I fell into a dream with you last night
And when I woke I had to cry
And when I looked inside your eyes
I had to realize they were mine
Something like a diamond shines inside
Our love is just inside my mind
I just wanted you to know:
Your evil shamanic curse worked(
I've been homeless since I left you and demonic forces follow me everywhere
So I'm going to kill myself eventually
Just the way you hoped I would
So no one will have to know that you hit me so hard it made me lose my mind
You have an evil spirit and a heartless soul and nobody will ever love you except for our son—
So just tell him I love him
Every single person you ever try to love will cheat and lie to you
And the only reason I don't wish homelessness and suicide onto you
Is because you have our son
Thanks for ruining my life
I hope there's heaven on the other side
You fat stupid retarded motherfucker
—but I didn't text him that, of course
But in my heart and soul, I knew it would be the end of me,
And that he'd know he really had won—
And though I didn't want to give him the power or the light of day, I knew I was cursed,
Followed by coughing demons, pretty, skinny women, mindfucked by Skrillex and Dillon Francis and set to die in the streets with nothing to eat, nowhere to go, and nothing to lose but myself, not that it mattered—
It would be a quiet suicide,
And my son might never know I died alone and homeless in New York City;
And the hole in my heart that made me a ghost was shaped just like him ;
And though I had nothing left but love to give,
Which meant nothing in a cruel and loveless world made of money,
The best that I could do was just to love him,
And hope that on the other side would be heaven,
Where I could know him again
I just passed the white rabbit;
I'd laugh at it, if I weren't rabid with absolute madness
And God's a bird on a wire
I'm one off of everything,
I can't run, when I'm too busy thinking
“Where the fuxk am I gonna sleep”
Tomorrow, I can pawn my drum machine—
That buys me one more night in a nice dream
A nice clean apartment in Brooklyn,
‘Is it supposed to be a secret?'
I really had fallen in love with Sonny, but it didn't seem to matter anymore about anything—I didn't have what I needed at all—and the irony and reality was setting in that the Sonny was dropping his album on the exact day that I would run out of everything—out of money for food, a place to sleep…everything. I had loved him so wholehearly that I had recorded ïambīc; only to be devastated in the following weeks with the discovery that he had been spending time with Kayla Laurenc who I didn't exactly despise, as much as I resented—as in all of my life, girls like her had always gotten ahead and gotten everything I wanted, without even trying—just because they looked the way they did—and, at least by all the people I had been around, even my mother—I was ugly, fat, and retarded. Perhaps he did operate on the Devil's power, with my ex husband; I was homeless, at least not yet hungry, but on my way to it—and finally, out of “nowhere”, Sonny being Skrillex was in New York, releasing the album we had all been waiting for.
I was either being cruicified or…
Connected to a greater purpose, but it hurt either way—and either way I wanted to end it.
Every time I dreamt of Dillon, it was of his entire family—in fact, I had almost forgotten that he had a brother at all; it didn't make sense to me, actually
I had stopped breathing. I was crying quietly from the moment I left Equinox—I had done my best not to, but couldn't help it entirely. It had been too long since I had any sense of security.
I tossed my head back to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks, staring up with widened eyes, which suddenly focused on the digital LCD screen, flashing the streets at which the train would stop; I was of course sitting directly beneath the stop for 88th street—Sonny's birth year, and a number that had repeatedly jumped out to me since our “meeting”.
‘Why would he do this to me?'
Maybe this is all supposed to murder me.
My ex husband had been tied to White Supremacy;
“I belong to an organization that will kill you and bury you somewhere no one will ever find you.” He once said—one of the things which lead to my attempt—or completing, alternatively, suicide.
“You know why I have the power to control demons?” Another notion which had the tendency to repeat itself in my mind, whenever a demonic energy found its way to me, in the form of a skinny, attractive woman or a coughing homeless person, in the form of Kayla Lauren, Dillon Francis, or even Sonny—and though none of the latter two actually ever seemed like actual demons, at least to me—the demonic energy was in knowing that someone like me, in reality, could never deserve or afford someone like Sonny, or Dillon respectively—and although the attraction that I felt to either of them was extreme wrnough to me, and could even be called love, the truth was that the effect of fame meant that it wasn't just me, but hundreds of thousands of other human beings like me, better than me, more attractive than me—and with a better perception of reality that would make more ideal partners, mates, and lovers, and that my own perception of beauty and self love had been shattered by Society.
What does it matter? What am I supposed to believe? That Sonny's come to New York to rescue me and take me to freedom—that with someone like me he'd be actually happy? That everything in my head, in my heart, in my mind—the belief that we were meant to be is actually reality? He has every reason and every right to be wary of me.
