Trigger warning: this series contains adult content not suitable for children or under the legal age of majority.
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—rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrfrrfrrrrfrrrfrrfrrrrr.
You know what? Fuck this place.
Fuck your color coded red lined fucking bullshit.
New York is so visibly fucking racist it makes me want to hurl.
Finally get out of that contract, did you?
I had worked out the full hour, but I was no less angry; I had even walked a couple miles and jogged a little—but I might have been even more mad.
{Enter The Multiverse Legends:
He— shot himself in the head.
Hm. Did he mess up his face?
If his face is alright I can reanimate him—no problem. But there's no point if he's got a hole in his face
How are you gonna cover a hole in his head?
I think the whole point of white supremacy—
Is to get blacks to have to do stereotypically black shit
People will set you up and corner you
So that you have to do some shit
They can later hold over your head.
I've learned, after all this time—
That the only way to win a rigged game —
People love setting people up.
People love making it look like you're up to some dishonest shit—
When it was dishonest to have set you up in the first place.
Life is politics as fuck.
There's no kind of rules to the real disasters in life—
I just discovered a new political issue
I didn't even know existed
Until I had to experience it
The quality of life one experiences with full balance nutrition,
Which is kept out of the hands of the masses by the greedy and wealthy elite—
The difference in the quality of life one faces
When able to afford proper nutrition within the alignment of one's purpose.
THIS is why I have people posted up outside of my apartment trying to kill me?!
Don't come between a man and his business.
Don't come between a man and his business.
Don't come between a man and his–
I am the m Diamond, I Am The Heart,
Did you do this on purpose?
Space, that's an odd name.
—what else would you call this?
(To be honest, I didn't know what I was doing.)
Well, this should be fun.
As morbidly as you desire
Fortunate, in either aspect
To tie the winters sleeve
Upon my sleeping chambers,
Whispered into hear thy neck
My captor slowly soon awaiting
Though captured for nothing in the eye if beauty alone;
Still slithers up my spine,
-The Melodic Blue, baby keem
[The Festival Project ™ ]
The assembly of the impenetrable ten,
Also automatically stood as
Why isn't Keenan in the impenetrable ten?!
We don't have time for a negro spiritual every time something
I need metaphore for movement
Consintrical, if you will
Disasterous dreams art thou
Shining as the morning night
As slumber did fall upon us
Waiting for the watching cry,
Somehow seeking justice for intrepid
—what, what did you say?!
Run for you excellent cries
All liberty is liberty does,
As in the mind, let it rest
As in the heart, let it flourish
Not among the waking tide
I have an irrational fear of Jack o lanterns—
Does that mean anything to you?
Suddenly there were Jack o lanterns everywhere.
That's so weird, I never wrote that scene— it just kind of popped into my head, and then—
To the shade of your love
I can't seem to need anything
To be free from all tragedy
And suddenly as I walk about,
They seem to be appearing
And everyone around me seems to be
I should be working on project III
And making coffee for the evening
I can barely even think of myself as anyone at all
(Anyone at all, actually) please
I hate all my lines in this movie.
Or trade with someone else.
Like, the whole character, or just—
You can do—whatever you want.
“Whatever you want?!” I'm an actor!
You put the words in my head;
You put the words in my mouth,
On top of the scars, that's
I guess we are who we are
A whole sky full of stars
I still can't find my sparkle
Just no reason to smile at all
I guess we are who we are
“You were put here just to be [redacted] mother, and then die.”, said the voice—
Which was not my own, but some man's.
I didn't believe that, at all—actually,
But I had just sent my divorce papers in the mail,
Attached with it the accounts of everything—almost everything, anyway, that had happened that had caused me to be such a distance from my son in the first place, as I had never intended to just leave him with his father, whose birthday was either the next day, or the day after—and it was almost funny to me that I couldn't remember which it was, as I realized that in the beginning, I had loved him so much that I had looked past all of the disasterous, ugly things— the phlegm on the walls, his lack of respect towards anyone, especially himself—but anyone at all— but first and foremost, especially myself, who I had finally learned to love before hand, and had finally learned to love again—at least, the best way any woman could love herself.
The algorithm was playing serious mind games and tricks on my psyche again, and I wondered if I should just attempt the next two days sleeping —but it would mean that I would miss my deadline for project three, which I had intended to be released…
The demonic energy again began to shift around me as I twiddled away writing—the traffic outside moved more rapidly, and doors in the hallway from my neighbors began to slam, and I knew without a doubt that he had tried to kill me using some kind of curse of black magic, but couldn't—somehow I had lived, but was still being made to suffer—
and that whatever spells he had used had summoned something nasty into all of the creatures, humanoid and alike, that could be controlled without the will of God, who I thought might be lost, were it not for the songs that had come in the wake of begging for God itself to free me which was the nightmare, the curse it had become to have only fallen in love once, with the kind of man who could not.
Now he had wished my doom onto me, which left me wounded and afraid, unsafe in any element or environment , plagued by coughing bodies and robotic slaves—none of which I assumed he hactiallh had the power to control, but of a greater force which shielded itself to consume me, and mimick his energy with the attempt to allow that my own mind would bring about my death, the fury and pain which it must have been to lose what I had found myself to always be, a good woman—
My exit had humiliated him, damaged his pride, and bruised his twisted ego enough so that he wished I would siffer such an ill fate—however, as I had finally learned to know and breathe, that all the damage and control done to me, he would now fall prey to in his own will to destroy me.
—all that seeks to harm me will therefore harm only itself;
And all who seek to destroy me will be destroyed in doing so.
I don't know how hard he hit you, this time, but he really fucked you up.
Fuck, I lost that whole Tom Hanks Movie
No, it's gone—everything's gone!
So, what's the situation.
Comedy is born from tragedy, right?
There are other types of comedy, I guess.
Yo. That's that guy, and his eyes.
I don't get it, is this like a—
You don't belong here, I assure you.
You've just made captain.
COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©
The well of tears on my guitar
She's got a body like one
But I just wonder what it like to be loved
Socialites and superstars
And he lives in an ascended dimension,
Her transcendence is upon us
Your transcendence is upon us
Warms up yesterday's coffee
Looks around in her coffin
Wonder what it's like to be loved by stars
Without double r's, you know
Teardrops, and soft kisses
I had already lost that one
Having someone to talk to
About anything and everything
I should have clinical insanity by now
But I'm only just an artist
And if it hurts hard enough
Storybooks all over my arms now
I've run Ten point 5 miles
Have a parade outside of my window,
So they can't play these games with my head
And the seeds that I planted
But these days I make my name sound
Come off the cross, for a moment,
Would you still call me wicked
God don't speak much English,
God don't speak much these days
I was standing at the coat check, asking
Why I must take off my hat
When entering the service
—then we all just laughed and laughed
Exchange is my favorite exchange
Where my favorite exchanges
Have happened for centuries
And races pieces haven't tasted the same
I just had to use the bathroom
I don't even have to put the words in
Cause a name is just words
It's really not that bad.
Why are you not writing this down?
