[ENTER THE MULTIVERSE]

I'm sick to my stomach

Absolutely useless in this universe

It's twisted

Haven't slit my wrists in

Half a minute,

But it seems a swift solution

IMm confused at my existence

I have no contribution to society

I should just kill myself.

Because what's the God honest purpose

Of persons with no worth

Or accomplishments, even?

What's the reason to keep on being

When all you see is grief and green?

Envy or greed;

Either way—

Nothing means anything

I should just kill myself

One less problem in the world,

Call it commerce;

Somebody oughta make

Less than their worth in dollars

To scrape me off the sidewalk

Where I collide with the 9 bus

Or get shot like Tupac,

But by a cop

I had promised myself that by the time the vegan raw cakes I had my eye on were back in stock, I would end this most recent fast—which had extended past its expected length and had shattered even my own predictions by a long shot—I still didn't feel like eating, and even tempted by the Mango and Lime rendition of the same pasterie I had spotted just before thanksgiving, I had challenged myself to wait to see not just when, but even if the pasterie itself would be restocked—not to mention the pumpkin pie, which I had seen just the day before thanksgiving, almost having allowed myself then to break fast—but I remembered my own challenge; even in the midst of that; thinking ‘that's not the flavor I said I'd break Fast for” and though it was certainly a temptation, I had noted that the cake I had wanted to try was a blueberry raspberry flavor; and, taunted myself with the possibility that after Thanksgiving day, the pumpkin pie may not even make a return; but alas, here I was—still not hungry even for the protein shake I stood in line for—and low and behold, there were a fresh assortment of pies from the bakery, pumpkin, and vegan, alongside the very blueberry raw cake I thought might not be restocked at all ever—and therefore, remembering my promise to myself—honestly astonished that I had pushed through yet another weeks-long liquid-only diet at all, I begrudgingly bought the three items I had intended to purchase before, but had abandoned in-basket on thanksgiving's eve, opting of course not even really to celebrate the holiday at all, resulting in a true fast; alas, while nearly the entirety of the country feasted heavily kn Thanksgiving day, I opted for water and studio time. Now, and for some reason with great quickness, as having fasted so long already was moving like a bullet train at lightning speed—maybe even, I thought, too fast— without rush but still hurriedly carried the three items, seemingly floating on air, to the self checkout, where I purchased all three items which I had no full intention of eating, at least anytime soon; it had been weeks since my last hot meal or anything solid at all, and maybe, perhaps because I felt so blissful in the moment, felt secure and preseved in purchasing the food to keep for when I actually was ready to eat again, after I had secured a proper income and was out of danger of actually sleeping in the streets of Los Angeles rather than above them. I was proud of how fluid my movement had become, how high my vibration rung out around me and —though I had no exact plans on eating anytime soon at all, it felt good to know, almost, that I would eventually have a reward of sorts for all my hard work.

LIL BITZ

Yo

I love my gym.

I really do.

I fucking love Equinox.

Yeah, I'm boujie.

I'll go broke on a swanky add gym membership so I can live my life smelling like eucalyptus and business class upgrades.

It's so fancy.

Do you know they have separate mens and women's playlists?

Yes.

Like, there's the music that's playing on the floor,

But then when you go into the locker rooms, the music changes, it's a different playlist.

Yes.

I feel it might be a little bit sexist.

Maybe.

Just kidding.

But I do get curious like—‘what's playing on the men's side?!'

I think about using my non-bianary status to go see.

Like: what's playing over here?

What if it's like, some crunk shit?!

Cause the ladies side is like,

Always some smooth, cool jazzy shit

All harmonic, melodic and shit

I'm like,

What if I go to the men's side and it's like,

Lil Jon's new single?

I go over to the men's side and it's like:

“YEAAAAH. WHAT?! UNH.”

I'mma be mad!

Cause you know why?

The woman's locker room is always some girly shit!

Some white girl singing about being left for some other white girl.

YeH. I know.

It's like, boy bands and love ballads, and breakup songs—which are all almost the same shit, really, honestly.

I'm like:

What if I go to the men's side and it's like—

D12.

Remember D12?

No you dont.

Lol.

What if I go over there and it's like,

backstreet freestyle on loop.

GAY.

Guys are so lucky.

They don't do anything but fuck, eat, and ruin people's lives.

True story.

I'm going to the guy's locker room.

Fuck it.

I'm a guy.

I'll ruin my own life, thanks.

“YEYUH.”

