| L E G E N D S: ICONS. |

The third day of fast had been light nutrients by way of liquids only, though it didn't seem to satiate whatever else it was I might have needed, besides some sort of adoration or companionship, my human need for love set aside by some ravenous monster, now I had a plethora of ingredients which might make up some hearty dishes, and though I wished to feast, as it was feast Friday, I also needed it to last, havi stocked up more well rounded than usual on things that I needed, having gathered ingredients I had nearly often almost missed without taking multiple trips to the store, which I was determined not to do—the world was gross and full of coughing robots again, and that meant it was time to retreat into my cave, whether or not I was meant, and my urge for money over freedom nearly winning at every corner at which I was told “turn back”. And I was, being told by some voice to “turn back”, although it seemed to have come from within rather than without, and still I couldn't much do to more than escape the disasterous horrible people who buzzed around outside like mindless bots, one of which I was becoming, the more time I spent on the ground, seeking menial work for menial pay, as not to be coupled up and left to commit an atrocious suicide by the horrid motorcyclists and car enthusiast without a care for anyone besides themselves, in that the noise they were making nearly all day and all night at times, was so painfully disturbing to some, that it had indeed begun to make me sick, not just in my head, but in my minds body, and soul. I could not trust such carelessness to be anything but that of the devil's work, to which some claimed pride in doing, and to which some others were thoughtlessly unaware, of everything, if not themselves. The grotesque demonic-looking people-creatures were at best subhuman, and as I had explained in my interview just the day before, that it was probably due to the mass consumption of products not fit for consumption at all, let alone nutrition purposes, neither of which the higher ups had seemed to care, burdening the poor upon themselves.

I was not seeking to be doomed to remaining forever poor, and thought it best I collect as much money and acquired wealth as possible, before the times were shifted and I were forced into worse circumstances than my own—my beautiful but not peaceful at all, luxury apartment, just three stories above Hell and it's subterranean shithoe of mass transit and transients, however though I did find heavenly spiritual bodies to sometimes dwell and encapsulate within the system—old, sunken, good spirits, lost souls, and others, of whom I considered myself as one with, however, in the opposite of

253schemehorn ace hotel lobby

Caaaarrieee, Carrie baby!

chapter ⅔ ? “DJ's don't Sleep”

I was nervous but holding it well, I had all that I needed and was hoping it was worth it; I hadn't worn heels in months and hadn't the money for new hair or nails, and so it was as bare bones as it would get, my one nice outfit besides a body on dress I decided would not be worth the trouble and might attract the wrong sort of attention anyway—#€{}{ was some kind of work in the morning, though I wasn't sure what, and although I didn't plan to stay long, I also hadn't wanted to arrive too early to really see what kind of party it was, just short of overdue and on the entire of fashionably late, but that the very least I did look fashionable, and however tired i was, something had to be done to at the very least make an appearance, and maintain posture and presence, maybe at some point gaining back the social abilities I had lost being homeless and isolated, not that I wanted much for real socialization that wasn't absolutely fulfilling.

Sad, on my way to a party

Thinking bout somebody that don't even want me

Tired as hell

But this better be good

Let me dance and get out of my shell a

Get out of my head a bit

And just chill

Say the alphabet,

Just trying not to blow it

Sad, on my way to a rager

I brought my pager

But I hope it don't ring

I don't need nothing

But someone to love me

I'm actually working

It stopped being fun to me

When suddenly

Everyone around me

Was me

What's up with that

Tom and Jerry

Peter Paul and Mary

Walk into a bar

And ask for the ball park

Where's it at?

They're ll lost

Where's my hat, u

Well never mind that

I think I dropped my fanny pack

Funny pick —

Bro I pocket wrote this and decided to keep it for that dimension where my misspellings and typos are opening portals to other dimensions and shit

Ok.

Nice.

Uh ugh du uh yuxuvu y u. I. U uru

Maybe at the yucu DD ine the s and found Truth uuto eu euvuuvvv

You can get it back up uguuuvuvvuuuuufuu just a t dumb idea who edoesn't

She said uuuuguuuuuue s essay

But that's a long re uuzzeezjj e A zzz

To come down To u uuuzeze

S

It was shameless self promotion, but the. Again, what for wasn't—I wasn't having any fun, and I almost remembered the night, and something in me wanted to dance, but it was almost as if I couldn't move, or suddenly even, Uuuuuxhis u szzzuuuuuxxdxucouldn't speakuudg. I didn't duS uuto belong on the dance floor— but how and when would I ever become the ugh I was uuDJ Uuu c u, if ever? I thehadw bruh there a grueling 8 uminutes and U u u uucready tog leave, but w?uhhh ughucuuhxu b by uuuuuue I haddock a pocket full of hu and a uggyuuhuuuu uxc UuudThoughu u u dueh huh h uh uh bubudy to be g W u use udguuuuyu. Uuuducguu u tc uhugetting your own house cgun u u

Ndiogou N LMH 1812

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Tidbits

Points:

Jennifer Lopez in the 90's enters immidiate superstardom and fame, as The Illuminati, which has been tracking her every move for quite some time, conspicuously gifts her with a handful of large, rare, and uncut diamonds—she becomes a Kingpin and near overnight success, keeping the secret of the diamonds to herself—however, as she is skyrocketed to success and fame, strange and mystical things begin happening all around—and even more strange and mysterious, mystical people—besides the usually strange and magical celebrities and otherwise unworldly weirdos within the Illuminati's ranks— begin to appear, acting as guiding forces between the multidimensional realms which within the various portals a hidden world — infinity and beyond— has been kept, only exposed through the stories, shows, and —

Wait a second

— a montage— montage—

I'm being intercepted.