It's really not that bad…
I get sensory overload At Trader Joe's
This sure isn't queensborough
Escalators for shopping carts
I'll take my half BLVCK ass to the projects
And I dropped my crown at the market
I should be jealous of everyone
But I have learned my place
I've been a slave since Hollywood
I lost my son to the devil
And terrorist follow me coughing
I'm wrong just for being born !
You could start a war from it
If that's what you wanted
I'm a people watcher people watcher
About to board the people mover
I should have a bell around my neck
I think she wanted a picture with papa
I'm playin my own paparazzi
Look mom, I bought a sarcophagus
There go them niggas with coughs again
I got oculus, for my oculars
Look how hot he is, make me ovulate
I paid for it with my soul
You hate but I love to love
Somebody just got me fuckes up
I don't have a book to run off of
Cause the middle one is weaker
It's getting deeper and deeper
Like the sinkhole that my sink is
I've been syncing my secrets with demons
It's just a reparative injustice
Kamasutra for your wondering words and stuff
Look at all these classless classes
I just wanted a hug or a husband
Instead I got nothing to trying my hardest
And got for a bargain at target some coffee
For being a targeted body
I guess I'm just useless.
Then you shouldn't be reading this either
I could do a lot with this $20.
Not just cause I'm black.
It took a whole ass apartment elsesrch to feature this out.
I was like “I wanna live in Manhattan”
It is statistically the most diverse—and most segregated city in the nation
But it's true, at this point, the black people are like—fuck this, we'll just stay over here, and over here.
And the rich whites are like
YES. KEEP THAT SHIT, OVER THERE.
Cause if you've ever been to the ghetto.
I finally got my ‘night card' back.
Had it revoked in california .
I was almost a whole valley girl.
I still eat exclusively at Whole Foods.
But NO. Now i live in the hood.
I'm telling you. It's night and day!
The white folks trains smell like bleach—
The black folks train smell like a McDonald's.
I can actually count the number of times just—
But I'm ready to go to midtown and it's like the train that goes around Disneyland.
—and I didn't have to pick it!
I thought surely the next presidential election was one or two years out, but the racial tensions which had been rising became even more pronounced, as I realized that November was theboncoming time—and that they hostility between the whites and the blacks had once again been a result as the oncoming war, fueled onward—that the hatred, disgust, and general aggression of the whites had been of course, in the midsts of yet another Trump-fueled political upheaval, and I wondered why and how at all I had been caught in such a world that existed in form of man, of course, now proven himself to be the weaker sex, and yet in that of dominance, as was arranged in such an unholy war, to be the helm of power by sheer greed— now it seemed that these attacks were indeed political terrorism, and that these motorcyclists, my placement close to the ground level, and my neighbor's clammorings were specific attacks, after my identity had been varied to be that of the same in which I had once held political ambition, now none of which I assumed mattered at all. Perhaps I needed something more certain than a 12 story jump or suicide by train, and wondered as to whether it would be easy enough to kill myself bh self inflicted gunshot—a sure thing for certain, as love has been lost in the way of money at all.
At that party…or rather, kind of—after.
That acid that never hit Beyoncé
Man, I'm a terrible influence(r)
[BEYONCE] however, does not
A very stranded, very sober Johnny depp stumbles upon what appears to be a college frat party, where the only thing they have is light beer, and nobody even recognizes him as a celebrity, because the attendees are all gen z
The acid hits Beyoncé on her way to make coffee, which extends the trip from the living room to the kitchen infinitely.
Multidimensional Anne Hathaway hulks the fuck out and saves the day by ruining everything, which actually fixes everything— and *spoiler* helps Jesus to remain as the king of kings at beer pong.
In the late 90s in New York City, the keystone cast of Saturday night live learns of each other's formerly sexret psychic abilities, and uses the radio technologies of Rockefeller plaza to develop a research center for the telepathically gifted, eventually discovering and perfecting time travel.
Supacree (the kid version) appears in and out of her ideal and desired realities, baffling ‘the Hollywood people' and later ‘the New York people', becoming the legendary central figure of the Illuminati, as the original timepiece — a pyramid shaped extra terrestrial vehicle which contains an ascended hyper consciousness, which
I can't remember how it goes, did the supacree leave to find the Skrillex, or was it the other way around?
I think it was both ways at some point, but the whole thing was this, just in case I never wrote it but just saw—
These space god (humanoid evolved) are some kind of scientists/ doctors— there are four timepieces, each representing an era upon our planet; earth, which is distant but sacred— these four time pieces each depart their given “docs” in time to appear on earth at specific
Fuck this is hard to explain
Times in history, at which the first worlds, or previous human eras were known to have been destroyed— these time pieces travel through time space with the full record of these events in order to alert the current human era of its imminent doom, as an attempt to prevent such disasterous events, typically war, which will lead to the annihilation of the human species; these Gods, one male and one female, a king and queen, a married couple are the rules of the humankind, technically worshiped as a whole as one God, with whom the human design was modeled after, however, the true source of all things is the cosmos, known and unknown, in its totality—neither man or woman, but the force of creation.
Anyway, what else is happening
All of the celebrities are stuck in—
[the festival project] in some way, shape, or form until its creator finishes it—and though it in itself is infinite, its 'finishing' notates its eventual production, which
lol. That never going to happen.
The effect of the race war, which has been to pit the white woman against the black woman, which allows and maintains the continuation of war mongering male dominance over the entire planet, which remains as a destructive force of greed, racism, and inequality.
If she hit Fallon, she's gonna come for one of us next.
No, Conan—that's not how this works.
WHAT—where did you come from!?
This goes deeper than all of you can understand.
What are you, like, the same guy?
Are you not all the same guy?
[they shrug simultaneously and kind of just agree]
The enemy of your friend is my enemy.
Oh…kay—and the enemy of my enemy—is my friend—
—so we're all friends here.
[JENNIFER LOPEZ is still JENNY FROM THE BLOCK]
Do I look like a fool to you?
[a pre-fame Jennifer Lopez receives a drop full of diamonds instead of the usual; she has been granted access into the Illuminati, and becomes an overnight success.]
This feels heavier than usual.
Hey, you're not the regular guy.
JENNIFER ANNISTON is inside of Ū
Okay. That was cool. Wow.
Are you sure you want to be my size?
JIMMY FALLON/SKRILLEX (we don't know actually which at this point) is also trapped inside of Ū
okay—actually, i'm okay with that, but
MARSHALL MATHERS has a closet cleaning service
Patrick is smooth as a motherfucker, you know.
Every time his head is down on the desk like that, he takes a bump of coke.
[Patrick takes bumps of cocaine in front of a live studio audience—every single night.]
Goddamn. You gotta admire a guy like that.
Jennifer Anniston is the weight on the cable tension machine
Psycho bitch<> devious methods <> new ludachris commercial
All ya'll girls is toddlers
I like long boards and longhairs
Lawn mowers and lawn shares
Aw hell nah, God forgot Cher
I got the Blair witch project
Your girl looks like a naked mole rat.