I had read about the teenaged girl that had become obsessed with Drake Bell, following him to all his shows and eventually, even becoming close with him; texting back and forth, and from the looks of it—probably even meeting, hanging out together and who knows what else exactly, besides the man himself and God, on whose behalf it sometimes seeemed I was acting, however—
The orange and blue basketballs on the fabric clutch held under the arm of the man in front of me distracted my mind for a moment from my writing; the color orange had always reminded me of Dillon, because it was so prevalent in the music which had first captivated me, even before I knew who Dillon Francis was exactly, and had somehow managed to have implanted the notion —especially after the realization that he was, in fact, using magic— that perhaps such a gifted shapeshifter had learned to even transform himself into an object that was inanimate; a traffic cone, whatever that meant.
Years had passed since the idea had been established, and though I couldn't seem to remember how I had first actually imagined it, besides listening to what probably may have been ‘too much' Dillon Francis, an entire storyline had been written, as Dillon Francis, having become at some point captain of The Bampheraphs, had instructed the other Insomniacs, Bampheramphs, Motherfuckers, and DJs to also transform into the very simple, very inanimate traffic cones— and though Skrillex, or Sonny—was also given an extreme amount of power and magic, especially even the ability to become inanimate himself, or, “The Inanimate Skrillex”, as it had once been written—as it remarkably turned out, Skrillex would find that he could be every color traffic cone besides Neon Orange—which, as the curator of such an idea, had, over time, become both comedic and tragic—as everywhere I seemed to go, tended to produce strangely colored tragic cones at random.
Is when I find the bravery
To finally fly, or something…
BLŪ is seated in a window seat towards the back of a BOEING 747.
Sometimes my worst nightmares are airplane crashes, actually. Since I could remember, maybe from the age of about two or three—I would dream awful tragedies—‘nightmares, or night terrors, actually—tornadoes, horrible fires and burning buildings and sometimes, airplane crashes, which even to this day, haunt me when I sleep.
You know, nobody has a ticket to the soul train.
Trains in New York do come suicide fast.
I was on the platform and still almost got hit!
Okay, this isn't really funny anymore, is it?
Suddenly, a sound rang out into my ears and
Ugh, it's hard to write when you want to die this much
‘Why do you want to die this much?
I had extended my air bnb for one more night, but it meant giving up one of my drum machines go to the pawn shop—the one which I had just reclaimed from the pawn shop in Las Vegas, and seemed an entire waste, as it was the heaviest thing in all my luggage, and I had dragged it across the country in order to use it as a performance piece to give myself an edge over the other DJs who simply mixed—But, as it turned out, of course,
the world, “especially New York”, was over saturated with DJs— though I had done what I could, or most of what I could, to get a head start, I had so much work backed up that in the two weeks since I had left my job in LA, that it didn't matter now that I even had my drum machine with me—I was scrambling to gather money to keep a place to sleep, and so the drum machine would have to go in the morning, in exchange for one or two more nights of housing—and with any luck or by the grace or God I could somehow fish it back out of the pawn shop in some weeks or months time—not that I enjoyed the idea of going back into the workforce as anything but an artist—but so far, this artist that I was had been the lowest of all the low paying jobs I had ever had.
I had heard the album over and over—it had infinite replay value, of course, and I was using its tones and auras to dry my tears on the long train back to Brooklyn from Manhattan—but, in this moment, as I exited the subway station and made my way down my usual route back to the flat I had depleted my entire savings on staying in—the sound shook through my entirety, rumbling strangely into the arcs of my feet and even stopping me dead in my tracks for a moment, ringing strangely in my chest and into the palms of my hands, up my shoulders and into my hollow lungs, wrapping around my heart, and colliding with the very odd thought
“I gotta stay alive to ask Joel what that was.”
It was past midnight—and now that I was above ground, I hadn't thought to check again if the new Skrillex album was being released on East Coast time, where Sonny supposedly still was, or if it might not be available until later; and I hadn't thought to look or try to check Instagram again—I had only been on Instagram anyway in hopes of finding a job—and had only checked the Skrillex Instagram hoping that I would see something that would make the way I felt about Sonny stop, by now, suddenly realizing that it never would until he married or procreated with someone else, (or I did) once and for all wiping out any dillusions I had dreamt up or summoned in the wake of our crossing paths. As quickly as he had come to New York, he could have left and probably may have—but I didn't know, and didn't care; it would be futile to believe he would come to rescue me, even if it was what I wanted and needed so much that I couldn't bear the thought of anything more than just departing the entire world.
