanted and needed desperately to comb through my documents at once, but could never seem to— the metaphors of Natural's Basement drawing upon me as I realized that perhaps, I was too emotional about its contents to properly sort through them—atop this concern, was the concern that my body, though fitting quite nicely into an extra extra small pair of racer lined jockey style workout leggings, was still too large to be though of as ideal—ideal, which for a man 6 feet apparently was, according to Ali and the others, and though I had pretty much always hated Fallon from early on, always breaking fourth wall and blowing my mind coming from such a strong theatre background that someone like that could have ever been awarded a coveted spot on such a legendary show, it had been gathered somewhere that his audition was flawless, however—his second audition, according to Tina Fey, who I loved, maybe even more after learning that she had been given such a unique name, and had won almost every award I could possibly think to covet, although however much a writer I was, an actor and comic I was not, in that I had given up my own craft years before being fat or being black was ever in style—and now that it was, I had no reason to believe that at 31, while Tyla was 22, as was Billie Ellish, I had any business in even trying to make it in entertainment— I began preparing to die almost as readily as ever, deciding upon eviction, rather than fighting it and returning to the intake shelter in the Bronx to start the process again, I would simply jump either off my own building, hoping 12 stories would be enough to actually cause death, rather than just parilization, or find my way to the end of the platform at which the train moved most quickly in preparation to stop at the station, which I had nicknamed “the Jumping Point”—also the name of a pop up dance music club I had summoned up once, actually thinking that something, something at all would bring me close enough to success to actually become the dance music tycoon and entrepreneur that I wanted, however—as my hair again grew into a shoveled mess atop my skull, only hidden by a hit which the view wouldn't allow as an audience member, the only thing which might have kept me from going at all, besides my lack of knowing what to wear or just the daunting crises of having no money at all almost a shameful mark across my face— my nails for nearly a year undone, and of course— everything I knew that needed to be done, almost stuck and unable to move forward, my divorce papers included, another mark of the devil, as I had already done the paperwork 3 times, spending atrocious amounts of money in the process, of course, for all of them to be sent back, for some reason or another, and the case to still be opened without being shut—and at least it was opened…
As tears began to well up into my eyeballs, in thinking perhaps I truly was cursed, that the law was for whatever reason on all of my abuser's sides, and that I was doomed to become lost in this endless cycle of loss and pain for some reason or another, that became the task at hand—to, for what was either the third or fourth actual time, file for divorce, and to be rid of my abuser for good, the fate of my son at the crossroads of my wealth, or even better yet, at the very least securing a job, where I was no longer haunted by the massive work I had done on the festival project, or by, as I had once been, followed by some Jimmy Fallon doppleganger— an experience I had nearly forgotten.
However, as I reflected upon all of the jobs I had in the years I was homeless, they all had one thing in common—horrible bosses, doppelgängers of people I loved or had written about—and toxic working conditions, in addition to extremely low wages and unconscious coworkers, with the exception of few, whom I kept in my heart and still loved—did I love Jimmy Fallon? As a fan, or an admirer of his portfolio, his presence to me simply only existing in clips and montages from the confines of my memory of all that I could draw from him—an impossible suitor, I found myself to be more in admiration and awe of his work as a comic, a host, his apparent professionalism and stage presence, all of which none surrounding him could doubted and which had given birth to my own re-entry into screenwriting anything besides enter the multiverse/and yet I wondered//what for, besides as to stand as a perfect example of what would and could draw the masses and stand as an acceptable and inexplicable mark for perfection—a television personality, all of which stood to be hidden in such, a person, none whom could ever know behind the likes of such, a camera, an audience, and the propagation of the ideas and words of the media would want to portray in such programming as to remain in control in one way or another, of the audience's minds, and therefore, the viewers hearts, and souls—commanding a presence within the collective consciousness, dependent of course on said viewer's own ability to draw from those things, what was actually being said and done.
That, in itself, was The Illuminati in its process.
Alright, so—a Jimmy Fallon is an extremely powerful magician, right?
So he must have talismans, somewhere, then—right?
I certainly wasn't willing to look.
Look, I already know what he likes.
Geez, how long have you had his eyes?
I'm gonna get in so much trouble.
What is the point of this redaction ?
It's just acting! It's just acting!
Look, whatever I just did with Fallon, just put him in The Winner's Circle, okay? I'll never see that dude again.
Stay away from me, your crazy bitch!
I don't know what I just read.