You blue eyed bastards stole everything
I'm at Whole Foods market
throw in the Amazon algorithm off
You old hacks are cackling
I'm shackled to old habits
Hold hands with me, rabbit
I'm still lost in the Amazon cart
I sharted all up in your pop tarts
Before you warmed them up, pops
Just for the sake of the art,
And the white girls won with nothin but
Cause I'm stuck job searching
Trying not to have a tummy
So some gummy worm will love me
First their sour, then they're sweet
Holy moly I could use some more petroleum in the ocean!
But the globalists are performing your programming
I put my eye on the dollar
The apocalypse is happening at the mall
How's that for a stream of consciousness,
But I went past that chapter
Or a chapstick, for four times four dollars
A bottle of water will cost you a fortune
(But at least the drugs are in it)
Distilled? Which is it, Mr,?
The mystery box was literally lifted into
My dinner from a fishery filled with nothing but niggers in it—
I want a refund, before I catch that
Fucking curse of poverty from — what'd you call it
One hell of a cough from someone on the sidewalk
The devil's in your pocket or your palm,
And that's the omen and the psalm rolled into one
But my mom is fuckin toxic
And that's how I fuckin got here
When all you need is money,
But the world costs more than
It's worth, and words are nothing
But another fucking problem in your Google documents
I look at my son and see a God,
But half of Satan's in him,
Lets be honest, I don't even know how to write this.
You don't get SIDES with this;
It appears as though, however–
Ok, I gotta get off this playlist.
{After a wild night which apparently spiraled out of control,
great , there goes my peace.
Not forever, though, maybe.
Everybody hates this place.
EXT. MIDTOWN MANHATTAN. DAY
Oh, wow, this is beautiful.
EXT.Typically WHEREVER ELSE
Anywhere ‘above' like 87th?
Lets just call it 80th, be safe.
[THE BRONX is a literal extension of the Underworld]
Do you think i'll ever get good like that.
Idk what equipment is this
Hmm, lets see, that's approximately
And you still need a mixer.
OKay, I would literally sell my soul for this.
[BILLIE ELLISH is trapped inside WALMART]
WHAT TIME IS IT. THERE'S NO WINDOWS IN HERE.
IT'S literally a synonym, we might as well make it a portemantau
MEanwhile, in this other dimension,
So that i don't offend anybody…
Quit that stupid fuckin shit
All Wal*Mart Employees are actually top secret government agents.
x ∞ >.< (we'll just use Billie Ellish as the alternate, but really it could be
[Upon Realizing s/he is trapped in a mysterious place apparently extremely public
Wait, you've never been to a Wal*Mart Before?!
And i've been famous since I was liike 12,
That is–kind of terrifying.
WHY IS IT SNOWING INSIDE.
Actually, these are just– confetti cannons.
“Possibly The Worst Show Ever
the infinite rave continues on in Hell as everyone awaits the return of SŪPACREE- The Cosmic Avenger (Who Is NOT a DJ) and Sunnï Blū (who is a superstar rapper but also not a DJ) go back to back, buying time as the beacon to. Signal "The Supacree" is completed, battling the 10th dimensional DJ Ū, a super ninjas, for control of the decks.
none of the DJs can find a pair of working headphones, and the sound guy is missing from the booth.
I THOUGHT IT WAS A TRANQ DART.
Hazel is 6, turns 7 season 1
Man, I can't remember the other two kids names,
I think the little boy is Ira but I might have named them all and forgotten, shit.
Her sister, though is between 4 ½ and 5, they are technically “Irish twins”, and always fighting—they look very similar, however are not at all alike; Hazel is very much a daddy's girl, while her younger sister is a no-nonsense old soul with the tendency to cause trouble, not by being inquisitive or showy, as her sister often is, but rather by being quietly observant, and tends to dismiss both her parents, often isolating, or even dissappearing without notice, quietly and comfortably into her own world—as the series progresses, and though all of Patrick's children like their parents have showcased some kind of special ability or talent—
Holy shit, give this kid a name-/
I thought I already named her, I just don't remember.
That's true. It seems like they all had names.
She is almost very typically, though showing signs of genius, even at the early age at the beginning of the series, a middle child, prone to upset almost too easily, but rather than acting out, is more likely to take her anger quietly; she shares her fathers deep brown eyes, dark hair, and though she looks otherwise very much like her sister, and later despises her father, is more inwardly and outwardly like him, though taking the side of her mother during their separation and divorce, oftentimes even lashing out at her father quite openly, and very vocally, as she grows into herself.
“Ira”, (may have had another name earlier) is the youngest of three— as his third birthday approaches sometime during the first season.
Great, now I gotta hide all those allegories so nobody can actually draw from this that Patrick—
Where's his write up, anyway?
That shit could go on for days.
I have no idea why this catharsis is happening. I tried to sleep it off, I swear, but I still woke up like—
At least mildly obsessive about this, for whatever reason.
Hazel has the eyes, charm, and charisma for entertainment —she hopes to one day be as her father, an entertainer and performer, and will do almost anything for a laugh. She is often telling jokes, and is a people- pleaser. She is sickeningly cute, with golden hair and Hazel eyes, long eye lashes, and carries baby fat in her face, though she is rather average, neither heavy or plump, and however also not frail at all. She is inquisitive, smart, and busy, almost never idle-minded, and strong. Though sort of a Tom boy, she has been trained well to act with dignity, class, and feminine eloquence, much like her mother—but like her father, has a tendency to be crass, sometimes carelessly so, or even brutally honest—to her mother's disdain, but embraced wholesomely by other family members and adults, she's extremely funny and delightful, and very much unlike her mother, not a spoiled brat at all, often raising questions beyond her years about inequality, later wishing to attend a public school, and becoming quite the advocate for social justice and human rights in her later years, her final season shows a rebellious and sometimes even antagonistic Hazel, who later even favors Esha over her own mother as a parental figure, often confiding in her about things she can't and shouldn't share with her father, although her almost over the top admiration for her father has become the driving force and inspiration for her own endeavors in show business, much to her father's disdain, as she grows older, him becoming more protective of her, and especially within the oftentimes secretive nature of his actual placement and purpose in the business, and her rebellious nature and charm even force-feeding her into the industry, she is a bleeding heart for superstardom, and is often seen along what may be a path to fame, making Patrick's bleeding heart all the more aching, as though he and Catherine remain at odds throughout the series, he truly loves his children, even “the little sick one”, as he refers to the second child.
Holy shit, what is this kid's name
If I had the energy to go through my notes, I could know; but I don't.
The city sickness has been sinking in from the noise of the obnoxious motorists and honestly, being out of protein is giving me muscle soreness, I'm in some sort of a bloated haze from eating almost nothing but carbs, and the fact that I haven't been with anyone in years is starting to circle like buzzards around my head, my heart has been literally screaming but overwhelming with this sense of calm, and though slipping into Patrick's sometimes erratic tendencies, for the most part I've been underwhelmed with society's expectations that I should get some kind of job, and somehow while working not lose focus on my own interests and projects—I hate [the strange modern behaviors of] most people, and everything costs too much money— my son might be going into foster care, or my ex husband is evil enough just to try to force my energy to worry about a problem he's created, and I really wanted to sleep into the afternoon with this lethargy, hoping that everything surrounding this series would just fall off, but it doesn't.