What? What about a montage??

I love a good montage.

Everybody loves a good montage.

the infinite Jennifer Aniston and her Multidimensional counterparts

Jennifer Aniston is tasked as becoming a guardian angel, to help protect and watch over the mysterious extraterrestrial formerly known as supacree, currently masquerading as CC as she attempts to escape the spiral of magical attacks from unknown forces, after being trapped in New York City.

You know what? I love it. I'll take it.

Are you sure?

Yeah, I'm sure. I love her.

I love her.

it'll take it.

JENNIFER ANNISTON, a well-known A-list actress whose rise to fame in the 1990's created her as a Hollywood superstar (and Illuminati staple) has been looking for the perfect project to invest her time to— rumors within the Underground have been circulating about a “secret podcast”, to which it's curator, a homeless and downtrodden musician and amateur DJ publishing Illuminati doctrine, some of which is only known to the limited and coveted higher ranks within the organization, interwoven into the plot's narratives as “Easter eggs”; the unformed screenplays have been archived and passed around for a number of years within a small community of elites, and some even plagiarized by the mindless and money hungry lowest ranking industry professionals—however—as it is known by the leaders of the organization as a whole, the true origins of this doctrine remains “unknown”, and the identity of the author, is surmised to be the prophesied scribe, set to arrive as the dawning of a new era arises, to write within her words the hidden truths to be sought by all mankind and otherwise—and therefore, must be protected and hidden within the organizations cradle at all costs; though misunderstood greatly, The Illuminati has been tasked with spreading the divine light to the human species through artform and storytelling, and as the art of wordfare becomes a lost art, the doctrine must be colluded to be written, before the end of the scribe's time, said to be often—a most untimely death, as the forces of darkensss seek to end all that remains of the love and light of the divine kind.

Damn, really: Jennifer Aniston.

I really like her eyes:

Well yeah, they're mine, so.

Apparently or whatever, Jennifer Anniston is assigned to guide CC as she trains to stand up as the scribe —

Who revealed herself as so in Los Angeles, at Carl Cox's show.

I dropped three cards for form the center of my eye,

Here:

An equilateral triangle.

I Am.

Two—

These markings will be known to those as I,

The scribe.

Three—

A world unknown awaits all those who seek the truth of the divine light in the pursuit of higher knowledge.

INT. EQUINOX SPORTS CLUB NEW YORK. MANHATTAN. DAY

JENNIFER ANNISTON enters the elevator—to her left, towering over her, she spots JIMMY FALLON, trying to remain unseen.

…Jim?

Oh, yeah, hey,

What re you doing here?

Whatever I want.

You shouldn't be here.

You shouldn't be here.

This is by the way, when Satan switches from Jimmy fallon's body to Jennifer Anniston, hereby known as Jennifer Anisatan— just before the scene at Equinox

“I'm holding in a fart.”

So wait, who is Jimmy Fallon, then?

Who the fuck knows.

Who the fuck cares.

I'm over it.

————————————————No wait, don't.

Tie me to the cross

Bleed on my sickness m

Crossfaders, behind us

Blinder up, bonded

Surreal,

The sunsets are longer

Open your mind, your highness

Crossfire, behind us

(Someone else writing this)

Dawn comes on stronger

The sunsets are longer

Tie me to your honor

Come before me

Somebody said you were the apocalypse

I should have listened to my father

Somebody told me you won the world at a carnival

I should have never listened to my mother

I should have listened to my father

I should have listened to my father

I should have listened to my father

Come before me

Tie me to your honor

Born of blood,

The borderline genius

You were the apocalypse

Tie me to your cross

MAYA RUDOLPH

Is weird.

MAYA RUDOLPH prepares for a SAYONCE in her formerly secret apartment on the upper east side dedicated entirely to magical purposes

Ok.

Ok.

Okay?

Ok.

The worst part about it is,

I do understand you,

Because I am you

The very worst part of it is

I want a family

To hold you hand

And rub your back

But I just can't have you

—I'm just a fan, dude.

The truth is I've got two suitcases,

Some capsules of cyanide,

An axe and some anthrax

A cat in my lap

And a failing laptop

I've been living hand to mouth

I've got

A ripped backpack

A stress ball

A Hackey sack

A hockey bag

A volleyball

And a mouthful of gunpowder

How do you like me now?

It's gonna take forever to fund my project

But it's gonna take longer

To find my body

Cause nobody loves me

Nobody has my number

The phone is shut off

And so is the water

(By that I mean, my love;

It's all coming out blood now)

I must be backed up

And stuffed full of crystal cocks

I could give it up for a wand

Or a ringworm

Oh God

My wrists are itching to ditch this place

I fell asleep with a gun to my head

And woke up Cobain

Okay?

Ok

Okay?

Ok.

Sorry to wake you

I came to rape you

HEATH LEDGER

hello.

OH, GOD.

HEATH LEDGER

I heard you like ghosts.

I— I don't.

HEATH LEDGER

Oh, you don't?

No—!

HEATH LEDGER

oh!

wait—who are you?

HEATH LEDGER

(Makes joker face)

All my friends are dead, anyway

I'm loving more ghosts than people these days

The faces, the golden days

The golden retrievers

I need some relief, man

Release me

Sweet, freedom

Just lay on your back,

And I'll take it from there

JOKER?

Aha.