Earlier, even though I had been pressed for time to make it to the gym, having spent the day of course collecting my things and trying to figure a way out ot the homeless box I had built my way into, still stressing the somehow ‘need' to publish the entirety or the 6th season so that I could go on hiatus—
It really hadn't occurred to me for more than a moment that Sonny might be listening to my podcast at all, besides listening to Renaissance which I had briefly vaulted, having worked out to it too much and beyond honestly hating myself for not being either Skrillex, or perhaps even more disappointingly, Beyoncè—and either one would have done—
I retracted my last couple steps, doubling back to the discotheque—All Night Skate—where I had already asked for a job one of my first nights in Brooklyn, collecting the number of the manager but having lost it, deleting it by accident—
INT. ALL NIGHT SKATE. 12:56 AM
I realized it was nearly closing time; I had stopped back by after Equinox to write, hoping to music mine whatever the DJ was playing, my body strangely acting and writing quite automatically, with reason to live, shaken suddenly alive by an unidentifiable bass sound seated safely on While 1>2, and still seeking purpose
The two songs mixed perfectly into my minds eye as I left, snapping photos for albums yet to be written, and wondering whether or not I would live long enough to write them, or to mix the two songs which had so perfectly mixed—one playing in my headphones and the other over the PA system—and wondering how less than an hour earlier I had experienced a sound I had heard at least a hundred times under the arches of my feet.
The numbers 404 had always triggered the thought: Error, perhaps suggesting even I myself was nothing more than just a simulation or computer of some sort, a robotic formulation of all that had been programmed and crated to exist in the way that I had, a short circuit or some kind of malfunction; I'd trickled into Equinox at precisely 9:52, which allowed me exactly 8 minutes to prepare to record the beginning of the closing announcements at 10:00 for the Equinox + EP, peel off my outer layer of clothes, and pour into the sauna for at least 15 minutes, squeezing in a light workout—warranted, considering I had spent the entirety of the day before at the club, auditioning the rest of the 6th season between the sauna and steamroom, Suffering the Skrillex that had descended onto the city I neither loved nor lived in—which might have totaled altogether about 4 hours in the sauna alone, and what seemed like 56 gallons of sweat—but I was grasping at straws, searching for random numbers to complete my thoughts. I had left Manhattan, as usual, at 11:00 PM as Sports Club closed—pulling my belongings from locker 403, with locker number 404 catching my attention from out of the corner or my eye—and as tears gushed from my face, blasted through the revolving doors—-there was indeed an Error in my Bread, and so to self soothe as usual only seemed fitting, as the words began to pour from my fingertips once more.
‘Not Your Mother's Drag Night' had ended, and the either irony or synchronicity subtly toyed with my inherent need for survival and awestruck emotions, as the last and final episode of the 6th season, which I had already named [Not Your Mother's Episode] before arriving to my Equinox venture at the party — the episode in which everything I had written, assembled with every entry for the 6th season, to be left in its description —was yet still unreleased; it had been a grueling train ride full of tears, and I had yet to neatly tie together the Jimmy Fallon timeline—the Timmy Turner Timeline, which of course connected the Amanda Bynes timelines and all of the Nickelodeon timelines respectively—and though the Skrillex and Dillon Francis timelines had driven nearly every series in their entireties in one way or another, Sonny's sudden arrival into New York City mere hours after Act III, Part IIhad been posted —indicating that either he himself or someone on his campaign had been listening and reading along with my series, jolting me into a frenzy, of course… (though I had already planned to release the end of the season concurrently—as I had with a majority of the previous seasons, taking a hiatus to regroup after each season conclusion or finale) my homeless-suicidal pattern had shown itself to be cyclical, by now—not that one thing hadn't anything to do with the other, and though someone or something may have found it interesting and entertaining, I myself was growing tired of making a mockery of my own self, remaining unloved, unhoused, and unfelt enough so much so that nothing had really changed—and although the 3rd season's hiatus had warranted the 4th season's Anandar, the 4th seasons return to the United States had of course warranted more racism, capitalistic greed, hereditary confinement, algorithmic condemnation, corporate slavery, and an interesting series of mixtapes—which of course had resulted in the 6th season's hope for a better future, my almost-return to Hollywood via the actual real-life Drake Bell and his man-habits, my mental degradation via lack of privacy, and of course, the empathic enforcement or feeling everything at once besides love, human connection or trust.
My ex had texted me some weeks earlier, finally having apologized for cheating and assuring me that his karma had been paid in full—without responding, I simply screenshotted the message for future use on an album cover, deleted Google voice, and reassured myself that if his long-overdue karma for cheating had just now been ‘paid-in-full', that it surely had not been paid in full at all and was only just beginning—as he had never apologized or admitted to anything else he'd done—of course, as our relationship had ended, my re-awakening of creativity had been flourishing; I was always recording, taking samples, and writing down ideas for music I wanted to make—and besides that—openly admitting that he had hit me would probably open a disastrous wormhole of self-realization and shame no true narcissist could take—that which he was, not that I at this point had resented it, besides of course the scarring on my lower lip that had come as a result, the estrangement from my son, or the mental anguish I had suffered—and, looking back, I still could never recount whether I had…
Just then, I realized that there was an error in my thinking; I had already been running off my weight at a tremendously rapid pace, working out to Recess in the living room between shifts at the veterinary clinic, where I took pride and joy in running with the greyhounds at then-top speed, racing to Diplo, Doctor P, and Rusko—of course, only stopping to express, my breasts still heavy from lactation, and realizing that it was painful to run with boobs full of anything—let alone, milk—which sometimes I pumped for Annie once her glands had gone dry, donated to the NICU, or winded up in my ex's coffee, because it gave him “superpowers.”