I wake up often wishing I could just forget The Festival Project ™ , but the truth is, it just keeps writing itself, but in the very least, sometimes God gives me little presents that mean the very most to me— a chord organ that I thought was from the 80's, but is more likely from the 1960's—
I love vintage stuff, and musical instruments, which only God could know, really—my fascination with history as if I'm still living it, and this, my sudden fascination and drive to write and complete just one series has been haunting me almost just as badly as anything else has, but especially ripping me apart—especially since I have motorcyclists ripping through my body as if it were some kind of disease that existed outside of me, so contagious that it began to sink in to my insanity and mental hygiene.
I wondered if anybody else knew or cared about these creatures as much as I didn't—and in fact, I had never felt so much like Ali in the way that I didn't care if they, other “human beings” supposedly, all died tragically, and wondered why the walls and windows didn't keep out the sound of the outside world at all…
The middle child begins writing secretly very early on, and is the first to be required more extensive therapy, (as suggested by the family's therapist) after her parent's separation and subsequent divorce. It is not long after she begins learning to read and write at all, that she begins also showing interests in art, asking for art lessons and to begin painting and art therapy, rather than the recommended Equine therapy— she often keeps things to herself, then returning to her hidden places at times when the family's dysfunction becomes uncomfortable and overstimulating, very often paining or reading during times of peace, and retreating to her safe places—sometimes under the stairs, into the attic, the treehouse, or even later, the family's barnyard, where she often keeps drawings, as she ages, later comics, sometimes caricatures of the things she absorbs through her own reality—and diaries, sometimes hidden in nooks and crannies and in places no one would think; a true prodigy and genius, though hidden from much the world, as she is often overlooked, however, her therapist begins unfolding her true reality, often times carrying over sessions and losing track of time, picking her brain or even conversations philosophically
What's the therapists name?
She has to have a last name
Well, she's a child's therapist, so she's Doctor Robin, but
It seems like it starts with a T.
We'll see. I just saw her anyway.
I drifted off again, thinking about how wildly detailed this all was becoming, and wondered if there was a series of fictional books waiting to be written. There certainly could be, but my mind was reeling, freshly showered but still undressed, and not even wanting to think of going outside—and yet—I was out of water, and had learned that the drinking water from the fountains, especially in large quantities, had a tendency to make me sick—I hadn't yet eaten anything, and though the coffee was fresh, and my apartment was clean (which made me overtly overjoyed for some reason) smelling of Lemon Lysol and Bleach; with notes of a strong pot of organic fresh ground coffee, it seemed like I couldn't do much more than lay in bed writing this catastrophically interesting series—and it was interesting, which said volumes, considering I had always been picky about my TV watching, being that only ever did certain series catch my eyes or my ears, and those series were almost always—or always, always specifically well written, perfectly casted, and had the edge and draw of becoming an entire world within itself, which this series, though only a week or two old at best, in my heart and in my mind , was rampantly ravaging my own world, almost as if it had become of some importance to keep writing it, and never stop, and though Patrick was the forefigure, another broken male protagonist, the truth in the series was that the true heroes of this sometimes scarily violent drama, were its women—a story meant to be told with a diversified cast of creatures from all worlds and walks of life—Esha, of course, herself, a role that had been some recreation of myself, somehow, though so different that even primarily, I never did see myself as her, besides the onslaught of some otherworldly pain, visions of a scene recollected from some remarkable download, and it might have been once and for all that I had lost my mind, or my life, if I wasn't a writer—I was, somehow, though, after all, a writer.
It had been a fasting day that could have and might have ended tragically anyway, and still the devil marked his mockery of my efforts by consistently flinging perfect bodied women everywhere that I went—though usually with ugly enough faces that I could see nothing but what a man was—uncaring for one thing over the other, a flawless representation of woman, represented in the current time with scantily clad fashion, almost painfully so—the insecurity of women becoming more apparent in the way she would appear, always almost begging to be near to me, with every perfection and complexion I hadn't—but at least I had a tendency to laugh at my own damage, often surmising that she, these demon creatures, hadn't any talent for this at all—which had turned the state of television into a near circus act; that alone urged me to continue writing the series, perhaps with a typewriter, due to the negligence of nepotism within the industry which often resulted in these pretty little creatures getting even further ahead by stealing works as such, and passing them on as their own originality almost so cruelly and without judgement—plagiarism, as it was called, but more accurately intent-to-kill the imminent threat of what had been said to be a minority becoming a more powerful force to flourish in entertainment however, as quickly as the visions had come, the thought of writing it without my phone became dauntingly impractical, and I scribbled only the most intense scenes and plot lines onto notebooks and scratch papers, keeping them as hidden from the algorithm as possible…
That actually might have been it.
That is kind of a good dad joke, though.
My coffee was lukewarm enough so that I could taste its flavor, as I whittled away at whatever it was—
The story was almost so beautifully being told in allegories and parables that it seemed a shame I may never be rich enough to buy fame, as it seemed that was the only way to become a star these days— and yet—it was more the wealth than the fame I wanted, I had realized, at all—the polished class of the Manhattanites drawing me out of Brooklyn and into some debauchery which was my own Grandiose thought form, that I could actually become, at the ripe old age of 31, some kind of superstar.
‘Why would I even want that, anyway?'
I thought, interrupted painfully by who I'm sure was the same motorist, who seemed to do nothing but circle the block all day, and all night, doing nothing — and I wondered why he himself had decided not to do grub hub in a richer neighborhood, where money would more than likely come more easily.
I drifted off to a time where I wanted to ride a motorcycle myself, and the curiosity forced me to go online to check the price of what it might cost to have one.
$5,000 for a decent bike, which would include a muffler as not to be so obnoxious and disturbing to others as these creatures had become to me— and I began doing the math on how long it would take to save $5,000 as if it would be possible to work some dead end job for any amount of time without spending money on anything else.
It would take at least 5 months to earn enough for a motorcycle, which landed me directly back at
“Not worth it”, and as horrible as it was, I did at the very least have a luxury apartment for at minimum the next 5 years, however, wanting still to move to Manhattan, Midtown specifically—or one of the quaint and quiet neighborhoods on the upper West Side. The neighborhood was going to hell, after some unworldly godless force had seemed to drop hundreds of thousands of rude and thoughtless third world workers onto the streets and buildings bordering the one I lived on, the neighborhood becoming more rough and less peaceful with trash and debris from the depression and congenital disease that was poverty, the collective unconsciousness of the masses colliding with my empathetic nature and oversensitivity to sound, especially awful sounds, such as the hundreds of motorcycles and hot rodded junk cars which only seeemed to move in a track around a four block radius, and had become a cancerous trigger of sorts, no authority figure seemed to much care about.