I'm in love with the idea of

Death

The idea of

Leaving this world behind

The idea of love

The ideal of love

The ideal of love

The seductive touch

I'm in love with the idea of

Not knowing pain

The idea of

Not needing money

The idea of love

The ideal of love

The ideal of love

The seductive barrel of a gun

So run away

Run far from me

Far as the eye can see—

And I'll aim for the head

But probably just get the neck

Or the center of the back

Twirl around, girl

Do your dance

Heads or tales for the daughters

The blondes,

The live that you wanted

The life that you wasted

The knife to your back

The life flight

The kite hack

Never spend your heart on band tickets

Don't you know

This is so much more

Disappointing in person

We all are

Never spend your bet on your bottom dollar

The kite and the rock band

The lost rock

The last dollar

Diamonds on your

JENNIFER LOPEZ

GET IN THE BACK OF THE VAN, BITCH.

NO WAY, J-LO.

YOU LOVE ME

EXACTLY.

GETAWAYFROMME.

DONT MAKE ME CALL GOLDBERG.

I'M LIKE WAY MORE SCARED OF JANET JACKSON.

JANRT JACKSON

GUESS WHAT?!

OH NO!!! NOOOO.

U PICKS UP TO SUPER SPEED

wtf.

How does she run that fast, that fat?

I really don't know.

Did you call my name?

Did you wake me from my relentless dreams

I needed you

Just like you needed me

I called your name

You called me

Follow me home

Follow me to the road we both know

Open the doors for the lonely

Follow me home

Follow me home

Sista sista

What it is, mista?

Turn the tables,

Drums, then get my sticks sucked

You dig it?

Turn on the television

I'm on in an minute

This could be infinite,

Nothing to defend here,

Just

No, not the google documents!

GET IN THE HOLE.

Hm.

What.

Blood Shower

All along the watch tower

Do you feel good?

Do you?

Do you feel bad about this.

I do. I feel bad about this.

I forgot to tell you–

I should probably let you know that I just want to

MAN, FUCK THIS DUDE.

MA.

WAHT.

IT'S ON.

WHAt.

THE SHOW IS ON.

THEWHAT.

THE–

*suddenly self aware*

…I gotta get out of Boston.

What, first this was about war, now it's about bird people?

It's about a war WITH the bird people.

I should sleep.

Hahaha. No.

This isn't funny anymore.

At least it's over.

MA–

Oh, it's far from over.

Yo, i'm going through some crazy shit right now.

Spur of the moment

I'd never thought of it;

This is gonna take forever.

I don't have the patience

To even write this

I just want french fries right now

But been up for two days with no gym and

I'm on a diet.

GUAC TIME.

No, no burritos.

GUAC TIME.

Oh shit, this is getting real as fuck .

NOw i see it three ways.

I love it.

I hate it.

HEY, LET ME OUT.

GET BACK IN YOUR HOLE, SKRILLEX.

I'M DILLON FRANCIS.

IN THE HOLE.

Check it out.

Huh.

It's another DJ.

*agrees*

Should we pick him up.

WEll, the good news is: I found your friend.

Oh, that's good.

The bad news is: He's dead.

Oh, that–'s … nice.

Yeah. It is.

Uh. Kaskade.

Yeah.

We gotta find Ryan.

Why. What's up?

You're freaking me out.

Why. What's up.

Nothing

IS it my eyes?

I–

*wild ass eyes*

Yeah, it's probably that.

Fuck dude, what did you do to deadmau5.

NOTHIN.

He's not the same.

What the fuck is that.

Holy shit I jus timejumped

Where the fuck are you going.

How the fuck could this happen?!

It COULDN'T.

Well, that's it then.

*shrugs*

Well, I guess we're just gonna have to go dig up Dillon Francis.

I guess so.

Do you think he's still alive.

Like, probably not–

Maybe…

No, probably not

@prodbywar& @Halmadeit

This amazon order took me nine hours

Alexa, I think i should fire her

Like a arm

I don't leave at night without armor

Don't make me a martyr

Your mom will be proud of us all

If i make it outta here

And i'll look after her

Got the whole block coming up on my heels as I walk

Wtf is it…

Idk dude.

Is it speeding up?

I…i think so.

There's no way this is 140

IT's 140.

It's 140 .

There's no way.

Yes way.

Nah huh.

Let me see.

No.

Let me at the decks.

Let me at the decks.

NO.

YO LET ME AT THE DECKS.

You want deks.

Yes.

I got deks.

Really.

yeus .

I never listened to it like this

In ableton

I read serato, synesthesia and rekordbox

I talk a lot,

I'm like a human music box

I walk a lot

I run my mouth a mile a minute

(faster than i run around the track reciting rap words)

Like they're passwords.

Oh, I could do this forever..

I wish i had i microphone right now

And was all alone

With the lights off

Lying on the floor

I'd be lying if i said I could afford you

Just to fornicate

But may consider playing with a foreigner

If you're all for her

I'm unnerved, you know

Cause i've been up so long

My monster likes to play with boys and

Make the bass go down below where

Nobody does anymore

Once I get a hold of things

Or the hang of it

You've got another hot ones on your hands

I've another record under my belt

Or in my roster,

Whatever you'd call it

But now I've got no time to bark about

Wanting a dog and a daughter

But none of the responsibility or

Going through all the trouble to find her a father

I'm still holding a fart in.

Reaally–cause–it's been a really long time.

WHAT WOULD YOU KNOW ABOUT A LONG TIME, JIMMY FALLON??

Um a lot! You literally just saw me make the journey all the way up from nothing.

I am nothing

EXACTLY.

I don't have time to fight with you Jiimmy Fallon.

I did NOT write these games by myself you know?!

Um, excuse me– “GAMES” ?!

YES, GAMES.

Uh, I've only got one game with you in it, my friend.

Is that so!

One game that I've written with the Great–formerly LATE Jimmy Fallon.