He had sweet brown eyes and beautiful long hair; and at 30 was just the right age, if not too young, but gorgeous nonetheless—I had to pretend at all that I wasn't entirely going mad; I couldn't stop the tears from welling up out of the bottom of my soul and into my eyes — I pretended more than not to be great and good beyond okay, but it was all I could do now just to breathe, and not think about chocolate Rubicon cupcakes—it had now been another 15 days since I had eaten and my weight loss had hit a plateau, as I may have frightened a calorie deficit into my body which read as starvation—still, I must have been looking alright; the handsome Australian man—whose name was Dylan, but still, it irked me, smiled more than I expected him to at me, with his perfect teeth and all. I wondered if he would meet a real perfect Californian girl at the hockey game that night, reminding myself of my undressed body, cursed perchance, and that just as any handsome man seemed to—he probably liked girls, rather than women. He was a bit too handsome for me, either way—and I winced at the possibility of a post-workout cupcake, or maybe even sweet potatoes—maybe quinoa, or the cilantro hummus I had spotted in the prepared foods section at Whole Foods earlier.

I swear on all my sons;

You're the saddest song I've ever sung—

‘Here's comes another one'

I'm just around the bloc

If you want to talk about it

—but i dont want to talk at all,

About it…

Maybe after Equinox and Coffee

I had missed my chance with the beautiful Australian man, Dylan, after all; and even after feeling like I could have taken my shot, I backed down, retreating into my bed for my first meal in 17 days. He left sometime after midnight never to return—- and while my primal instinct had tempted me to pounce at the opportunity, I reminded myself I was the fat girl in the story; he was perfect after all, and, though I had become quite magnificently slim, the sagging skin around my midline still kept me from true freedom, and although I had thoroughly decided that breaking my celibacy was absolutely the wrong idea under any circumstance, the certain sadness that it gave me watching the beautiful man walk out the door resonated with me to the morning; I thought about the type of Kayla Lauren a perfectly beautiful foreign attractive man could find on Tinder; a cosmopolitan girl with her own car and apartment—and considering he was so attractive, and even well hung—the kind of actual girl that deserved such a treasure. As for myself, I knew that I may never love again as it were, spending a lot of time in reflection of what it would take to allow myself to feel anything for anyone, after Jon, and after Sonny, and after Dillon, who had all for the most part left my heart in pieces, and my soul shattered throughout the Inter dimensions of time and space searching for something, anything other than my putrid self. The Aussie himself, though was so pretty that I had almost instantaneously become somewhat attached, and hadn't known why; perhaps it was after all that I was his first or at least easier choice, and I had decided myself not to complicate anything with sex. What I needed, anyway, wholeheartedly was not a tryst or short term fling; I needed to be held, and heartfelt, and kissed in places I had forgotten were still apart of me. It made no sense to cry about it, at all, but my mind and heart had no intention of letting it go—I was alone in the world and seemingly forbidden from all human things; love, food, and pleasure always just out of my reach and of course—comfort, home, and companionship the absolutely unattainable.

Of course, to my pleasant surprise, after burning some sage and working my way through my pile of half-damp laundry, the clicking of the automatic door lock perked up in my ears, in through the swinging door came the Australian man, quite looking like he had just rolled out of bed—as it turns out, he had—apparently leaving late into the night not for a midnight tryst, but for a good night's sleep—almost funny, because I had thought to offer him some ear plugs just before he left—then thought not to bother him; he actually was so perfect looking that he did make me nervous, even after a couple days of chatting; it seemed all together that there was a vibe, but I didn't know how to follow it—and I wondered if I would ever be normal or ever able to talk to the opoosite sex again.

It was almost unbearable now; I couldn't think to bring myself to a proper orgasm in a room with four people— and sometimes all I could think about was sex. Actually, it was my most forward and prominent thought—i began to think much like an animal, just keeping intact my inhibitions as not to let my primal nature give way to each and every impulse I had begun the day renewed with a sense of high energy, having eaten perhaps just the right foods so that k actually became nourished, and not over full, despite the cupcakes added to the ensemble of otherwise incredibly healthy pickings; sometimes I did amuse myself with how healthy I had become; and though it was delightful to think about eating certain things—especially chicken wings as of late— I knew I wouldn't, or couldn't, and felt almost good about being “bad” with an assortment of health foods I seemed myself indigent, but to any common other, especially an American, would be considered atrociously healthy.

Who the fuck cares about anything?

Especially mediocre me

Must have been the weather

Or something in the water

Whether we want to admit it

BEYONCÈ, for the win!!