I cared less and less each day to listen to music, since I wasn't making it the way I wanted to—and I had realized that the constant displeasure and unrest, the lack of peace had as much to do with the world outside as it did with the world within—and I began to see the disgusting obnoxious noise pollution outside my window as just an extension of man's abuse, ability to rape, torture, and kill, terrorize— the uncaring waging of war, control, and lack of true power; as no good and true man who wielded actual strengeth or true power in any way would continue to show such distructive action and carelessness for others around him— chaos, corruption, abuse, and misogyny was proving to be the downfall of all humankind, as patronaged by man, and, as I became doubtful of anyone's lack of understanding of this, especially as the immigrants themselves were often naturally pedophillic culturally and toxically abusive in nature, most migrants flocking from countries in which women's liberation or the protection of youth had not yet materialized into their understanding of conciousness and morality—the men were weak, unkind, and selfish—the women mere machines at their disposal—and however many there were, I could see that their children, the many of them, remained as the redeeming factor. Anyway, a political ploy for the ages of there ever was such a thing, the newest chapter in American greed and slavery, it only seemed like an extension of evil itself, and less of a coincidence with each growing day—each new person, another burden to the middle class taxpayer, another reason to inflate the cost of living—and all the more reason to continue to terrorize the American people into its own division, hatred, demise, and consumption.
My faith, however, was unwavering—God was real, but these abusive and toxic creatures were pushing it further away with violent arrogance, and the inability to understand that God itself was the nature they continued to destroy.
“Ron Sennet, and I ain't In it.”
—did the say “don't” write a book about me?
Or something cute he used to say like that, I couldn't remember, but he had a bunch of cute little idioms that matched his name, and to the day, I still missed him — it was 11:15 PM exactly as I hung up the phone, after an unsuccessful attempt to reach 911, after realizing that the threat outside was maddening enough to be impossible to only be in my head, and after weeks of the excruciating noise, I finally called NYPD dispatch, much to my disdain, and of course magically, the noise seemed to disappear, but these abusive and toxic creatures were pushing it further away with violent arrogance, and the inability to understand that God itself was the nature they continued to destroy.
“My name's Jon Sennet, and I ain't In it.”
Or something cute he used to say like that, I couldn't remember, but he had a bunch of cute little idioms that matched his name, and to the day, I still missed him — it was 11:15 PM exactly as I hung up the phone, after an unsuccessful attempt to reach 911, after realizing that the threat outside was maddening enough to be impossible to only be in my head, and after weeks of the excruciating noise, I finally called NYPD dispatch, much to my disdain, and of course magically, the noise seemed to disappear as soon as I had made the call, which infuriated me. It seemed as though the game in entirety to make me look or feel crazy, though I knew I wasn't—well, I was, but not without purpose or reason.
I had been theorizing in energy exchange quite decisively making a mark for my alter, at which I asked to be designated the wisdom and truth of the light within the eye, desire, however never in mind, although I had been summoned in part due to the fact that we were somehow alike—I was in some ways besides and out of sorts with my set, sinking my teeth into the forced obsession as I unraveled any possibilities and plotline.
An opportunity presents itself seemingly at random— the protagonist's hand is forced into a life changing ultimatum, putting his reuputation and family in danger.
Already involved in an illegal gambling ring which operates out of a secret historical prohibition era speakeasy and some “light” drug mulling within its walls, however often extending even as dangerously close to his workplace, Patrick is propositioned to become an investor in the high end escort service, with which he hired and contracted his lover, Kandi, a “rescue” whom he supports in her exchange for exclusivity, to remain as her only client, however, although he begrudgingly declines, wishing not to be involved in anything much more than what he has already kept under the radar, he is intimidated and threatened by blackmail, his high profile becoming at stake—he then obliges to embark upon this new endeavor, the expansion of this establishment to include a warehouse, which houses a large scale brothel, and, able to use his social status to procure wealthy clientele, quickly becomes a power player within a ring of coveted elites, setting fire to his already inflated ego, and colliding with his intense and highly functional polyaddiction, which he has maintained since his youth, using his entertainment persona as an outlet, becoming a medium of excess, fame, and rampant wealth.
Patrick is beloved by his peers, and is humbled often by his devoted fans and friends—proactively worshiped as a comic genius, a prodigy, and a revered successor to legendary frontmen—
Okay, this is weird, because I started writing this before I even understood what I was writing at all…
—specifically, the sixth successor, to his coveted role.
I had written for Esha to be the seventh successor, as with the symbolism deeply and quite literally woven into the sometimes brutal framework of the series, which I had shorthanded to ‘TVP'…the world around me trailed off as my eyes blurred as they had been lately, and I wondered if I might be having some kind of stroke or something, as I was certainly some sort of out of body—the day had been strange, and I had given up on a run or a gym for the day, the motorcycles alone ravaging my energy, and whether I worked out or not, they were ever present anyway. They were some sort of toxic, abusive force I just had to put up with, hoping it didn't upset my psychology so much that it ended me, though I had become quite odd as of recently, rambling more than usual and actually praying out loud, as my silent ones just didn't seem to be working—they were probably white supremacists, or in some way connected to some political terror group, but it didn't seem to matter. Someone liked torturing me, and it was becoming apparent that no matter much time I spent at the gym, this torture was going to persist. After a month long gym streak, at least going once a day to lift something, I rested, or rather, tried to rest, kind of— but my mind had been swirling with thoughts of a man I was certain by now I had made up—and writing the story of a man I was absolutely certain came from my mind, but in a way that it almost made no sense at all—as the more I looked into the world that I had already written about, the more I realized was accurate without first having known these things, and however cursed I might have been to even know such things, I decided to call it some sort of blessing instead.
‘God, I used to get so fucking high for days, and when I would come down, just crying and crying, eating Totinos or DiJorno and a bag of Bugles, I would watch Saturday Night Live for fucking hours, and I hated [Redacted]. I hated him.'
Now I still hated [Redacted], but in a different way, and though really it was myself that was more like Patrick, he at the very least, for whatever reason, used to have his face—now, he was just Patrick, and [Redacted] was just [Redacted], and i knew entirely too much about it all, and about myself to be comfortable with it, but nothing was comfortable at all. I had written entire atrocities, novels, and all that was some conglomerate of nonsense which was the festival project, besides how insanely and innately prodigal it all was sometimes, my own words confusing me with a bizarre and asinine dysfunction, awe, actually, often as if someone else had written them, and although I was always at least sort of semi-conscious while writing, the spells and cadences I would fall under were some sort of trance, and as I watched the Nirvana rehearsal from Saturday Night Live in 1992, long before [Redacted] or any of the rest of the —
It was, the Keystone cast of SNL, but the first word my mind had jumped to was Hallmark, which—after referencing Google quickly for a fact check, also stood true.
I was willing to admit, even now, though I had long lost interest in Saturday Nighy Live, or anything at all having to do with current events, that the [Redacted] era—or rather even, the Tina Fey era, a true role model, perhaps, and someone I favored over all of the performers I admired, or allowed myself to admire— the Golden Years of Saturday Night were the only years, for me that even mattered— trying to make sense of anything couldn't be done, but I at least had this new project birthed from it to think about.
It would be hard to sit down at a taping of The View and not think about all I had written at all, and it would be impossible not to unfold the characters which had presented themselves, though slowly but surely, through the most vivid visions and insanely lucid dreams, as The TV People began to
What if someone steals this out of my documents?