Well, if I tell some of it I have to tell all of it.
Why are you even telling some of it?
Because someone threw Skrillex in my tent and
You can't rape the willing.
This is a sick bitch we're dealing with.
How do you know he was willing?
I put the ill in Skrillex
Better fix my will forreal
This could be my last meal
Cause I feel like jumping off a building
We're beating/being a dead horse,
Let me annoint you all with oil,
Then you start showing up in my dreams?
I don't believe in anything but me,
And I could be you, maybe
Maybe I'll go fuxkin sleep with Lil Peep
But probably not as much as
Fun fact: when you cry, I cry.
Jesus Christ, why is Shia Labouf so fuckin ripped.
ITS ME, I'M IN YOUR DREAMS.
Narcissistic Cannibal- Korn, Skrillex.
[C.C. Wakes up, drenched in sweat. ]
(That was an actual dream I had once—give or take a few parts.)
I probably would have forgotten he existed, too, were it not for that dream—and shortly thereafter…
C.C. Is binge watching Hot Ones.
INT. THE BILDERBERG MEETING
I DONT GIVE A SINGLE FUCK.
Wtf is happening in this show.
INT. A FIREY PLANECRASH. DAY.
LOOK TO THE SKIES, YOUNG PADOWAN.
oh my god. It's a fire breathing dragon!
No, dude, that's a firey plane crash.
That's a fire breathing dragon.
Which do you think is gonna be more interesting?
Neither, I'd rather watch The Legend of SupaCree
How is that even possible!
INT. A FIREY PLANE CRASH. DAY
[Terror has stricken the passengers of flight 626, as the BOEING 747 plunges rapidly, falling from the sky at an alarming speed, as the airplane decentigrates, falling into pieces]
Does this character not have a name?
No, it's literally Shia LaBeouf; he's playing himself.
I'M AN AIR MARSHALL WHEN I'M NOT ACTING
‘CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS.
SHIA LABEOUF looks over the rims of his glasses, staring forward at CC/SUPACREE, before lowering his head back down, momentarily pretending to read a magazine from under the brim of his tan cap, obscuring his identity. He places his hand over the gun in his holster, revealing by the golden badge beside it that he is a federal air Marshall (to the audience) before adjusting his brown leather jacket to cover it, squinting conspicuously under his bifocal lenses, peering once more at CC/SUPACREE, and swallowing subtly, licking his lips and flashing away a secondary glimpse of fear in his eyes, before presuming a fierce gaze as he braces for impact, calmly unbuckling his seatbelt. Suddenly, the plane is struck— as the passengers scream and panic in fear, he simply stands up, stabilizing his balance, and moves towards the terrified and hyperventilating SUPACREE. ]
AND ALL THE NICHELODEON KIDS?!
AND SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS
I never got to Hey Arnold, but I've been thinking about it a lot since I got to New York; but—that's also Nickelodeon, so—
BUT WHAT ABOUT DILLON FRANCIS.
he's also very attractive,
And just dropped his album—
So we can just assume that the previously mentioned are perhaps both getting their dicks sucked often enough that I don't have to worry about it.
Why would you worry about it.
CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS.
This is not kid friendly.
Everything naughty he says in this series is censored caused he has a contract with NBC.
WHERE'S WHOOPI GOLDBERG?!
I don't like this. I don't like this at all.
Probably also presumably getting his dick sucked.
I re-entered the apartment at exactly 1:15.