Is that like a play on words cause i'm on late night TV

YOu'RE ON ALL THE TIME TV, JIMMY. NBC SHIT IS PRACTICALLY AUTOMATICALLY SYNDICATED.

-_-

…are you alright.

–_-_-__-_

Hold on, I think i've got it

Nice, I found a growler.

yOu still haven't got all the monsters and sprites

Ive got all the big ones, but the little ones are harder to catch.

GrO0Wl3rrr.

Aww.

He's so ugly.

Yeah, but cute, though, right.

I don't think so.

Gro)WwlErrrrrrrrr.

Aww.

That's so fucking gross.

lol . so what does this thing look like.

Well, that't the thing about the monsters and sprites.

WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT.

It's alright, it's alright–he's nice.

WHAT. THAT'S A SPRITE.

No, it's a monster. He's just scary.

SUPACREE.

David Bowie. What up.

God, it took me ages to find you.

Tell me about it. I'm still trying.

We've been expecting you for a long time.

You were expecting I'd die?

Yes.

So when she says she's “married to the music…”

I'm married to the music.

Oh, so.

Yo, honestly if you een want to talk to this bitch, you'd better have like a musical instrument, or a mic in your hands,

Otherwise–

No, getawayfrom me.

It's not even worth it.

HI.

–No.

What's up?

Tempo.

SUNNI

Cotour

From the store

I was poor

Now i'm honorable

In velour,

Glamour (Snap)

Forsure,

Jesus Christs is

making appearances in my abletons

I'm not able to comprehend or understand exactly the message,

But the evidence sire is mounting

Get it

Reached the temple,

More of a sanctuary,

Is that sacrilegious

I guess it is,

I'm stressed as ever

Trying to get it to gether

I'm way too tired for a remix;

All i really want is some fries that are french

And some thighs that are thick

Like mine to sit on

like five or six dicks

Pick up up like chopped sticks

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Loving you—

Is easy cause you're beautiful

And everything that you do..:

Sorry I let you guys down.

I didn't mean to abandon you.

—lalalalala

—-lalalalala

——lalalalala—-

—-lalalalalala—

Oh man. Here it goes.

Dodododo-un

Do-do—

I love you.

OH MY GOD.

Happy Birthday, Kid.

You earned it.

DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

V.o.

I didn't “forget” to finish the Minnie Riopperton storyline;

I just didn't.

It got emotional.

Okay, okay, okay. This is weird.

It is weird,

Why are you wearing that?

Why are you wearing that?

I'm in costume.

As WHAT.

—as my mother.

Oh: awww that's cute:

Yeah:

What's your excuse?

I'm also in costume.

As what.

As my mother.

*squints*

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

I want them gone.

But sir.

Out. starting Monday; and I want you out of my office, starting now.

Now, get Troublemaker on the line so I can finish my breakfast in agony, like the red blooded American I'm supposed to be.

Sir.

Troublemaker is the top secret code name assigned to the President of the United States; the true President of the United States, the only surviving member of the cabinet after a series of successful infiltrations and assasinations by the enemy, after a covert mission revealed that the succession of the US presidents had been predetermined; not chosen by “The People”, but decendants of a Royal bloodline. Pinocchio the code name for the senator chosen as the stand in— the face to America's eyes and ears, listens intently to the President's every move, daily happenings, and assertions, as to best convey the ideas as his own; meanwhile, the Secret President is heavily guarded, controlled, and is acclimated using a series of secret codes and messages and decoded, including several secret languages and symbology hidden within her daily routines, which become more challenging and versatile, adapting her to her role as Commander In Chief of the United States armed forces, and consequently, the world around her, as the US forces seek to broaden their horizon as the a world superpower, to a Global entity, which powers and controls the heavily overpopulated planet which lies in imminent demise by like likes of war, plague, and diminishing resources.

The actual President of the United States must remain hidden as so, as to remain safe until the intercontinental breech has been sealed, and national security has been restored.

Viewer indescretion is advised

It's not ME.

Okay, okay:

I'm not the president!

I'm not running for president

I don't even know who the president is.

The president is dead.

GOOD .

Madame…

I mean—not good.

You—

No.

So like—-

It's automatically racist to just outright say that the migrants are for the most part not well behaved or orderly—-

They leave trash everywhere and don't even watch their kids!

Some of them.

I think they're just assuming this is okay?!

IS THIS OKAY?!

No! What the fuck!

That is racist.

Have you seen it from where I stand?

The strength is in numbers!

Look,

I don't hate human beings.

Are they—

Yes they're humans.

They're just.

Our imminent demise is in allowing this to continue to happen.

I hope you realize that from how high up you are.

I know you can't see it from up in your shiny townhouses or from the blacked out windows of your townecars, but...

They're good people.

SOME of them

I mean a lot of these 3rd world people are very primitive thinkers.

Don't count on them being brought up to speed in consciousness and morality when they're basically brought here as luxury slaves.

That's putting it nicely.

Well, if you're not going to pay Americans living wages, you're going to have to counter it somehow.

I can't have three jobs.

Oh, that's nice. The terrorists are attacking their own people.

For what purpose is any of this, actually?

Check it out. I found the leak.

Alert the mayor.

He's on the Mayor's books.

What in the actual fuck.

Gross.

Is there not a screening process for this?

Too late: anchor babies.

“The Secret President”

So you just dropped like 2 million pregnant 3rd world—

You realize that.

There must be some kind of compromise.

Yeah. Send them back.

Ew, fucking gross.

I don't understand—

What you don't understand!

[A SAGA]

What don't you understand?

My land is your land!?

Yeah, and now the economy's in the trashcan.

I figure that's an upgrade from a black hole!