That would be unwise…the best scenes are somewhere scribbled in my notebooks and random scraps of paper somewhere in my room…this series is almost nothing without those scenes—the elements with which the most painful scenes I had ever written, became word form.
‘I don't know why, but I feel so incredibly high,
So incredibly high right now…'
They could have been words to a song, but I did feel high as a kite for whatever reason, without the actual kite metaphor quite literally dagling over my head, for once, or at least, it had been a few weeks, not a prominent as is was before. I sat soaking in the tub teetering on the possibility that I should actually even watch The Tonight Show, or whatever it was, to set my mind at ease, a betrayal of my own code—as one does not literally feed its obsessions into insanity on purpose. ‘Perhaps, though', I thought, ‘I could get rid of this.' — A cancerous abscess in the tradegy that had become my own sex fueled, rage driven, racing mind—and rather admittedly, it was almost too late, for anything of the sort, as I hadn't any other place to keep the growing world of The Television People any quieter, than within the monstrous algorithm which was Google documents cloud, where it seemed nothing was safe, and anything could be fabricated into reality after being stolen, by someone rich enough to make it happen, however, never being any better than my own disaster of a creation.
He was a comic genius, a professional, and spectacular performer— in actuality, I knew nothing if not anything at all about him, and the more I collected, the more interesting I found myself, actually, bemused that I seem to have found some sort of twin, another synchronization nightmare—if only that I made it to be so, unbelieving yet that I was in some kind of fairytale, though it had become some sort of fantastical and adventurous thing, this what I now refer to as ‘the allegories,'.
I must have been something parasitic to the industry, with the tendency to latch on and ride out whatever had become a fascination, but it wasn't, in its sense of origin, like anything before— it was something new, in the ways that it was, and something old at the same time—though needing to fall drastically from The Tower without actually doing so, putting a stop to my unlimited creation became a pertinent priority, as even exercising, meditating, and chronic masturbation tended to exacerbate it, as if I was missing a step in transmutation of this foreign substance— an energy which seemed familiar, but also wasn't.
I was receiving downloads several hours at a time, and drifting off into spells and trances of inspiration so heavily that it seemed counterintuitive to call it off, fearing I might lose the intensity of the plot and its characters, and they were that: just characters.
It had taken days to erase Patrick's face into a blank state to restore him from that of his namesake, but now everything was a blur, the allure of scrapping it all to return to making music was upon some sort of dawning, but not yet arrived. I allowed whatever came to mind to flow freely from my fingertips, even if it felt bizzare—and even if it felt bizarre, it never felt wrong at all.
‘Unfortunate, that.' , I thought crossing one leg over another to complete my chapter before draining the tub.
I promised myself long ago to always pray for my own son, before worrying about another celebrity, whose fame and fortune protected them more than I ever seemed to protect myself or my own—nonsense, but a strong sense of remorse, as I had been painted as wicked, in a sense, just for being kept poor, separated from my son, and left in a world without love at all; My project, a keepsake of the hard work I had done; but had not yet been paid for—and the fear was in the understanding that that money might not ever come, that I would never be a mother, a muse, or anything or anyone else I actually wanted. I thought briefly again about just getting a dog—but I only had 45 dollars, aside from the unmarked Jimmy Fallons, I had placed atop an alter on my kitchen counter, wondering how to multiply them into something I wanted—and that had been the start of the game or the project at all— saving my last dollars and spending them at once, with the hopes and wishes that they would become somehow much larger quantities, returned as good karma for the love I had given, but that had not yet come back, in one form or another.
‘He seems miserable, the poor bloak.' , I thought—and with all that I had known to have come with fame and fortune along with the luck, he probably somewhere, somehow was—but my concern was my son, turning the mere dollars somehow from one's into bundles of hundreds, thousands, and maybe even one day a whole million or more.
That was the push behind the project at all—breaking the cycle of the poor black single mother, the story that had been told over and over-/ with stories that had not; the stories that had become
See you in seven years, then.
I'm not going to live seven more years.
Let's pray for the rest of us
A sign of the times and a coming of ages
Who made you famous again
Keep finding the reason to die
and you're blinded by kindnesses
I woke up in the 9th dimension,
An interesting thing happened this morning.
I woke up as John Slattery
Just remember what love holds
The death of a salesman, rechargeable batteries
This walk could take forever in designer jeans
Another day in slave hell
The controllers controlling
Seems like a time to go clubbing
It's a simple kind of depression
Resting on your head when
All you simply wished is the taste of flesh
Or blood spatter on the pavement
If the door's fixed, then we'll break it again
I hate lazy days in Manhattan
What happened on the way to the forum
Don't you want to talk to someone more pungent?
Don't you got models to robot?
Don't you know I never want to hurt you
But you know, I'm going to hurt you.
You know I'm going to hurt you
Sooner or later, I fall over your world
You should take Kanye to the mall
(The migrants are anarchists!
This one goes to. | this one first, from—
I guess we are one in the same
It's a famous radio tower
Go sell your flower for flour
As I stand at the jumping point
The wind beneath my wings
Distracting myself from the mansion I haven't
The mason jars I ought to buy for bargain
The brain and brain cereal I left at the market
Now I just wish I was something, awesome
Now I just wish I was something, awesome
Now I just wish I was something, awesome
“The Album I Wrote On My Way To The Rock To Return Amazon Purchases No Longer Wanted”
That's a really long album title.
I didn't imagine I'd write this much
Just trying not to imagine this man in his under pants,
I'm just a dad hunched over in the bathroom
Must have been the magic of my backhand, backfired
Must have come untied and undone, under the rainbow
Must be on my way to Manhattan
For some blacklist event.
If I purchased a car today
I might get done paying it off
If I had a penny for every mistake I made,
I would probably be Nameless.
If there was a namesake to lay me into my grave, it would make sense;
Yes, let's move the train for a moment
With the doors still open.
— I'd like to watch what happens.
So what happens when the sun comes up
On the only body you've ever known
What happens with a dude named Starr
Punches you over and over again
And then no one loves you
(That's starstruck, your honor)
What happens when granted a pardon for passions
And everything happens after is magic
What happens when all you want is to go manic
What happens when the algorithm has Al Gore in it?
What happens when the rhythm in blues is just the attraction of random black men and their concubine counterparts?
What happens when all that you want is a disgusting assumption of…
Since it was simply a tryst
Where did my energy disappear to!
Where in the fear is my other earring?
Be somewhere, anywhere else but your office, for the moment.
Anywhere but your apartment—
It hurts, the construction.
Someone doesn't something
Nobody knows nothing about me,
But what I put in this casket
I got fuck muscles from fuckin myself now!
I feel like I'm gonna die if I don't have sex!
(Or a Gun, if you wanted that one)
I followed the fosters to farrow
I got better and bitter much quicker and
Never in bed had I been as flexible
What the fucking fairyshit is that?
I don't know what. But I fixed it.