Would you give me a hand with this
I need some medicine quick
(Cause I can't with this)
Need a can of some laugher
I heard that's the medicine
I can't trust the man in the television
I haven't remembered an image this
Now I gotta finish this whole maya rudolph timeline this shit just keeps getting deeper and deeper.
Mm. Vanilla ice cream is sounding
Just vanilla bean—ice cream.
What does the man with the van do
All the good days are gone
And I've sent you on right back
But I will still love you
I was just thinking of that thing
But I will still love you
When you get off the ground level
Find yourself a revolving door
That the world revolves around you
And if all the world's a stage,
Then all the world is full of actors
And all the trains are out of order
And all the walk is out of water
Then they would have said no anyway
And if it was a hall pass
I wouldn't have been as flattered
I asked for something new
Every chair costs and thing,
Every couch costs a fortune
Cause you can't get a job
With the punches he dealt you
I see what you're on about
Misery and mystical mistresses
Misdirection, misrepresentations and.
—mister you're into some sinister shit,
But I pictured it different
Consider it rhythm your interest is simmering in
Glistening instances dancing as angels in my headaches
Dressed as construction workers
Any difference it makes it's latent,
Listen into signals intercepting into intermission
Admissions of omissions and redactions
The Masterful mystic is at it again
Alright, this dude has the coolest job in the world.
[You can't be serious with this, esh]
This cant be infinite, is it?
You're the luckiest lady alive
Can I just lay down and cry yet?
I like the sound of a bullet touch
So please don't leave the TV
You're sleeping with a blonde
I've got my mind on dying mine bright as
But everywhere else is just—
(I don't want your dick, I just want your job.)
If the goal was just Taylor
Don't forget to pray away the day
And the mouse just shaking
It's starting to scare me
Heroine mare for the Mayor
This disfigured imbicile,
So it makes sense if it is
A glimpse at the pictures
A get together with friends
Intellect, individual inception
Now, how can I have that?
It must be a sign from the heavens
I've just had my time done with and over
Don't tell me what to do.
(I really don't like eating in bed…)
Not at myself, not at Jimmy Fallon— but angry.
The astonishing part about it was,
Well, first of all, I just sat through an hour and a half special, and I have realized that I am not a fan of this guy.
He's the right body type.
I was a very sad, very fat very broken 18-year-old girl.
A married man. How could you?
I couldn't! Didn't I made that clear!
—and goddammit, he's good at it?
—and goddammit, he's good at it!
Okay, it's pretty safe to say that is not just one guy.
Why?! What?! I can't! My parents!
These are not your parents!
What?! What do you mean?!
Suddenly, the anger turned to sadness, and tears welled up in my eyes—
No, don't you dare shed a tear over that man.
Once, an obedient lap dog,
Now poised and poached over me,
A gargoyle, though picturesque and statuesque
As if drawn from an angel,
The guardian of the night,
Who watches over my heart,
Calms the raging rivers of my wishes,
Really dog, Jimmy Fallon?
I don't know. I don't know.
It was too late, I was already in love—
But at a safe enough distance that it had become, in its own way, a guardianship of sorts—and it had run deep enough cut, but not scar, and even perhaps bumped up enough against my heart to bruise, but not be broken; I would have to let it run its course, and as it would, I would for show go everywhere I could within that realm; I simply could not be trusted, in my own mind, not to bond with such that had found me in the dreamworld. In the spiritual realms of such remained only as hidden as they each had been, out of sight, but ne'er out of touch, or out of mind. A strange but hearty love, a burden, as were the others—and so I knew it was good, but mine alone, left to wilt, withered and weathered as the time drew on.
A quilted touch, a wandering whisper
To glassy eyes and hunted hearts
A crossbow, arrows sigh and wonder
The target marked, a sign of stone
Bewildered, the beast of burden
Wallowing in holy grave and matrimony
I suffer not to know you;
Dog's paw atop a stolen mantle
I shall keep to own a desire,
So shed upon the willow, to weep
DAMN. Who the FUCK are you.
The hour of desire strikes with night
Casket of crowns, preach thee
I'm gonna need some time with you.
Great. Now I have to be perfect.
So sweet with will that I,
Ye, a mere stone, might stand
It's okay. I can handle it.
[JIMMY FALLON GETS SCRAPED.]
I GOT YOU NOW, MOTHERFUCKER.
Oh my God! It's Pat Kirkpatrick!
Oh great, so he's some sort of Diety, I guess.
yessssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss—-
You're not the professor.
I'm the GURU. This the dojo!
Yo, FUCK JIMMY FALLON, alright.
fuck. Where the fuck is this kid?