It was my fastest run im awhile; and Esther than. Assuming it might have been the plant power from the sweet potatoes and quinoa I had allowed myself to feast on, I attributed it to beyoncè, or rather Renaissance, as I had almost forgotten what the album looked like. Beyoncé's vocals were like ribbons of butter, allowing time to psss and my body to love off what I had put on, and realizing I had now been kn Los Ángeles 9 days, that my Fast had been closer to 21 days than the 17 I had counted—but I hadn't counted at all, and maybe that was the important part about it; it had been a wonderful feeling, and though I had eaten, I hadn't quite felt I had left the beauty of clarity of it, and probably wouldn't — my body was slim, even becoming petite; and though I had slowed to a trot in my 9-minute mile—it had only been for a moment, self-motivating by reflecting on all the dick I was missing out on not having a perfect body. At 7.3 miles per hour exactly for 9 minutes and 19 seconds, I thought about the Australian man's perfect teeth— about Sonny's slender physique—about Dillon's superior intellect— and of course—all the perfect women they all attracted, who I was only trying to be.

‘Run. Just—run.'

Actually, I couldn't stop thinking about sex at all—at all, that day—the world seemed to have filled with beautiful men, and though perhaps even though it was LA, and I was used to the perfection, my body was in a peak state of fatigue from sexual neglect, and there was nothing I could really do about it. It was safest to stay celibate for the time being, and I knew it—but there was something in me that wanted to love, and I could actually taste the tears I was bound to cry, sexually frustrated and thoroughly unfit for love—physically at least—though I was at least turning out in every other way to be a pretty interesting and overall cool, likable “girl”, I knew by the billboards and bodies I was constantly surrounded by that mine wouldn't quite make the cut. So I stayed clothed, and with my legs closed, at least for the moment.

MOVE>< big boss

Sometimes the work of the devil is comical at most; in this rendition,

The promise that I'd take my first drink with Dillon,

If I were really feeling him

And here it is,

Yet unwritten,

Perhaps, a syntax error—

No matter how you spell it.

If we had sat next to each other. I would have been watching him and not the game—but it wasn't the players that captivated me; as I was still on hold with the bar across the way, where I had strategically left my skateboard, after landing of course there was nowhere safe within the actual arena that I could keep it; I called someone to retrieve it and put it in the lost and found at Tom's Watch Bar, already inside the crypto.com arena—Dylan had floor seats, or something like that, but had purchased for me, one of the seats from a season ticket holder; we went our separate ways, which I didn't mind at all; as it turns out, I was seated in the perfect spot, near the band—with an entire row to myself. I just wanted to see the game—and of course, still in my now very oversized harems and Nike runners, a laidback black sweater—someone as gorgeous as him would probably not rather actually be seen with someone like me; Of course, there were beautiful people everywhere, but assimilating to LA, I just blurred them out of my mind enough so that it didn't hurt that I wasn't one.

There's another song here,

I know it;

Just give me a minute;

That's what it is, isn't it?

She wants to finish the album—

That's what she needs from him,

That's all it is, or

All it was,

Or what it is,

Or what it was,

Collect another song, or something

Get the drugs, and then fuck off

It's just last call

It's just a bunch of drunks

It's just a wonder you're alive

It's just another what the Fuck of lovers

It's just lust

I'm//he's just lost.

It's just another;

Better not eat for a little bit longer

Cause the little one's got him

Wrapped around her little finger

It was something like being cheated on right in front of my own eyes—not that k had laid any claims to the to-perfect Australian Man, but of course the girl to his left was skinny with hair so long it sat in her lap, and her thick valley girl accent would fool even the most.trained ear into the belief that she was from the actual valley, rather than Santa Barbra—as he leaned more towards her and further away from me I felt my stomach sink— I had refused his offer for a drink, and that had been that, but now I had long enough to become sour in my own self hatred; I was fawning more heavily now over the menu at LA Cafe than I was the Australian man, who I had already admitted was too handsome and too beautiful for someone—anyone like mysel. I realized the same unsettling disgust I had yet to feel again since departing Mexico, after the whole Luis, and I realized this would always happen—there were always prettier girls, or just other girls at all, no matter how pretty they were—and I couldn't bring myself to have a drink, even with it sitting right in front of me. The light skinned girl crossed her skinny leg and laid her petite fist on Dylan's back—and that's when I knew the family feeling of my old self; my role as the ugly girl—and even as I had consumed myself with writing and collecting whatever other experience I could, for some reason I had to choke back tears as I pushed myself away from the bar, luckily leaving behind a far too handsome man that was too busy talking with another girl to notice me quite you exuding myself to the restroom, besides the actual act of exuding myself. Over and over again my entire life it seemed that this had been the pattern; nothing about me, it seemed, was ever really good enough. To actually let myself cry about it would have been asenine—I didn't understand even myself how I had become so attached or attracted in the first place— and though the tears were there, and the feelings to go with them, it would have been silly to let any of it out—the lesson was simple: men were impossible, I was unlovable, unfuckable, and unmoved, for whatever reason. At least the actual Dillon—that is, Dillon Francis, had been far enough out of my mind that nothing at all seemed to matter in hindsight—and now I was hurt. It was worth the experience at least.