Powerlift tectonic plates
But only as Jennifer Aniston
I'd like to take back that Fallon I bought at the black market
The one on the left hand,
All I see in my initials initially is B Minor
But she's creaming to find you
How do you turn bile into
Without rifling a few feathers
Or looking into the eye of the rifle
Don't you let that tear fall from you onto the M Train.
I'm just training for fame
I'm saying your name sake insanely
Or just shake me from this existence
Since I don't seem fit for it
Givchechy dress you gave that blonde, right?
Am I dying! Or just dying inside
If you want him enough to—Use black magic
wait till it falls back on you,
If God hates fags as much as he hates blacks
We should fly flags over the haggis I made Alice
When she's back from her adventures in wonderland
Crossed over from O'Fallons
It's an old warfare with two clans
As Aphrodite is to smite me
With his new black girlfriend
With nothing but blue eyes
And big wild to look over you
Bro, standing up is not going to make this train go anywhere. I almost promise you.
Turns out there's no such thing as a quick trip to The Rock.
Turns out you'll sit stuck in your own sick
For screenshotting those ass pictures
—that's somebody's kids, dick.
The day and time I should have to go to Rockerfeller Plaza quickly, quietly and unseen, the train is magically destined not to move.
I've been sitting here at least a half hour, with no end in sight—
[The doors close and the train begins moving.]
I've been avoiding The Rock like the plague—
Not that I think anything would happen at all upon arrival— who am I, anyway?
Still, I've written enough about it, and the people inside and around it,
That the place makes me nervous.
More nervous than ever, that is, actually—
I always felt weird in the place.
When I first got to New York,
I would end up there on accident.
By complete fucking accident
Ended up at Rockerfeller Plaza
The city slips over us, as the train sinks back underground —
As not to be reminded of my abuser's toxic words and toxic hands,
By dirty white Nikes and Jansport backpacks
Still, etched into the subway walls
Are two stars, which remind me to repeat the mantra:
Starr Michael Roberts is a pedophile wifebeater
Less of a mantra than the truest words ever spoken,
But that's all the shape of a five point star means to me now or will ever mean to me
The American flag has 50 of the
50 wife beating pedophile men
On a red white and blue flag
That waves just to remind me
I was born a fat ugly black woman
And there's no one to save us
I want to senselessly beat the man in the dirty white Nikes and Jansport backpack
Just like I was beaten senselessly by the man called Starr,
The devil in disguise as my first love
Still trying to chase my soul from its dream
Back into his nightmarish under realms of unhygienic hatred, vomit stained rugs
And piss stained couches,
And old episodes of The Sopranos.
—but I still love The Sopranos;
And I still love my one and only
Good thing that ever happened
wonder what's on this side of the train to write
Some guy that just thinks i'm some ugly black bitch
Blowing blunts and wishing they was with blondes,
With me tucked under their arms
I need a tummy tuck to find love
I'm miserable just sitting here
At least I get a glance at her
Sai the Saige sings her words carefully
Writes forwards for whole books in four words
Bro, I might never have sex again.
There's a new STD on the loose
And patient zero is a white man from New York in his 30's
I'm not Sonny, you're Sonny.
But I don't think much of me
It's just as much as I want
With 12 dollars in the budget
For the rest of the month
I'm stuck in this thought
At the bottom of the rock
Damn. 8 always/ eight ways to get lost here
Follow the smell of coffee
Are there stairs to the top of the rock?
Shazam, what's this lame ass fucking song?
Ugh, at least I have muscle memory.
Ugh. I have so fucking much to do.
*I have so much fucking to do.
That seems like a bad idea.
It's the only idea you've got.
—but it's the only idea you've got!
Wtf, I've never even seen this many people here.
What is this, a field trip?
Okay. Then I'll push you.
helicopter: fluh - fluh- fluh- flh
Look, I am not interested in you.
I get that, Jimmy Fallon.
I am just doing my job, okay.
Okay?! Do you understand.
So what is your job, exactly?
Hands fisted misdirected,
Thank god they put this shit here
Hands in my pocket equals words undocumented
I can't help but to admit
I almost wasn't even writing before this
Every time I'm under this, it feels like I'm already in my own show or something
I used to love a good revolving door
Cause fuck Jimmy Fallon, that's why!
Look, the you from the other dimension should be coming around that corner any minute.
I love the rush of death telling me to jump as the oncoming train approaches from behind me
I could be blinded by the light.
—goes into the bathroom, find Fallon and give him the—
I'm married with a family!
I don't find you attractive! At all!
I only want you for your fame and money!
No, you handsome basta'd!
It is me—but the other me is somewhere, so take this—quickly back to the 4th dimension—-
This is the fourth dimension!
YES. What dimension did you think it was
yeah!!! Where the fuck are you from?!
Thank god, here's this fucking train.
Well, fuck off, then! I gotta go find the 8th dimensional Jimmy Fallon!
That's privileged information
Ascended extraterrestrials only, broh!
Woah, woah, woah, don't “bro” me.
What?! That's what I said—
—but, you're a woman, I thought.
That's what the tabloids said…
You wanna know what the tabloids said about you?
Right?! Now shut up. Come on.
[they move quickly towards the—
I don't know. I've only ever been at the bottom of the rock:
I don't get it. If the antenna is on the top,
No , that's a lot; what is that:
—you really think I'm handsome?
I think you're an asshole.
I hate writing at the rock
Wtf was that supposed to be
(Lunching to one's self?)
At least i can just write it off to
Check it out. The devil is following me.
Calm down. I didn't know it was the devil.
Youuuuuuu are fucking gross.
I thought you'd like this.
The alcoholics are so easy.
What about your soul, dude?
Why doesn't he want my soul?
He already has your soul.
What?! I never sold my sold my soul.
Comcast owns Jimmy Fallon.
Actually, Nancy Drew does, or whatever.
woah. Okay. I gotta get back to the 90's.
So it's this Nancy Drew Character
Fuck man. So you mean the portion of Jimmy Fallon I won in that game of 8 dimensional poker is pretty much nothin.
And a body worthy of love
Nothing upon the sleeves strewn in ink
I could never be a real woman
I could have worn anything
But I'm not showing up for anything at Rockefeller Plaza dressed like my inner cumslut
*belches juicy semen, slurps*
You're—a fucking awful person, though, just awful.
—that was the best blowjob I ever had
Yep. *burps—slurps* ufgh.
—and you swallowed all of it. I don't know how!
Both: That's was so much!
Jinx! You owe me a blowjob.
I mean, not really “deep” it went aural.
I swear to god if you publish this
DAMN. that dude is good looking.
Why is he dating someone that looks like a mouseS
Maybe he's into mouce face
Okay. I love white people
But they're weird sometimes
I was lookin at this dude on the train
And I swear to God, I couldn't tell if that was his girl
What I the fuck am I lookin at
It's almost refreshing to see sliders that aren't made of plastic or whatever awful material
That's one good looking kid.