Woke up with Dillon Francis in my head—
I don't even like that song, it just gets stuck in my head.
Apparently Emma Watson wants to know what to do in the festival project. I still don't know.
My ex went to Golden Corral to cheat on me, then got sick from pizza; I got some kind of job at a weird party place for kids; the dude was weird and only hired non bianarynpeople and dudes; I left to help my friends who were getting married with car trouble.
Lol Emma Watson though, was like—
I was like, I don't know. Then I woke up.
I was starting to develop scabs in my ears from alternating between headphones and earplugs, which couldn't have been good—I needed to work, and was disasterously fat, however, toned, and I assumed that the extra weight had come from muscle. My legs were smooth, and all of the clothes I had picked up along my walk fit—all extra smalls and smalls, which included even a tiny bralette I was certain would fit, and it did—I only wondered what the world might be like after a panniculectomy—though my thighs seemed massive and I was certainly bloated, opting for less running and more lifting until my energy recovered, I was still anywhere between a size 4 and 5, sometimes a 6–which did kind of rather shame me in all of the ways that it could—6 was much greater than 2–and those praised as the world's most beautiful women were anywhere between 00 and 2; I wasn't sure where I was going to move my thighs or my arse to, but I was determined to be celebrity skinny—even without the added bonus of actually being a celebrity, and however oddly enough with the star studded dreams I had been having, there seemed somehow still some kind of hope, though even if in the next life, that I would become into a world of my dreams. It was the anniversary of my son's death—he would have now been 9, and I often was drawn to remember him walking about New York—seeing beautiful children about with long hair, and beautiful brown skin, with eyes like mine, moon shaped and dark…I began to softly weep as I remembered how beautiful he was, and that I had no pictures of him at all. It was better that way, really—the hurt that had come from holding on was too great—and yet, subtle reminders, in the way that sometimes, however music would just come to me, there was my boy; he loved my guitar, and the sound of my voice as I would sing, and had even once, just before his death, tried to sing along, as I clamored about the house, singing Seven + Mary—which he seemed to like enough that he found the need to make his way over to the table to get my attention, and sing with me.
Back in my current reality, the overall bored of the shower running and my demon neighbors slamming things around angrily as if something was wrong, shaking the building brought me back to the monotonous world, morning coffee over the toilet quite remincent of Lyndon B. Johnson, the morning sifting through my Google documents for Emma Watson and John Slattery part of my morning report— and though I was due in the gym, there was nothing I wanted less than to go anybody or see anything at all—everything was just a reminder of my apparent “living hand to mouth”, and the more I kept on dreaming and writing of these people, the more grandiose and and delusional I felt—I had just been blindsided in court by my ex's attempt to discredit my ask for a protective order against him by using my mental health in the wake of his physical violence and our sons death, against me in such a way that the victory, the judge's granting of my protection against him, was still pyrrhic in such a way that I didn't feel so much protected, as he had lodged his way into my dreams once more just to cheat on me—though however had been twarted in doing so, by some particularly sour Golden Corral pizza, and the young girl accompanying him quite receptive to the speech I had given her on karmic justice. Strangely enough, the dream almost appeared as in my favor, that things were changing, and yet—I still didn't like to see him or think of him at all, and luckily enough, it was Emma Watson who had intercepted this sort of nightmare with the conjecture that I should keep writing, however with an American accent, which only forced me to wonder, if perhaps, too she had become some sort of Cosmic Avenger—or even so, as written, was JK Rowling in disguise as the actress playing her own character, some kind of magician's practitioner —who had herself been for some time one of my living spirit guides since childhood—finding as I grew older for us to be more alike than not, especially as a writer.
I stepped into the shower, still writing, and without the amount of coffee I really needed to move more quickly, but still in some sort of stupor—
‘I should probably get out of here.'
Another day trapped indoors would simply be unhealthy, however I hadn't the slightest idea where I might go.
Wherever it was, I would take my guitar—and at the very least—I knew which direction Manhattan was, anyway.
‘Fuck, I gotta find that episode with the earthquake…'
LADY GAGA aka GAGA has been tasked with strategically marking the grid with
Various entrance and exit points; a job which she has tak quite seriously, and honorably.
You're not going to expand on that?
HARRY POTTER, HERMIONE GRANGER
Did they not get a divorce?
That just sounds dumb, I'm not writing that.
HARRY, HERMIONE, AND RON have accidentally shifted dimensions and into the bodies of their real-life counterpart, DANIEL RADCLIFFE, EMMA WATSON, AND RUPERT GRINT
Oh damn. I finally found something cool for Emma Watson to do.