And though I had been filled with nothing but words and heartache, I could do no more than to peel off my layers and tumble into the shower, no longer in tears, but still devastated — and somehow dying to know if the Skrillex album just so happened to mark my Deathwish, or restore my faith in humanity…neither of which actually mattered; I had fallen prey once more to the cycle of poverty's destruction and relentlessness, if even by my own doing—the respective love I held for Sonny, Dillon Francis, or anyone else simply a faction of obsessive fandom, my writings a mere glimpse into the unobstructed world of the fourth dimension, which I undoubtedly still believed and was living in, only hoping that I was indeed not the hopeless protagonist to die, in the end—and perhaps, that even if I did, the worlds and works that I had published on The Legend of Supacree, OWSLA Confidential: The Infinite Skrillifiles, Gerald's World, and Enter The Multiverse would stand as the backbone for an unimaginable flurry of
I fell into a dream with you last night
And when I woke I had to cry
And when I looked inside your eyes
I had to realize they were mine
Something like a diamond shines inside
Our love is just inside my mind
I just wanted you to know:
Your evil shamanic curse worked(
I've been homeless since I left you and demonic forces follow me everywhere
So I'm going to kill myself eventually
Just the way you hoped I would
So no one will have to know that you hit me so hard it made me lose my mind
You have an evil spirit and a heartless soul and nobody will ever love you except for our son—
So just tell him I love him
Every single person you ever try to love will cheat and lie to you
And the only reason I don't wish homelessness and suicide onto you
Is because you have our son
Thanks for ruining my life
I hope there's heaven on the other side
You fat stupid retarded motherfucker
—but I didn't text him that, of course
But in my heart and soul, I knew it would be the end of me,
And that he'd know he really had won—
And though I didn't want to give him the power or the light of day, I knew I was cursed,
Followed by coughing demons, pretty, skinny women, mindfucked by Skrillex and Dillon Francis and set to die in the streets with nothing to eat, nowhere to go, and nothing to lose but myself, not that it mattered—
It would be a quiet suicide,
And my son might never know I died alone and homeless in New York City;
And the hole in my heart that made me a ghost was shaped just like him ;
And though I had nothing left but love to give,
Which meant nothing in a cruel and loveless world made of money,
The best that I could do was just to love him,
And hope that on the other side would be heaven,
Where I could know him again
I just passed the white rabbit;
I'd laugh at it, if I weren't rabid with absolute madness
And God's a bird on a wire
I'm one off of everything,
I can't run, when I'm too busy thinking
“Where the fuxk am I gonna sleep”
Tomorrow, I can pawn my drum machine—
That buys me one more night in a nice dream
A nice clean apartment in Brooklyn,
‘Is it supposed to be a secret?'
I really had fallen in love with Sonny, but it didn't seem to matter anymore about anything—I didn't have what I needed at all—and the irony and reality was setting in that the Sonny was dropping his album on the exact day that I would run out of everything—out of money for food, a place to sleep…everything. I had loved him so wholehearly that I had recorded ïambīc; only to be devastated in the following weeks with the discovery that he had been spending time with Kayla Laurenc who I didn't exactly despise, as much as I resented—as in all of my life, girls like her had always gotten ahead and gotten everything I wanted, without even trying—just because they looked the way they did—and, at least by all the people I had been around, even my mother—I was ugly, fat, and retarded. Perhaps he did operate on the Devil's power, with my ex husband; I was homeless, at least not yet hungry, but on my way to it—and finally, out of “nowhere”, Sonny being Skrillex was in New York, releasing the album we had all been waiting for.
I was either being cruicified or…
Connected to a greater purpose, but it hurt either way—and either way I wanted to end it.
Every time I dreamt of Dillon, it was of his entire family—in fact, I had almost forgotten that he had a brother at all; it didn't make sense to me, actually
I had stopped breathing. I was crying quietly from the moment I left Equinox—I had done my best not to, but couldn't help it entirely. It had been too long since I had any sense of security.
I tossed my head back to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks, staring up with widened eyes, which suddenly focused on the digital LCD screen, flashing the streets at which the train would stop; I was of course sitting directly beneath the stop for 88th street—Sonny's birth year, and a number that had repeatedly jumped out to me since our “meeting”.
‘Why would he do this to me?'
Maybe this is all supposed to murder me.
My ex husband had been tied to White Supremacy;
“I belong to an organization that will kill you and bury you somewhere no one will ever find you.” He once said—one of the things which lead to my attempt—or completing, alternatively, suicide.
“You know why I have the power to control demons?” Another notion which had the tendency to repeat itself in my mind, whenever a demonic energy found its way to me, in the form of a skinny, attractive woman or a coughing homeless person, in the form of Kayla Lauren, Dillon Francis, or even Sonny—and though none of the latter two actually ever seemed like actual demons, at least to me—the demonic energy was in knowing that someone like me, in reality, could never deserve or afford someone like Sonny, or Dillon respectively—and although the attraction that I felt to either of them was extreme wrnough to me, and could even be called love, the truth was that the effect of fame meant that it wasn't just me, but hundreds of thousands of other human beings like me, better than me, more attractive than me—and with a better perception of reality that would make more ideal partners, mates, and lovers, and that my own perception of beauty and self love had been shattered by Society.
What does it matter? What am I supposed to believe? That Sonny's come to New York to rescue me and take me to freedom—that with someone like me he'd be actually happy? That everything in my head, in my heart, in my mind—the belief that we were meant to be is actually reality? He has every reason and every right to be wary of me.