A bunch of handsome white dudes I want nothing to do with
The money, I could give or take
So your name came and went with the hour
I might take walk in the rain
And I just want to be loved
Of course, there's the part that just wants to have fun
Love someone I trust enough
He grabs the back of my neck
And I just can't handle it
Fuck. I love mad men— and I love men when they're mad
That's somebody's dad in the bathtub, yeah mate
Somebody back at the opera
If you love or fuck someone else
Don't break her head and her heart at the same time
She might not come back from it
I was punched in the face maybe 5
Before I got up, became Skrillex, went for a a run with the dogs
I'm left in the lobby a lot
Like Miley, in that one song
Or perhaps I'm your density
Once upon a time, I walked here
Once a upon a time, I worked here,
This verse undoes the hex.
Remind me to get your mom hallmark card, someone uttered
Remember to stop at the shopping carts before your long walk home
Almost hoping you're soaked in the strange acid rain
You forget what your name is
I spent a whole plot of a film
I think The Tonight Show stops taping in the summer,
The real Jimmy Fallon is somewhere in Greece or some shit
Rich assholes and their summer vacations—
But still unwavering in the back of my mind somewhere
Whenever I'm at 30 Rock, I'm being watched.
The entire cast of 30 rock is watching the legends saga in 3D, along with some of the keynote cast of Saturday night live—
I'm not. I don't know what else I used to watched that's owned by this media conglomerate
Oh, so we are doing this back to the future revamp
depends, are you gonna keep being fat,
Or be spry, like Marty McFly
And just for the fuck of it,
You're the new Hanson in the new 21 Jumpstreet Movie
Follow the smell of the cookies.
LOOK AT ME. I'M AT THE BASE OF A GIANT PE—
Chocolate man makes everything chocolate
What are you doing here?!?
I work here…what are you doing here?
[tina tries to hide the entire cast Reunion of late 90s/early 2000's SNL cast members behind her
I thought you were on vacation.
JIMMY FALLON *squinting under dark sunglasses*
(Munching popcorn, wearing overalls)
I have something to tell you.
It can't be over the phone.
Where the firefighters is?
I got some propolis cough syrup for the stalkers
It wasn't me! I don't have it.
Now my days are shattered
Fowl feathers of the night owl
In the eye of the camera,
Falcon turned to black panther
I prance around in a dance robe
Pass the late night hatred
Pass away the day praying
And their fake friends, but
Once the cameras are rolling
And most disgusting sinister
The winded wonder bread apostles
I am born again in acid rain
—I hope I'm right, at least
Right hand over my bathroom counter
Stacked up attacks on the Muslims
Viewerships down to two downloads
My demographic is faggots and players of forenig
I was washed in the acid rain
Take the back of my neck like an animal
Put my hair in your hands
Now I stand I higher grounds
Change the channel, coming over
I lit a candle for another lover
The tide of my soul wants to know you
Blow all my hole on the dope fiend
A piñata full of chocolate
Tell me how to be like this
Just to get my head better
Just to finish this project
I could protect a protector with holes in his pockets,
I just need one good Fred Again
Who knows how to hide he's a man
It's brother sister sameness,
Same mess for the colonizer
Belt around my head to make it better
Where trash is the precipice
great! Now we gotta figure out why apparently—
[JENNIFER ANNISTON has a vendetta against JIMMY FALLON]
Idk, what did you do to this bitch?
I'm not finished with you, yet!
Which means he's like—socially inept in some kind of way….
Like: the 90's, or whatever.
…are you turning me down?
Wait. So I just shapeshifted into J-Lo
Yeah. We could have done it.
Nobody turns me down! Not even me!
There's something off about that dude.
See, I knew it. He's a good guy!
Damn, this fools got a whole list of celebrity ass bitches
Are you trying to fuck Jimmy Fallon?!
—I need way more than a million dollars.
I knew it! It's about the money.
It's actually not about the money.
Everybody likes his genetics.
This one. I want this one!
ICE CREAM. GET YOUR ICE CREAM.
Okay, imm not supposed to tell you this but—
You do see me. You know why?
That's priority level ho status.
But that Fallon motherfucker?!
Look, okay, I'm not touching this.
And you're gonna like it.
Yes. I am not going to attack Fallon.
That is a nice midlife crisis.
Is your right to remain a public figure
For this cyclical fan fiction
I suck dicks for a living
Most of the late night guys are
Conviniently enough Irish
Predictive programming targets the demographic of
Nevermind, I'm not writing this.
I think they're hiding something.
Are you sure he's not even just a little Asian.
I mean, for the the most part—
They would never allow a—
Just water it down host by host,
Until the racists are too old
To care who replaces him.
Is the most perfect man ever
Or he's secretly getting laid every week.
Look, there's nothing protecting me from a malicious system, there's nothing protecting you from me writing about you;
But hey, at least I'm staying away from The Rock
This equinox doesn't even have fucking free weights
The entertainment industry's been
Look. I like WHITE DUDES.
—well, not the only reason—
I even hated him in the first place is because he
He's breaking 4th wall! Again!
—that he just seemed like a douchebag.
There's nothing—and I mean NOTHING that would make me pull up an episode of SNL with fucking FALLON in it.
Dude, let's just think back to a time before
Was everywhere for awhile, wasn't he?
For like FIVE YEARS, bro.
How did he get that famous?
LET ME OUT OR I'll KILL YOU.
I think I scared that man.
He had a knife to my throat, and I thought I was done for; I might as well have been.
I was homeless, penniless, trapped in North Carolina with nothing at all, no phone, and nobody at all that knew where I was.
Now tell me again what's wrong with me.
Stay in your lane. Wear your little blue fucking suit, your dress shoes, smile for the camera—
Cause if anybody's gonna kill me—
N sync, it's gonna be me.
GODDAMMIT JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE. NOT NOW.
[Tales of a Superstar DJ]
Even if he wasn't married, I was too young for him—but not really—
Something in me met in the middle and collided for my attribution to moral decency as if it were anything more than a plot line bustling in my head; and even that was arousing—Patrick and Esha were lovers, so passionate and star crossed that it was hard not to imagine them as I had first saw them//as us, but in a different world, a different lifetime; a love drawn so shaken with a kiss that shattered me, with visions of grief ingrained in my mortal being, and though somewhere he, this Fallon had captured my heart, these were all just actors, mere players upon a stage in which I had no business being on, or searching for; the whole world was in my head.
Fuck it, I'm useless. I'm going go back to being useless, then.
An idling motif at the end of the block reminded me, I would never be safe or loved again. This was the end of days, and the end of my days, and I only hoped to one day soon be relieved of life itself…
[INFINITE HOWLING LAUGHTER LEAD BY TINA FEY AND JIMMY FALLON'S COLLEAGUES, FRIENDS, and FORMER CAST MATES]
*literally crying of hysterical laugher*
I am the m Diamond, I Am The Heart,
Did you do this on purpose?
Space, that's an odd name.
—what else would you call this?
(To be honest, I didn't know what I was doing.)
Well, this should be fun.
As morbidly as you desire
Fortunate, in either aspect
To tie the winters sleeve
Upon my sleeping chambers,
Whispered into hear thy neck
My captor slowly soon awaiting
Though captured for nothing in the eye if beauty alone;
Still slithers up my spine,
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