You don't understand that we're like leaking—

—like bleeding—-

Money!

Half of this money's not even being recirculated into the United States!

Send for uncle juan, Camilla, and all of my pregnant nieces.

Dalè.

ARRIVA

STORM THE GATES.

Yo, lady.

What the fuckz

At least put shoes on the baby.

PUT THE DIAPER IN THE TRASHCAN.

Where's your mother?

I am my mother.

Goddamn!

What is the United States?!

Racists!

Trust me

I'd rather die than not

Either way,

I'll love you all the same

It's unfortunate

The wicked ones

Atop us, with the fortunes

With no one to love

But piles of bodies,

Power plays and flaccid phalic

Valid fantasies and tragic

Dissatisfaction

All those bottles

And all those bodies

And all those models

You still can't mount a horse.

All that power

And all that money

And you don't want me

But she doesn't do much

But want to love

Pity no one up there seems to know what is does

Love, is for us

The ugly under you

Trust me, I'd rather die tonight

Than wake up alone

Foaming in the mouth

With no one there to froth with

Trust me

I'd rather die than not

Either way,

I'll love you all the same

I guess I'm slag bro

Another attack

It's fine;

I'm just not attractive

Not even fit for his

Side piece of ass

How's that go?

What's that life

Just take a knife to my back

Cause I can't go back bro

I went black bro

Flatline

He caught my eye,

Then I went flat broke

If I could draw a line up my spine

And unwind the entire world

I would, though

If I could tie a knot to the knot in my back

And then just jump rope

Off a long rope

From a strong pole

Here's hoping

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

JOLENE. [Happy Accidents Remix]

(Extended)

Beyoncé ft. Happy Accidents

IN CASE YOU MISSED IT:

previously on

LEGENDS

{Enter The Multiverse}

“Two Hats”

Now I had two hats— and loved both of them dearly—or rather, bonded with them—as much as anyone could love a material thing, however, given my circumstances material things where all there were left to love, and though I distained to admit it, there I was, in my empty apartment, which I turned into an office, a mattress on the floor to deviate from it ever truly becoming a bedroom, not that I ever really ‘slept' well in the place—which was a blessing, and the very least mine, with all the gratitude I could show the world for finally letting me be human again, after five years of homelessness.

I still hadn't quite yet recovered, actually—I had taken my minimalistic qualities and invested all of my “income” with office supplies and musical endeavors, had already released an album, and had nothing less than a heap of backlogged work to sort through—I could be busy for years, just by myself, and the worst of it—or perhaps, best of it was, I was still writing every day.

Sometimes a lot.

Too much, really.

But, it was a gift, of all the gifts I had received, and they were coming in variously, by way of inspiration, little laughs, and waves of a careful, constructive energy which I knew to be beyond nprnsllyborituctive, even for a creative, and though in my heyday I had written more in volume, the quality of my work was beginnings to show—and my potential for professionalism within the field increased, if I could ever see past my brown skin into white world, where I feared the blue and green eyes damsels of the new entertainment world would Beyoncé me in their outrageous and delusional Taylor Swiftness— unless I was so black that I could not stand as a threat to their dominance and obvious world power —which I wasn't, especially by New York's standards. I was soft spoken, well behaved, and most comfortable (at least when well dressed and maintained), amongst the elite.

The first hat jad come well before the other, thankfully—as I had needed something besides a handkerchief tied around my head to protect it; it was during fast that I had learned of the danger of keeping one's head exposed, and finally succumbed to the fact that though it could be deeply hidden and lost somewhere in time and my genetics, no matter how bad at it I was, I was somewhere at least a little Jewish, at least by Whoopi Goldberg standards, who supposedly wasn't Jewish at all—but I had also learned in fast, that many dead Jews were now black women, recycled again only to be exterminated by a counterpart which had exceeded itself in hatred, apparently through it all time—my fear was that it was this hatred who welded and whitewashed all the networks I wished to excel in—the dance music industry, the streaming services, and the media in general seemed almost ruined in entirely by racism, nepotism, and well—

Karenism, and though I liked Becky a bit more for her labeling of a power-hungry control-freak ultra competitive obsessive, whose racism was blisteringly hidden and intrinsic and yet effected every fibere of my being just in intolerance, austentation, and obnoxious offense, Karen was what the world had seemed to decide her name was— the true drive behind all white power and supremacy—the white woman, for which the average—always painfully average—white man could not function without.

“You've got some resentments in here”, said a voice, almost as familiar as my own, but masculine, as I hyperfocused into the Hurley logo on the first hat, a powder blue and white soft-skulled SnapBack which was intended for working out—and of course, for surfing, should I ever be so lucky to surf again somewhere that wasn't New York, and I meant it, that New York was its own certain kind of sickness and toxicity, riddled with old racism and clustered with housing projects which spoke of the dehumanization and belittlement of anything brown— a betrayal of all spirit which was only just now being ratified by the thousands of buildings like mine springing up from bourough to borough—but still present in the vast and drastic divide between the nice areas, and the areas where the colored people lived—almost anywhere but Manhattan, which I had hoped and dreamed for, but settled on Brooklyn, however so close to Queens that I could sometimes still smell, taste, and worst of all, hear it.