I had read about the teenaged girl that had become obsessed with Drake Bell, following him to all his shows and eventually, even becoming close with him; texting back and forth, and from the looks of it—probably even meeting, hanging out together and who knows what else exactly, besides the man himself and God, on whose behalf it sometimes seeemed I was acting, however—
The orange and blue basketballs on the fabric clutch held under the arm of the man in front of me distracted my mind for a moment from my writing; the color orange had always reminded me of Dillon, because it was so prevalent in the music which had first captivated me, even before I knew who Dillon Francis was exactly, and had somehow managed to have implanted the notion —especially after the realization that he was, in fact, using magic— that perhaps such a gifted shapeshifter had learned to even transform himself into an object that was inanimate; a traffic cone, whatever that meant.
Years had passed since the idea had been established, and though I couldn't seem to remember how I had first actually imagined it, besides listening to what probably may have been ‘too much' Dillon Francis, an entire storyline had been written, as Dillon Francis, having become at some point captain of The Bampheraphs, had instructed the other Insomniacs, Bampheramphs, Motherfuckers, and DJs to also transform into the very simple, very inanimate traffic cones— and though Skrillex, or Sonny—was also given an extreme amount of power and magic, especially even the ability to become inanimate himself, or, “The Inanimate Skrillex”, as it had once been written—as it remarkably turned out, Skrillex would find that he could be every color traffic cone besides Neon Orange—which, as the curator of such an idea, had, over time, become both comedic and tragic—as everywhere I seemed to go, tended to produce strangely colored tragic cones at random.
Is when I find the bravery
To finally fly, or something…
BLŪ is seated in a window seat towards the back of a BOEING 747.
Sometimes my worst nightmares are airplane crashes, actually. Since I could remember, maybe from the age of about two or three—I would dream awful tragedies—‘nightmares, or night terrors, actually—tornadoes, horrible fires and burning buildings and sometimes, airplane crashes, which even to this day, haunt me when I sleep.
You know, nobody has a ticket to the soul train.
Trains in New York do come suicide fast.
I was on the platform and still almost got hit!
Okay, this isn't really funny anymore, is it?
Suddenly, a sound rang out into my ears and
Ugh, it's hard to write when you want to die this much
‘Why do you want to die this much?
I had extended my air bnb for one more night, but it meant giving up one of my drum machines go to the pawn shop—the one which I had just reclaimed from the pawn shop in Las Vegas, and seemed an entire waste, as it was the heaviest thing in all my luggage, and I had dragged it across the country in order to use it as a performance piece to give myself an edge over the other DJs who simply mixed—But, as it turned out, of course,
the world, “especially New York”, was over saturated with DJs— though I had done what I could, or most of what I could, to get a head start, I had so much work backed up that in the two weeks since I had left my job in LA, that it didn't matter now that I even had my drum machine with me—I was scrambling to gather money to keep a place to sleep, and so the drum machine would have to go in the morning, in exchange for one or two more nights of housing—and with any luck or by the grace or God I could somehow fish it back out of the pawn shop in some weeks or months time—not that I enjoyed the idea of going back into the workforce as anything but an artist—but so far, this artist that I was had been the lowest of all the low paying jobs I had ever had.
I had heard the album over and over—it had infinite replay value, of course, and I was using its tones and auras to dry my tears on the long train back to Brooklyn from Manhattan—but, in this moment, as I exited the subway station and made my way down my usual route back to the flat I had depleted my entire savings on staying in—the sound shook through my entirety, rumbling strangely into the arcs of my feet and even stopping me dead in my tracks for a moment, ringing strangely in my chest and into the palms of my hands, up my shoulders and into my hollow lungs, wrapping around my heart, and colliding with the very odd thought
“I gotta stay alive to ask Joel what that was.”
It was past midnight—and now that I was above ground, I hadn't thought to check again if the new Skrillex album was being released on East Coast time, where Sonny supposedly still was, or if it might not be available until later; and I hadn't thought to look or try to check Instagram again—I had only been on Instagram anyway in hopes of finding a job—and had only checked the Skrillex Instagram hoping that I would see something that would make the way I felt about Sonny stop, by now, suddenly realizing that it never would until he married or procreated with someone else, (or I did) once and for all wiping out any dillusions I had dreamt up or summoned in the wake of our crossing paths. As quickly as he had come to New York, he could have left and probably may have—but I didn't know, and didn't care; it would be futile to believe he would come to rescue me, even if it was what I wanted and needed so much that I couldn't bear the thought of anything more than just departing the entire world.