I need you to read all these, and watch all this.
SUPACREE leaves the three magicless, frietenghned, and shocked–
They're English, they should be flabbergasted.
[They are Flabbergassted]
I can't. I Have a hard time writing action scenes
Cause i'm not getting any.
(Holy shit, that is probably why tho.)
So that dude from Drake and Josh is in all these episodes, but we only get one Harry Potter Episode?
–Don't forget Jimmy Fallon.
Yeah, I still don't get that.
[Watching Saturday Night Live}
Hm. Mm…working on something.
If I stand quietly at the door, and await you;
And and open it, to let me in
Let's read between the lines;
You weep for me and deep into my dreams
Then see me in the streets, and think
“It cannot be the she for me;
Maybe, if she were pretty.”
Despite the never having time to
Now I'm desperate just to find you
I wrote this story years ago.
Are you going to listen to the album?
NO. And I don't expect Skrillex to listen to this, either.
TIMMY TURNERS NEW BALANCE TENNIS SHOES TAP SWIFTLY ACROSS THE PAVEMENT AS HE RUNS FOR HIS LIFE
Well, that is a good place to start—thanks Emma Watson.
Oh shit, what's SHE like?
I don't know, isn't she like, irl an American diplomat?
Now hurry, we gotta do this before Jimmy Fallon shows up and
Enter that one scene here with John Slattery?
Which scene with John Slattery?
You're right. I have been writing for John Slattery a lot.
Bipolar disprder and other multidimensional preceptory functions could more likely be reclassified from a disease to a hypersensitivity to energy which one does not identify as belonging to oneself, which therefore counteracts within the mind's ability to alter or project and/or maintain balance in one's mood, as certain energies may be ‘absorbed' empathically or observed as a negative or draining energy; An elevated sense or shift due to the overstimulation of energy which the subject may receive as ‘“positive”, or shifting the mood undesirably by the overstimulation of negative sources, sounds, or persons within the subject's realm foreign, undesirable, or unwanted within one's field of energy—a heightened sense of awareness or vibrational field which inhibits or limits the ability to contain or transmute such energies.
It is, within its own sense, a sort of elevated mechanism for survival, ie a superpower, given the subjects placement within the proper environment, within the functional vibration of the subjects natural mood or state, whereas, lows may be the subjects own sensitivity to numerous outer sources of negative or prone to certain toxicities to his or her natural state, and highs whereas certain higher vibrational energies result in the conglomerate evolution of such energies as a newer form
I think I don't know what I am, and nobody does—so nothing you give me will ever really fix me, because I was never really broken, or
Or I was broken rightfully so in that I should have been treated as a trauma victim, and not the subject of some cruel experimentation as an attempt to assasinate whatever force of nature is actually keeping me alive in the only survival mechanism it's been naturally given to battle the psychopathic standards and expectations of today's society.
Why is this J. slatts again
Cause, I've got a beautiful vocality for narration.
Fine, I'll work on that character next, I guess.
John Slattery is in this!
I guess I have to watch it, then.
Collect the actors, again!
JOHN SLATTERY (as himself)
“I'll do it, “, I said, “but there better be money attached to this project”
This is—probably going to take longer than an hour, I'm betting.
[He sits at the had of a long table]
I don't know what you did, you fucking idiot, but you did it.
Tell me what I did again.
[unseen, on the opposite side of the room]
[Like, an entire generational gap of innuendos and pop culture reference.]
Your presence is appreciated.
This meeting is now officially in session.
{Enter The Multiverse: LEGENDS}
What is this? Is this Scotch?
No! It's apple cider vinegar!
I heard you were a Method-ist.
No, apparently I'm “the medicine man”
Nearly forgot what this was like
Too many sunny days, no friends
Overcast clouds say stay,
But it ll seems worthless
Almost, Amazon, Ten dollars
I should be smarter than to call the code
I should be smarter then to call him over
The hypnotists wish lists
What happens at number ten
I should have left him as
The protagonists, of supporting roles
Now number one is number four
And number four is often gone
The storyline and plot is
New York has hospitality, though
New York's got hospitality, though
How's Tokyo sound when November rolls around
How's Paris now, that were Marlboros on parliament
I had woken up with an overall feeling that something was wrong—I had overshot my 3 AM target time by 6 hours, realizing of course that I was a day ahead, and that the construction—more drilling and hammering, was out on hold thanks to an apparent oncoming rain, which hadn't come yet— my wavering mental state was apparent in the mess I had left in my room, clothes strewn across the floor and atop the bed, but at least otherwise clean—I had slept dressed, or at least half dressed, a protection stone lodged in my bra, as the necklace I had worn for my son had become somewhat damaged in some way—it was no longer protective, but had somehow defected; probably in the way that his father bearing over him, allowed the stone some sort of portal to be able to invade my dreams with nightmarish hauntings, and I instead opted to keep the necklace aafelu tucked away, until I would be able to give it to him as I had planned. But still, it seemed that the intention of his father was to ruin my life, and see to it so that I may never do well enough to visit my son, and it seemed no matter how hard I tried
I would not miss the band.