At least, however, I was gone from Jamaica—a blessing in itself—as it did seem as though it was true that the blacks had been cursed, and just by the looks of it, I was grouped in with them, though I considered myself far from either side of any spectrum, beyond conservative, in that I enjoyed peace, quiet, cleanliness, and modesty of dress— a respect I had for the upper class, especially of the post and business minded women of New York, which seemed to push strollers and go about their daily runs as housewives on weekends in the areas I most favorited—midtown, something native for, but now realizing that because of the new world slave trade, anything lower than at least the 7th floor would be an irritant, a noise-polluted hell scape of poverty-stricken immigrants with no cultural sensibility or decency often for cleanliness, or politeness, which included the silencing and responsible ridership of vehicles that most probably should have been illegal, if it weren't for the demand of jobs in accordance with the work-from-home-I'm-not-going-out-into-that-hell out attitude which I was becoming more understanding of myself—whatever had happened to “people” and had gone with the world or the pre-pandemic was wrong, on so many levels that it was not hard to imagine that the consciousness that collected amongst the wealth elite had gathered that being out in the world had become dangerous, as indeed capitalism had turned every man woman and child below the poverty line into a minion of Satan himself.

Jessie surely couldn't live here, without being well kept by some man, who I could only hope by now had groomed her to be better than how I had left her, or rather, how she left me, in the same stewing hatred and delusion of intrinsic racism which seemed to be ruining my chances at ever truly succeeding, particularly in dance music.

I dont know what resentments could come from a hat, which I had bough on clearance to begin with, if only just to be able to have a durable waterproof head covering to strap into my head and sweat in—but I could think of all the ways that might make me resent something, perhaps, if the owners of Hurley were racists—not far fetched, as most the surfing communities, especially out west were all bronzed Johnnies of some sort — closeted racists and wealthy elites, or at least well enough to do to live within a stone's throw of some beach, which, even as poor as one might think himself, is never truly poor—especially, out West. If you grew up surfing, you lived on or near a beach, which implies money beyond most people's wildest dreams—besides Mexico, of course, a special and economically, sociopolitically controlled Hellhole of its own, to which it's problematic governance had overpoured yet another problem impacting one's ability to collect and maintain money, or any wealth or status—illegal immigrants coming in droves, hatching their spawn, and collecting government aide, if only to dwell within multi-family homes, gain wealth and income rapidly, and of course, keep the black population at the greatest disadvantage—as the blacks had been ruined by all of America's time as a slave-driving captalist country, always most hospitable to anything less brown than black, not that I was opposed to the idea that New York needed some variety in its gene pool.

I dare not to think the owners of Hurley, a surf brand I had loved and trusted since I was a young fanatic first introduced to the joys of riding the wave, could be run by the most henious of evils, the pedophikes, who all seemed to protect one another in some way—and also seemed to control all of the industry at hand—and though now, especially since Tyla's apparent “win” at the Grammy's, which the more closely I observed in a whole seemed to be entirely fake— another Illuminati pupped groomed and chosen to make some kind of media agenda stand through, the billboards were plastered with blackish and brown women of seemingly African decent, however—the problem was that they weren't women at all—but children; and though the male advertisements were still dominated by the white man, to no complaint by admittance that at least in one way, I too, was a supremacist, in that the father of my future children would or should be white by any means nessesary, and that for years now, I just hadn't been attracted to anything else—which, upon reflection, I realized I probably almost never was actually attracted to black men, beyond growing up in a nearly all-white environment, in which case, I was “supposed” to—I.e., the blacks with the blacks, the fats with the fats and so on, which I despised; and I had never settled on anyone overweight at all until I had to, which in retrospect, had almost ruined my life.

Almost, but not. I had escaped the fat bastard's wifebeating clutches, both physically and spiritually, finally having gained the espteric knowledge, had had given light and illumination to what I had been told; but never truly believe until I had confirmed—

This man had tried to kill me, many more ways than one, and I had survived.

Well, naturally—kind of survived. I was now a DJ among DJs, my aging machine outdated and the layer of haging skin around my delicately contoured extra small waist making it impossible for me to gain attention in the way anyone was these days, by bearing less than what would be considered ‘dress code' for any club back in my day, and my day was surely fading into something like a day ahead, or a day behind—either way, as I had actually done enough fasting and praying by now to ‘bend time', and I should only be so lucky to emulate such a feat within my Ableton, which begged for my attention, and yet, there was something missing from me that wasn't yet satisfied with my being so much so that I could just let go, and record my innermost potent words and songs—actually, it seemed as if my apartment had been rigged with some kind of recorder, as when i began to record, or sing at all—the energy would immediately change, almost halting my voice, then again, there was a Karen to my left, and a Karen to my right, the latter of which, my studio was facing and she seemed to act strange and demonic when my music played, slamming doors and creating some kind of uproar, and so I almost never used my studio monitors to play my own music—opting rather for the safety of deadmau5, or some other cheap house music which I could practically mute in my own mind, but at the very least the vibrations of such would not disrupt what might have been peace, if not for the army of terrorists literally in the parking lot to which my window overlooked, the terrorists operating the “auto body” shop adjacent to my apartment, and what appeared to be, after numerous noise violation complaints to the useless 311 service at NYPD, the terrorists alongside the Brooklyn-Queens border, which I refused at all with aborent denial that I even was situated near.

Then, as the building began to fill with more blacks, which I hated seeing, loitering about in the lobby in the general and uncomfortable blankness which I was also doomed by the white and others to be perceived as part of—but with diligence had thrust me into a wave of brainstorms—in how to escape this, and although not entirely racist—I didn't like anyone too far on either spectrum which presented an imminent danger or overbearing presence on my person—black men—white women—and others so culturally inept that a sense of looming control had crept and wandered into my heart and my mind, as to why and how I could find, a way out of The Blackness, and into a quiet, not particularly white neighborhood, but at the very least, a clean and quiet one—which in New York, basically meant

A white neighborhood, besides the speckling of rich asians, wealthy blacks, and other foregners who valued the things I had, however, albeit, without the distinction of the vanity of a mother who glamorized and normalized prostitution, to which I might have succumbed more valuably, had I not been stretched to ugly capacity by Doritos, emotional trauma, and whatever other strangeness of my youth presented me with this, what was now a beautiful and perfect body—with an unsightly and imperfect scar, the leftovers which without surgery, would classify me as useless to any man I might have admitted—talented, high vibrational, spirited, successful—

And of course

Pale.