Earlier, even though I had been pressed for time to make it to the gym, having spent the day of course collecting my things and trying to figure a way out ot the homeless box I had built my way into, still stressing the somehow ‘need' to publish the entirety or the 6th season so that I could go on hiatus—
It really hadn't occurred to me for more than a moment that Sonny might be listening to my podcast at all, besides listening to Renaissance which I had briefly vaulted, having worked out to it too much and beyond honestly hating myself for not being either Skrillex, or perhaps even more disappointingly, Beyoncè—and either one would have done—
I retracted my last couple steps, doubling back to the discotheque—All Night Skate—where I had already asked for a job one of my first nights in Brooklyn, collecting the number of the manager but having lost it, deleting it by accident—
INT. ALL NIGHT SKATE. 12:56 AM
I realized it was nearly closing time; I had stopped back by after Equinox to write, hoping to music mine whatever the DJ was playing, my body strangely acting and writing quite automatically, with reason to live, shaken suddenly alive by an unidentifiable bass sound seated safely on While 1>2, and still seeking purpose
The two songs mixed perfectly into my minds eye as I left, snapping photos for albums yet to be written, and wondering whether or not I would live long enough to write them, or to mix the two songs which had so perfectly mixed—one playing in my headphones and the other over the PA system—and wondering how less than an hour earlier I had experienced a sound I had heard at least a hundred times under the arches of my feet.
The numbers 404 had always triggered the thought: Error, perhaps suggesting even I myself was nothing more than just a simulation or computer of some sort, a robotic formulation of all that had been programmed and crated to exist in the way that I had, a short circuit or some kind of malfunction; I'd trickled into Equinox at precisely 9:52, which allowed me exactly 8 minutes to prepare to record the beginning of the closing announcements at 10:00 for the Equinox + EP, peel off my outer layer of clothes, and pour into the sauna for at least 15 minutes, squeezing in a light workout—warranted, considering I had spent the entirety of the day before at the club, auditioning the rest of the 6th season between the sauna and steamroom, Suffering the Skrillex that had descended onto the city I neither loved nor lived in—which might have totaled altogether about 4 hours in the sauna alone, and what seemed like 56 gallons of sweat—but I was grasping at straws, searching for random numbers to complete my thoughts. I had left Manhattan, as usual, at 11:00 PM as Sports Club closed—pulling my belongings from locker 403, with locker number 404 catching my attention from out of the corner or my eye—and as tears gushed from my face, blasted through the revolving doors—-there was indeed an Error in my Bread, and so to self soothe as usual only seemed fitting, as the words began to pour from my fingertips once more.
‘Not Your Mother's Drag Night' had ended, and the either irony or synchronicity subtly toyed with my inherent need for survival and awestruck emotions, as the last and final episode of the 6th season, which I had already named [Not Your Mother's Episode] before arriving to my Equinox venture at the party — the episode in which everything I had written, assembled with every entry for the 6th season, to be left in its description —was yet still unreleased; it had been a grueling train ride full of tears, and I had yet to neatly tie together the Jimmy Fallon timeline—the Timmy Turner Timeline, which of course connected the Amanda Bynes timelines and all of the Nickelodeon timelines respectively—and though the Skrillex and Dillon Francis timelines had driven nearly every series in their entireties in one way or another, Sonny's sudden arrival into New York City mere hours after Act III, Part IIhad been posted —indicating that either he himself or someone on his campaign had been listening and reading along with my series, jolting me into a frenzy, of course… (though I had already planned to release the end of the season concurrently—as I had with a majority of the previous seasons, taking a hiatus to regroup after each season conclusion or finale) my homeless-suicidal pattern had shown itself to be cyclical, by now—not that one thing hadn't anything to do with the other, and though someone or something may have found it interesting and entertaining, I myself was growing tired of making a mockery of my own self, remaining unloved, unhoused, and unfelt enough so much so that nothing had really changed—and although the 3rd season's hiatus had warranted the 4th season's Anandar, the 4th seasons return to the United States had of course warranted more racism, capitalistic greed, hereditary confinement, algorithmic condemnation, corporate slavery, and an interesting series of mixtapes—which of course had resulted in the 6th season's hope for a better future, my almost-return to Hollywood via the actual real-life Drake Bell and his man-habits, my mental degradation via lack of privacy, and of course, the empathic enforcement or feeling everything at once besides love, human connection or trust.
My ex had texted me some weeks earlier, finally having apologized for cheating and assuring me that his karma had been paid in full—without responding, I simply screenshotted the message for future use on an album cover, deleted Google voice, and reassured myself that if his long-overdue karma for cheating had just now been ‘paid-in-full', that it surely had not been paid in full at all and was only just beginning—as he had never apologized or admitted to anything else he'd done—of course, as our relationship had ended, my re-awakening of creativity had been flourishing; I was always recording, taking samples, and writing down ideas for music I wanted to make—and besides that—openly admitting that he had hit me would probably open a disastrous wormhole of self-realization and shame no true narcissist could take—that which he was, not that I at this point had resented it, besides of course the scarring on my lower lip that had come as a result, the estrangement from my son, or the mental anguish I had suffered—and, looking back, I still could never recount whether I had…
Just then, I realized that there was an error in my thinking; I had already been running off my weight at a tremendously rapid pace, working out to Recess in the living room between shifts at the veterinary clinic, where I took pride and joy in running with the greyhounds at then-top speed, racing to Diplo, Doctor P, and Rusko—of course, only stopping to express, my breasts still heavy from lactation, and realizing that it was painful to run with boobs full of anything—let alone, milk—which sometimes I pumped for Annie once her glands had gone dry, donated to the NICU, or winded up in my ex's coffee, because it gave him “superpowers.”