i doubled back, low battery
I could watch the sun rising
Kelly Clarkson was the cutest thing ever—and sung so freely like a bird like I wished that I could—I remember breaking down in my car after just missing the cut off for entering her show, back in LA—more than likely over the fact that I would be missing a paycheck, rather than missing the show anyway— and I had almost thought to cancel my tickets for the View, had I not been lured by the blue hues of both their outfits—and though I hadn't meant particularly to be associated with the color blue at all, most people associated my name with the color anyway, as I hadn't intended.
Nothing was really intended, it had just happened. Whoopie Goldberg's fabulous denim cape forced me to wonder what I might wear the next day, had I decided to actually go—the colors of my closet mostly black and quite drab, and the denim dress I had acquired as a cleaning person the year before becoming a tired go-to when I needed to look nice. I almost wanted to wear my new Michael Kors stilettos, but was saving them for an actual party, an interview somewhere classy, or worse—my first date—as the anniversary of my cellibacy drew closer by the minute, and my need to continue my reproduction however with someone more fitting began to be the most harrowing thing on my mind, beside possibly returning to a homeless shelter, which I would not allow to happen. My exit strategy was simple, actually—in that if given an eviction notice for whatever reason—my neighbors seemed particularly afflicted as my former boss and lovers, roommates, and others I had become close to in this strange and seemingly cursed world with that thing I could only call a demon, since I didn't know what it was, and I was afraid they'd continue to report smoke coming from my apartment, although now I had been forced to switch to a diffuser with essential oils, taking a chunk out of what I considered my severance pay from The House of Illumination, which had indeed lived up to its namesake—the lesson had been quick, in that working for such a man, whoever he was or at least pretending to be, had taken me off my path, and had begun to dishevel my personal energy so much so that I had actually dropped my wallet—it had been so long since making such a mistake that I knew indeed that something was wrong, however, but needed the money so badly that it didn't matter—and besides, nothing could be so horrible as was my mother sometimes, growing up—and I had given Natural all that he needed to hurt me in telling the story of my own weight loss journey.
Telling, and in return, Natrual was showing that I had given the world the perfect excuse to continue trying to kill me—that perhaps, my time had passed anyway.
Kelly Clarkson looked incredible—the last I had seen, she was pleasantly plump, but never bad looking—now, she was. Incredibly veluptumous, and as she stated that she stood at merely 5'3, I was suprised once again that all of the TV people looked either taller or shorter on camera, and wondered what I might look like— I was almost stuck thin about 4 days into a water fast, but appeared and felt large otherwise, and most recently had been more tired and fatigued that ever, outraged that I had been dismissed from my only income in months over nothing, and that the income from anything else I was doing would simply not come at all if I could never wrap my mind around even trying to have it be seen by the right minds, with the right eyes, at the right time—and yet there was another force of evil, seeming always to stop me from the essence of true creation—this thing which had taken away my musical expression almost entirely by now, my sensibility wavering and all of my slayed projects, stagnant.
I was craving oats, and had even pre-prepared some, blending them in my magic bullet so that they would be easier to digest—and since Natural had made the suggestion that my BMI was to blame for my lack of focus and attention to detail, it had more been the combination of losing my wallet, having to deal with the public transit, constantly being reminded that Tula, a light skinned African was the music industry's new it-girl, and of course, that my son, now 7, was morbidly obese, probably somewhere discarded like junk under a cloud of cigarette smoke, head deep in a video game and surrounded by idiots—and that no matter how hard I tried to make the money to see him, something awful would happen so that I couldn't, and it became clear that his father's story—whereas I had simply and for no reason “lost my mind” and had abandoned my child, was the story he had told to all those around him, who believed him—that I was the villain in his story, and my son the tool he used to create a sympathetic picture of a loving and struggling father, though now he might have actually been trying, the damage was done; he had sent my son away unable to care for him to my mother, and in the time he was given alone, of course, created another child—all of which of course I wanted, in hopes that the one he had chosen for his new family would have some sort of love an appreciation for my own son, enough to have created a step mother, but alas, was some underwhelming someone with nothing to offer but her own struggle—and I wanted nothing to do but to be gone from this drama, however my own blood had been caught up in it enough so that I could feel it, knowing that at just 7, my son was as sick as I once was, depressed and miserable as the child of a narcicist becomes once the damage is done.