Eye color aside,

It truly had been a remarkably long time since I had been moved at all by anyone of my own “type” and for this, I strived to succeed in white world, even if only to fall to the dominating control of the white woman, who often I loved just in her ironic blondeness, her shattering and devastating features—sparkling eyes and speckles of freckles—

But who often could never love back, out of some hatred that grew from so deep within, even she herself could not see or understand—it was just a ‘feeling'

The “I just don't like that girl”

The “she just makes me uncomfortable”

Or worse,

The kind who would pretend to befriend me, so that she would stand out as the eye of beauty between us, to any man or peer within our shared realms— a dominating force of “I'm more important” and “I'm more worthy”—the trait that alone made my name hidden, my own true name, words I could never pronounce, in knowing that she would come to abuse it, to call my name like a dog—

Dogs, which I realized, most whites held above the value of any human as brown as i, or damned blacker, which some would find themselves proud of, but to which I distained; I was not ‘proud' to be black, I just was—and pride was ugly, anyway, especially when acting as a representative of the losing team of a centuries long war.

The new age of models were bronzer and browner, some all the way black and most just mauve, or blackish enough so that it would not hurt or scare the fragile counterpart of the white women—who always seemed to be scared, put off, or offended by blackness in just its presence, to which I could relate, but not emulate, as the scoffing and huffing of many a tantrum had drawn me to the conclusion that they just weren't happy with our existence entirely, being of veluptuous nature or whatever it was, however—it was the cruelty of the industry at hand that showed a greater monster—that all the men seemed to be well grown, and yet all the women were not women at all,

But children on display, in the vulnerability of the sexual nation of normalizing blackness, at the sacrifice of allowing grown men to think it was allowable to fawn after such; what would be considered adolescent bodies—a crucially disproportionate factor that would make or break my career as a writer, musician, DJ, or otherwise, being a woman, who had visible scars of the ability to bear children, which I had not sacrificed, but placed far from my mind— I would not tolerate or settle on another lazy husband, or perhaps even a husband at all. I could tolerate many things about mankind that were obnoxious—cigarette smoke and infedelity, gaslighting and bondage by body or some other lack of God, however, what I could not tolerate was the laziness—the toxic, inability to do without being told to do so— the bearing of another child from outside, that went well beyond the responsibility of one that would come from within.

I had spent the early morning taking heed of the accuracy of the advice Joan from Mad Men had given us, in the nostalgic whit of the 1960's that still seemed to prove true today, in fact, more truer than it ever did the first time around— that ‘boys will be boys' and ‘men will be men', and in all honestly, one has not to come far from another into adulthood, so much as a woman should, for it had been neerly a decade since I had last laid eyes on the Piloted Don Draper— and it had been a decade with, with the least to say, had made the show itself more relevant, probably with each passing day.

Most men are looking for something between a mother and a—

But my memory had muffled the rest, by now, buried in the entourage of my own drawing, from which inspiration had sparked from the entire pot of coffee and song selection that it had taken to sort through my divorce paperwork— a task that had actually taken weeks altogether to assemble, and which I had run into too many obstacles during, having quite forcibly to use my occult knowledge to bend backwards and bind myself with protection, as something truly evil and sinister had surrounded this task—

Broken printers, misplaced documents, and of course, all the suffering it took to sift and sort through the words that were truer than any I had ever spoken, and although some run-on paragraphs and broken record retelling of what had actually happened, the effects of what had gone beyond that, what I could accurately put into paper without sounding like a total psychopath, the fact that he and more than likely his father had intended to seal my fate into a Hell beyond words , a death beyond escape, with black magic—using my dead son's hair as a tool for ritual and bondage, to which my own guides in Heaven had overseen and reported through numerous visions, alongside the years of research, my introduction into the occult not out of interest at all, though however born a naturally ‘gifted' person, but out of desperation for protection from the homeless, dirty hellacapes which I had been forced to inhabit since my departure— and without looking back, I had come to the conclusion that though I had nearly lost my son in the process, I had at least survived to preserve myself for him, come such a day he could ever want me.

And on that day, I would be the best that I could be for him—I was somewhere between 130 and 140, but wanted to be closer to 110, so that the men that I admired and was attracted to would actually want me, a hard task, especially keeping my assets in tact, but—however—speaking of assets and tact; this chapter was running long, and I still hadn't decided which hat I would wear to the post office to send off the arsenal of paperwork across the country, hopefully to be freed and riddled of the awful reminders of him, many of which had set me off with enough audacity that I had lost it in my apartment not once, but twice—and it seemed that the more accurate my foretelling of this abuse—both physical and emotional, but above all satanic and ritualistic, which had now been overturned and reflected in my own knowledge and illumination, now an admiration for the occult, as the protective rituals which I had become prone to from his damage seemed to shield and protect—the more some satanic force tried to end me, before I could ever return to a normal state—- or ascend into a realm which the evil could not penetrate, with remnices of punching bag faces, spit on the walls, the smell of vomit, and the other atrocities I could only hope had not been passed down to my offspring, who by now didn't know me, but probably was becoming of me enough that I could not be erased from him, to which the anger of his captor I could feel in the onslaught of disgusting bodies which seemed to flock to me to emulate him in some way, though to me he was no God enough to have done so, but rather just a replicate of Satan himself, which had bonded in his betrayal of this, his wish to end and kill me— and had sent demons in his own name to satiate this desire—however—by now I had realized that this darkness could only control the weaker of sorts, the weak in spirit, the dirty humans, the ones who had chosen to rid themselves of soul, in the name of money or otherwise— and though the cover to my “debut” album spoke not of true Chaos Magic, but of another pinnacle of the occult, the name itself was more practical of the music that it contained—the chapter of blackness which had halted my humanity, living in the shackles of the tragic aftermath of all that had happened.