Well, if I tell some of it I have to tell all of it.
Why are you even telling some of it?
Because someone threw Skrillex in my tent and
You can't rape the willing.
This is a sick bitch we're dealing with.
How do you know he was willing?
I put the ill in Skrillex
Better fix my will forreal
This could be my last meal
Cause I feel like jumping off a building
We're beating/being a dead horse,
Let me annoint you all with oil,
Then you start showing up in my dreams?
I don't believe in anything but me,
And I could be you, maybe
Maybe I'll go fuxkin sleep with Lil Peep
But probably not as much as
Fun fact: when you cry, I cry.
Jesus Christ, why is Shia Labouf so fuckin ripped.
ITS ME, I'M IN YOUR DREAMS.
Narcissistic Cannibal- Korn, Skrillex.
[C.C. Wakes up, drenched in sweat. ]
(That was an actual dream I had once—give or take a few parts.)
I probably would have forgotten he existed, too, were it not for that dream—and shortly thereafter…
C.C. Is binge watching Hot Ones.
INT. THE BILDERBERG MEETING
I DONT GIVE A SINGLE FUCK.
Wtf is happening in this show.
INT. A FIREY PLANECRASH. DAY.
LOOK TO THE SKIES, YOUNG PADOWAN.
oh my god. It's a fire breathing dragon!
No, dude, that's a firey plane crash.
That's a fire breathing dragon.
Which do you think is gonna be more interesting?
Neither, I'd rather watch The Legend of SupaCree
How is that even possible!
INT. A FIREY PLANE CRASH. DAY
[Terror has stricken the passengers of flight 626, as the BOEING 747 plunges rapidly, falling from the sky at an alarming speed, as the airplane decentigrates, falling into pieces]
Does this character not have a name?
No, it's literally Shia LaBeouf; he's playing himself.
I'M AN AIR MARSHALL WHEN I'M NOT ACTING
‘CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS.
SHIA LABEOUF looks over the rims of his glasses, staring forward at CC/SUPACREE, before lowering his head back down, momentarily pretending to read a magazine from under the brim of his tan cap, obscuring his identity. He places his hand over the gun in his holster, revealing by the golden badge beside it that he is a federal air Marshall (to the audience) before adjusting his brown leather jacket to cover it, squinting conspicuously under his bifocal lenses, peering once more at CC/SUPACREE, and swallowing subtly, licking his lips and flashing away a secondary glimpse of fear in his eyes, before presuming a fierce gaze as he braces for impact, calmly unbuckling his seatbelt. Suddenly, the plane is struck— as the passengers scream and panic in fear, he simply stands up, stabilizing his balance, and moves towards the terrified and hyperventilating SUPACREE. ]
AND ALL THE NICHELODEON KIDS?!
AND SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS
I never got to Hey Arnold, but I've been thinking about it a lot since I got to New York; but—that's also Nickelodeon, so—
BUT WHAT ABOUT DILLON FRANCIS.
he's also very attractive,
And just dropped his album—
So we can just assume that the previously mentioned are perhaps both getting their dicks sucked often enough that I don't have to worry about it.
Why would you worry about it.
CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS.
This is not kid friendly.
Everything naughty he says in this series is censored caused he has a contract with NBC.
WHERE'S WHOOPI GOLDBERG?!
I don't like this. I don't like this at all.
Probably also presumably getting his dick sucked.
I re-entered the apartment at exactly 1:15.
And though I had been filled with nothing but words and heartache, I could do no more than to peel off my layers and tumble into the shower, no longer in tears, but still devastated — and somehow dying to know if the Skrillex album just so happened to mark my Deathwish, or restore my faith in humanity…neither of which actually mattered; I had fallen prey once more to the cycle of poverty's destruction and relentlessness, if even by my own doing—the respective love I held for Sonny, Dillon Francis, or anyone else simply a faction of obsessive fandom, my writings a mere glimpse into the unobstructed world of the fourth dimension, which I undoubtedly still believed and was living in, only hoping that I was indeed not the hopeless protagonist to die, in the end—and perhaps, that even if I did, the worlds and works that I had published on The Legend of Supacree, OWSLA Confidential: The Infinite Skrillifiles, Gerald's World, and Enter The Multiverse would stand as the backbone for an unimaginable flurry of
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