I was only eating blended foods, and had become obsessed with being stick thin—celebrity fit, which is how I had found the video at all, my love of Whoopi Goldberg and Kelly Clarkson creating a quick draw, a star studded combination I could not resist, though I wasn't resisting much—I had drifted back into the realms of television and film, my first loves—or rather, my first conscious endeavor, as I had been attracted to the piano from a toddler and learned to play around three, therein my is being my first love, however with a mother like mine and a life like ours, there truly never was one thing I could ever just ‘do', as anything I loved would soon be subjected to be taken away for some reason or another, whether it was a messy room, or just a mood swing—whether or not I wanted to watch lifetime and be best friends, even after a day of being yelled at and scolded for one reason or another—as my mother often seemed to forget ever being cruel after being so, often saying “I would never…” to whatever she had done, a narcissist's mark, in denying actions and words that had only ever been witnessed between the other party and God.
I had blended the ancient seed oat bend into a porridge with agave and sautéed apples and pears with cinnamon, and though I felt awful eating more than once, was struggling enough with this bout of depression which working at Temple of Illumination so briefly had caused that it didn't matter at all—coffee was simply not enough, and my Amazon package which would deliver my vitamin supplements and whatever else I had ordered—things I had gotten into the habit of pocketing at the Whole Foods market during my homelessness, but in trying to recover from the spiritually twisted and evil place the homeless system had put me through, I had, with all my might, been insistent on purchasing everything I had needed—and even though it was indeed wrong of the white supremacists movement to have been true health and nutrition almost unattainable to the common workforce, my food stamps never enough to actually supplement a full month of food—whole food veganism which would allow me to train for at least an hour a day to sustain clean energy, and of course, water in order to stay hydrated in doing so — I was getting better at keeping what I needed in stock, but almost always needed to run to a food bank at least once a week, hoping that I would collect there things I actually could eat, rather than processed junk my body no longer saw as food at all.
I peeled a mandarin into the watered down oats mixture and was worried that the dried cranberries I would pour over the top would be too much sugar, but I almost didn't care; I was on the verge of tears, and some evil, penetrating force had been altering my sleep patterns, my heartbeat, and my dreams—there was some group of motorcyclists who for months had been circling at any given time, and though some might have been able to ignore the roaring and awful vibrations of such, I could not—these motorists seemed to rip through my heart and up my spine like a serrated knife, a gesture that indeed noted that it was some evil or devilish, demonic force, as when in relax and meditation I often pondered with his, these striking forces would come, often creating a wave of fear, anxiety, and worry—terrorism, by definition, and disturbance of the peace, it was—but nobody seemed to care that it was pain for me, in fact, the more I began to wonder what or why it was, the more it became clear that this was intention to hurt or kill me, whether by an organization of some sort, or simply the force of evil itself against the divine I had become, not with intention at all, but in seeking my own freedom from such a world as cruel and unjust as I had come.
My neighbors had lodged an impressive amount of complaints against me for smudging—and it was 36 complaints before I had even been made aware that my neighbors were trying to get rid of me; not once had a note been left on my door, or had I been approached by them In the hallway to ask that I not use smudge—then again, sometimes as whites were, they were more concerned about themselves and their dogs than whatever might have been the cause of such heavy saging occurring—the motorcycles at all hours tearing through my heart, the slamming doors, the sound of their televisions or voices penetrating through my walls— the unwelcoming energy which at all times I was surrounded by, and though I loved New York, 3 stories above the ground floor and on the border of queens was simply not far enough away from the Godlessness of the cursed and usually dark others, whom could not understand the conciousness I had drawn from the long fasts, prayers, and summonings I had done in order to free myself from the force that had done away with me to begin with—my deep love for the man with whom I had fathered my sons, and a daughter, the two of the three were gone, though I had seen so that if I had not lost my daughter and my son, I would probably still be with their father, in attempting to give them a family—another poor, single, black woman and mother, I was now willing to be to my son, but was not; I had forgiven his father, however, it seemed some sort of curse he had done in my departure was still in effect, the demons he had called onto me not called off—and even in the reflection of my own self and flaws upon entetering such a relationship—the other things had been inherited from him; the homelessness, the toxicity and mismanagement of energy—however, my lack of control over time, I realized early on, had been inherited from my mother, who was more like my ex husband and her own abusive father than I ever was.