The funny thing is, I had thought to avoid feeling like this in entirety— I had meant to avoid feeling feelings at all, and especially this one: loneliness, and of course, rejection. Left not entirely right back where I started, but somewhere else—even a new place, as fragile as ever, proud of my solemn celibacy and embarrassed paired with a side of shame about whatever it was that seemed to turn men over and away in less than an instant.

You're never gonna love me;

The way I need

The way I need to be loved

You're never gonna love me;

The way I want

The way I want to be loved

You're never gonna love me

The way I

The way I

The way I need to be

The way I want to be

The way I

You're never gonna love me;

The way I—

The way I—

Falling on the the floor;

Heart failure—

Falling on the floor:

I need you, nowhere near

I need you;

You're nowhere near me

No, you

You're never gonna love me;

The way I need

The way I need to be loved

You're never gonna love me;

The way I want

The way I want to be loved

You're never gonna love me

The way I

The way I

The way I need to be

The way I want to be

The way I

You're never gonna love me;

The way I—

The way I—

You don't want—

No,

You don't want to know

What I've been through

I been here for you, but—

I need you here,

Youre nowhere near,

You're never there

You're never gonna love me;

The way I need

The way I need to be loved

You're never gonna love me;

The way I want

The way I want to be loved

You're never gonna love me

The way I

The way I

The way I need to be

The way I want to be

The way I

You're never gonna love me;

The way I—

The way I—

As I started my first shift, setting my backpack down in the corner of the break room, a tiny rainbow piñata with long eyelashes and no smile at all seemed to call to me from its place high up in the corner of the office of the high profile smoke shop back room—it was Gerald. My yes filled with tears and my head with a plume of thick smoke—perhaps I was exactly where I ought to be after all, at least for the moment. I began to ponder lucidly after all who I was really dealing with—‘Who the Fuck really is this “Dillon Francis”?' And, in the turbulent way of motion, without too many moments between each fleeting thought and the next—was Sonny Moore even a real person anymore? ‘What is Skrillex?' And though I thought the same of either men—out of my Legur and dangerously attractive. I myself count even hold the attention of the Australian man, who had even admitted that he only liked dark-skinned girls—not that I believed him, and it bothered me that still, two entire days later, it still hurt quite deeply that he had betrayed and then abandoned me. The lesson learned being: no man could be trusted—not that any woman could either.

GET YOUR BASS

OUT MY FACE

Lol

IT WAS NEVER DILLON FRANCIS!

IT WAS AÑWAYS DILLON FRANCIS, AND YOU KNOW IT.

—ALWAYS DILLON FRAN—

—fuckas

Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave.

—nno—

Yes.

¿Donde esta horita?

Nada: ahorita?

Pizza sin carnitas

So—

KANYE.

WHAT.

Kanye.

WHAT. WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT

Like out of life?

Like, from ME.

Yeah, out of “life”

What?!

KANYE.

!?!

—

Dillon.

What.

It's time.

…time for what?

—ah, so you believe In time, do you?!

NO.

Aa

——!!!!!

…and he's gone.

—

…you sick son of a bitch.

…you know what?

…what?

We'll talk about this later.

—no we won't—

When you get HOME.

I don't have a—

[door slams loudly]

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2022

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2022

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2022

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2022

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2022

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

{ The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2022

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

I catch songs like butterflies

What?

What did you want from me?

I'm not even from this city;

It's just in me

Should just end me

Warm winds,

As I drift down the bridge

Almost envious of my

Previous intentions with it

There's a cradle there,

Nestled between the alley,

And and walkway

Though you'd hate to admit it

Just gotta go with it

Roll with the punches,

You'll love it

What about perfect?

What about a pair of au-pair (sp?)

In Paris with pears on the stairs,

Just glaring at each other

The dash bus pulls away from olive and 7th eyren in downtown Los Angeles, Blū (CC) just rounding the corner on her skateboard from across the intersection.

Well, I guess I have some writing to do.