I wanted bread, but could not dare;
J[r was 6 ft tall, and for some reason, that bothered me more than anything else I had learned about him, for some bizzarre reason almost suddenly obsessed with the public figure, though at first the dollar project had been more of a game than the actual idea, and the festival project itself was at all but a halt, as I wanted and needed desperately to comb through my documents at once, but could never seem to— the metaphors of Natural's Basement drawing upon me as I realized that perhaps, I was too emotional about its contents to properly sort through them—atop this concern, was the concern that my body, though fitting quite nicely into an extra extra small pair of racer lined jockey style workout leggings, was still too large to be though of as ideal—ideal, which for a man 6 feet apparently was, according to Ali and the others, and though I had pretty much always hated Fallon from early on, always breaking fourth wall and blowing my mind coming from such a strong theatre background that someone like that could have ever been awarded a coveted spot on such a legendary show, it had been gathered somewhere that his audition was flawless, however—his second audition, according to Tina Fey, who I loved, maybe even more after learning that she had been given such a unique name, and had won almost every award I could possibly think to covet, although however much a writer I was, an actor and comic I was not, in that I had given up my own craft years before being fat or being black was ever in style—and now that it was, I had no reason to believe that at 31, while Tyla was 22, as was Billie Ellish, I had any business in even trying to make it in entertainment— I began preparing to die almost as readily as ever, deciding upon eviction, rather than fighting it and returning to the intake shelter in the Bronx to start the process again, I would simply jump either off my own building, hoping 12 stories would be enough to actually cause death, rather than just parilization, or find my way to the end of the platform at which the train moved most quickly in preparation to stop at the station, which I had nicknamed “the Jumping Point”—also the name of a pop up dance music club I had summoned up once, actually thinking that something, something at all would bring me close enough to success to actually become the dance music tycoon and entrepreneur that I wanted, however—as my hair again grew into a shoveled mess atop my skull, only hidden by a hit which the view wouldn't allow as an audience member, the only thing which might have kept me from going at all, besides my lack of knowing what to wear or just the daunting crises of having no money at all almost a shameful mark across my face— my nails for nearly a year undone, and of course— everything I knew that needed to be done, almost stuck and unable to move forward, my divorce papers included, another mark of the devil, as I had already done the paperwork 3 times, spending atrocious amounts of money in the process, of course, for all of them to be sent back, for some reason or another, and the case to still be opened without being shut—and at least it was opened…
As tears began to well up into my eyeballs, in thinking perhaps I truly was cursed, that the law was for whatever reason on all of my abuser's sides, and that I was doomed to become lost in this endless cycle of loss and pain for some reason or another, that became the task at hand—to, for what was either the third or fourth actual time, file for divorce, and to be rid of my abuser for good, the fate of my son at the crossroads of my wealth, or even better yet, at the very least securing a job, where I was no longer haunted by the massive work I had done on the festival project, or by, as I had once been, followed by some Jimmy Fallon doppleganger— an experience I had nearly forgotten.
However, as I reflected upon all of the jobs I had in the years I was homeless, they all had one thing in common—horrible bosses, doppelgängers of people I loved or had written about—and toxic working conditions, in addition to extremely low wages and unconscious coworkers, with the exception of few, whom I kept in my heart and still loved—did I love Jimmy Fallon? As a fan, or an admirer of his portfolio, his presence to me simply only existing in clips and montages from the confines of my memory of all that I could draw from him—an impossible suitor, I found myself to be more in admiration and awe of his work as a comic, a host, his apparent professionalism and stage presence, all of which none surrounding him could doubted and which had given birth to my own re-entry into screenwriting anything besides enter the multiverse/and yet I wondered//what for, besides as to stand as a perfect example of what would and could draw the masses and stand as an acceptable and inexplicable mark for perfection—a television personality, all of which stood to be hidden in such, a person, none whom could ever know behind the likes of such, a camera, an audience, and the propagation of the ideas and words of the media would want to portray in such programming as to remain in control in one way or another, of the audience's minds, and therefore, the viewers hearts, and souls—commanding a presence within the collective consciousness, dependent of course on said viewer's own ability to draw from those things, what was actually being said and done.
That, in itself, was The Illuminati in its process.
Alright, so—a Jimmy Fallon is an extremely powerful magician, right?
So he must have talismans, somewhere, then—right?
I certainly wasn't willing to look.
Look, I already know what he likes.