My eyes stares straight forward into an abyss, and though my face was looking at the Perla Hotel, my mind was in another place; everything seemed okay, at least for the moment, and though I hadn't eaten in days I couldn't say that I was hungry, really; but I did need something to keep calm, and probably shouldn't have been fasting at all, though I found it to be strange that though I had tried to eat, even on thanksgiving, I couldn't; I had even selected some homey American favorites from the vegan selection at Whole Foods; and, startlingly with no relation to the massive crowds and lines on the day before thanksgiving— I couldn't bring myself to purchase anything besides water, which had for the most part been keeping me alive for going on two weeks, not that I required anything to give a Fuxk about that required eating, or chewing and swallowing, or processing any sort of literal digestion, though the figurative digestions of the city itself had seemed itself enough to feed on, with reckless abandonment to any intentions besides staying safe and warm in a clean and calm place, which I had been for at least a couple nights, coughing up almost literally close to $60 a night for an almost decent sleep.

Atlas, artbat

Los Ángeles astounded me with its quick and sensible transit system— busses were either early on time, or ran so frequently that it didn't matter which bus or train I did catch, I was almost always on time, given the occasional lollygagging I would do, or portraiture I would find relating to The Festival Project; indeed, Los Angeles had given me a new canvas—however I was distracted by my insurmountable expenses, and current lack of income—and though I had been offered a job DJing on a rooftop bar in Downtown LA, which sounded boutique—I needed more bookings to really move forward, wherever forward was—and I needed the resources to keep my body and mind intact to find them. It all became a balance of needs and expectations, so fast that sometimes I couldn't bear the recollection of how I had become this, automatically functional semi-decent human being.

I needed once and for all to learn how to be calm around a man—or men, at all; there was a sense creeping up within me that nearly couldn't be calmed at all in the présence of one—let alone one I was at all physically attracted to really, would would have required the prerequisite of having seen his face, and especially his eyes—and that was almost nearly impossible that is, catching a glance at my eyes, as I predominately looked at the ground, unless I didn't need to or was certain I wouldn't see or feel anything too overstimulating; this time around I felt at home but no need to be there; Los Angeles speed, which I was capable of, was simply too fast for my current train of thought; I wanted to be dead, of course, more than alive—and rich, of course, rather than poor—and one of those two things would have to happen to anything to make anymore sense than it did—as I felt I had been called to LA simply to be put to rest.

I only had 5 days left at Equinox before the cut-off, and no foreseeable way to pay them anytime immediately, besides perhaps taking a DJ gig or two that would pay out in cash and well enough to cover the fee-of course— The ost expensive plan, as I had attempted a manifestation at all, imagining i wouldn't yet be in Los Angeles, planning to put my membership on freeze through December to January, still working at Deaert in Vegas—but, after the not so infathomable fallout with Brandon and family, I was forced to abondon my actual plan which included almost no risks and full, boring, comprehensive adult responsibility—now I was in it for the taking, at full force and without much of a Fuxk to give besides a roof over my head, and keeping my immaculate fitness intact; which also meant double-downs at both locations over the next 5 days; if I could steam, sauna, and protein Fast my way into a more comfortable dimension of reality by the first—I just might be able to keep myself off that bridge off 5th street I had been eying, as I had missed my dash stop twice and been made to walk down the too-steep hill to skate down; I of course did want to attempt the less steep plunge down my route to my “neighborhood” as it had come to be— but hadn't yet been able to safeleh cruise more than half of the way down on my Carver, which was still sturdy even after all this time and all these places, but did need some maintenance and TLC that I couldn't quite afford, only comforted by the other boarders out and about and their worn, tired boards, which of of course were comfortable and broken in enough to still ride as if tip-top. Maintaining any vehicle seemed to be the most expensive human effort, body included—and mine had become extremely sensitive, not to mention entirely expensive to maintain. Now, I was a hardcore vegan; I hadn't had honey or butter, or cheese beyond a year—and not that I missed it, in fact, just looking at food at all gave me some kind of thrill or joy— but the thrill or joy that came with the thought of love at all, as the result of a body which had been built to preform at peak, having evolved itself from an extreme obesity was of a slightly greater pleasure.

Should I cancel Gerald's world?

(Tongue in cheek: I *could* cancel Gerald's world)

You should. Jesus.

This show is still on?!

What is it?

It's Geral's World!

Oh my god!

Just cancel it!!

Renewed again! C'mon!!!

Even the writers of this show want this show cancéleled.

This is insane.

Good morning, Susan.

Shut the Fuck up.

Good morning, Kanye.

Shut the fuck up.

KANYE WEST is a serious m*thafuxr.

What is this.

Enter the multiverse.

KANYE WEST is the Executive Producer of an Emmy winning TV series. It has just been renewed for its 5th season.

SEASON 6 IS GREENLIT.

NO.

NO.

…Beyoncé?

I don't know about this one.

This is a—

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2022

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.

what is Love?

-Ū.

Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

-Ū.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

- S Ù P ∆