Geez, how long have you had his eyes?
I'm gonna get in so much trouble.
What is the point of this redaction ?
It's just acting! It's just acting!
Look, whatever I just did with Fallon, just put him in The Winner's Circle, okay? I'll never see that dude again.
Stay away from me, your crazy bitch!
I don't know what I just read.
Would you give me a hand with this
I need some medicine quick
(Cause I can't with this)
Need a can of some laugher
I heard that's the medicine
I can't trust the man in the television
I haven't remembered an image this
Now I gotta finish this whole maya rudolph timeline this shit just keeps getting deeper and deeper.
Mm. Vanilla ice cream is sounding
Just vanilla bean—ice cream.
What does the man with the van do
All the good days are gone
And I've sent you on right back
But I will still love you
I was just thinking of that thing
But I will still love you
When you get off the ground level
Find yourself a revolving door
That the world revolves around you
And if all the world's a stage,
Then all the world is full of actors
And all the trains are out of order
And all the walk is out of water
Then they would have said no anyway
And if it was a hall pass
I wouldn't have been as flattered
I asked for something new
Every chair costs and thing,
Every couch costs a fortune
Cause you can't get a job
With the punches he dealt you
I see what you're on about
Misery and mystical mistresses
Misdirection, misrepresentations and.
—mister you're into some sinister shit,
But I pictured it different
Consider it rhythm your interest is simmering in
Glistening instances dancing as angels in my headaches
Dressed as construction workers
Any difference it makes it's latent,
Listen into signals intercepting into intermission
Admissions of omissions and redactions
The Masterful mystic is at it again
Alright, this dude has the coolest job in the world.
[You can't be serious with this, esh]
This cant be infinite, is it?
You're the luckiest lady alive
Can I just lay down and cry yet?
I like the sound of a bullet touch
So please don't leave the TV
You're sleeping with a blonde
I've got my mind on dying mine bright as
But everywhere else is just—
(I don't want your dick, I just want your job.)
If the goal was just Taylor
Don't forget to pray away the day
And the mouse just shaking
It's starting to scare me
Heroine mare for the Mayor
This disfigured imbicile,
So it makes sense if it is
A glimpse at the pictures
A get together with friends
Intellect, individual inception
Now, how can I have that?
It must be a sign from the heavens
I've just had my time done with and over
Don't tell me what to do.
(I really don't like eating in bed…)
Not at myself, not at Jimmy Fallon— but angry.
The astonishing part about it was,
Well, first of all, I just sat through an hour and a half special, and I have realized that I am not a fan of this guy.
He's the right body type.
I was a very sad, very fat very broken 18-year-old girl.
A married man. How could you?
I couldn't! Didn't I made that clear!
—and goddammit, he's good at it?
—and goddammit, he's good at it!
Okay, it's pretty safe to say that is not just one guy.
Why?! What?! I can't! My parents!
These are not your parents!
What?! What do you mean?!
Suddenly, the anger turned to sadness, and tears welled up in my eyes—
No, don't you dare shed a tear over that man.
Once, an obedient lap dog,
Now poised and poached over me,
A gargoyle, though picturesque and statuesque
As if drawn from an angel,
The guardian of the night,
Who watches over my heart,
Calms the raging rivers of my wishes,
Really dog, Jimmy Fallon?
I don't know. I don't know.
It was too late, I was already in love—
But at a safe enough distance that it had become, in its own way, a guardianship of sorts—and it had run deep enough cut, but not scar, and even perhaps bumped up enough against my heart to bruise, but not be broken; I would have to let it run its course, and as it would, I would for show go everywhere I could within that realm; I simply could not be trusted, in my own mind, not to bond with such that had found me in the dreamworld. In the spiritual realms of such remained only as hidden as they each had been, out of sight, but ne'er out of touch, or out of mind. A strange but hearty love, a burden, as were the others—and so I knew it was good, but mine alone, left to wilt, withered and weathered as the time drew on.
A quilted touch, a wandering whisper
To glassy eyes and hunted hearts
A crossbow, arrows sigh and wonder
The target marked, a sign of stone
Bewildered, the beast of burden
Wallowing in holy grave and matrimony
I suffer not to know you;
Dog's paw atop a stolen mantle
I shall keep to own a desire,
So shed upon the willow, to weep
DAMN. Who the FUCK are you.
The hour of desire strikes with night
Casket of crowns, preach thee
I'm gonna need some time with you.
Great. Now I have to be perfect.
So sweet with will that I,
Ye, a mere stone, might stand
It's okay. I can handle it.
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