I still hadn't decided on a hat, but the obvious answer was that I should, before the day returned back into the night, and though I hated long subway rides, there was a comfortable avenue with everything I needed to come back to my mind, one single paper which needed still to be notarized, which I had missed in the frenzy of what seemed like an endless nightmare, to get away from this man, his damage, and all of the things and people which acted like him—dumb, broken, and twisted enough to instill pain, intrude my sanctity, and stalk so much so that my usual calm, peaceful demeanor became a violent rage, however, almost respectfully always contained to the privacy of my “home” surrounded by strangers who hated me, for I in this black skin could not ever be worthy of equality, an audacious comparison in the very least, that I should have what they always have.

Just keep working.

The hole had yet to swallow me, but I had two more albums coming immediately, right out the gate, their deadlines approaching so rapidly that I could feel the onslaught of always wokenness coming in the collision and confusion of wondering how, if I ever, I would make enough money to actually get ahead, for once— and become unstuck from the lovelessness that was so underserving that nobody I could seek to love, could love me—perhaps it was true that poverty was some kind of invisibility to the wealthy elite, and though I despised the though of golddigging, I despised more the thought of being the breadwinner somewhere between lower middle class and poverty, always sick from always working, never working out; and of course—

Always arguing over nothing,

Which seemed to be the dynamic between men and women, anyway.

I realized that Don Draper was in a silent and secret war with Betty, whose anxiety had piled up inside her, most even probably as a result of her hUsband's “secret” infidelity—

And that seriously, I might be some kind of writer or something,

If all I could think about was how cringey it was to watch Jon Hamm kiss Tina Fey, in that one movie by John Slattery,

And how I really didn't want anything more

Than to look like Miss January Jones,

Who had always been so perfectly beautiful to me,

That it hurt me.

‘The DJ Hat, I think. ‘

I was nervous, and it was raining,

But it couldn't wait another day

The final breaking of this curse

Would be sending in the paperwork

That described word for word

With brutal honesty and accuracy

Everything that should never happen

When you get married—

At least

Happily.

-Happy Accidents.

I GOT YOU NOW, MOTHERFUCKER.

Oh my God! It's Pat Kirkpatrick!

Oh great, so he's some sort of Diety, I guess.

Lesson 1: Continuity.

Lesson 2: Continuity,

Lesson 3: Continuity

—isn't that all just—

Continuity.

yessssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss—-

I'm a DJ, BITCH.

YO, LESSON ONE:

You're not the professor.

I'm the GURU. This the dojo!

Uh. No. You're not.

I AM.

Where's Jimmy Fallon?

Yo, FUCK JIMMY FALLON, alright.

He's possessed—

What?!

Oh NO.

Who possessed him?!

My ex husband.

I'M THE SENSEI NOW.

SENRAO

fuck. Where the fuck is this kid?

Dead.

DEAD?

Mm. Presumably.

Mmhmm.

wtf, who are you?

Woke up with Dillon Francis in my head—

“I'm my only friend”

I don't even like that song, it just gets stuck in my head.

Apparently Emma Watson wants to know what to do in the festival project. I still don't know.

My ex went to Golden Corral to cheat on me, then got sick from pizza; I got some kind of job at a weird party place for kids; the dude was weird and only hired non bianary people and dudes; I left to help my friends who were getting married with car trouble.

Lol Emma Watson though, was like—

“Okay, what do I do?”

I was like, I don't know. Then I woke up.

EMMA WATSON

Okay, what do I do?

I was starting to develop scabs in my ears from alternating between headphones and earplugs, which couldn't have been good—I needed to work, and was disasterously fat, however, toned, and I assumed that the extra weight had come from muscle. My legs were smooth, and all of the clothes I had picked up along my walk fit—all extra smalls and smalls, which included even a tiny bralette I was certain would fit when picking it up, and it did—I only wondered what the world might be like after a panniculectomy—though my thighs seemed massive and I was certainly bloated, opting for less running and more lifting until my energy recovered, I was still anywhere between a size 4 and 5, sometimes a 6–which did kind of rather shamed me in all of the ways that it could—6 was much greater than 2–and those praised as the ‘world's most beautiful women' were anywhere between 00 and 2; I wasn't sure where I was going to move my thighs or my arse to, but I was determined to be celebrity skinny—even without the added bonus of actually being a celebrity, and however oddly enough with the star studded dreams I had been having, there seemed somehow still some kind of hope, though even if in the next life, that I would become into a world of my dreams. It was the anniversary of my son's death—he would have now been 9, and I often was drawn to remember him walking about New York—seeing beautiful children about with long hair, and beautiful brown skin, with eyes like mine, moon shaped and dark…I began to softly weep as I remembered how beautiful he was, and that I had no pictures of him at all. It was better that way, really—the hurt that had come from holding on was too great—and yet, subtle reminders, in the way that sometimes, however music would just come to me, there was my boy; he loved my guitar, and the sound of my voice as I would sing, and had even once, just before his death, tried to sing along, as I clamored about the house, singing Seven + Mary—which he seemed to like enough that he found the need to make his way over to the table to get my attention, and sing with me.

Back in my current reality, the overall bored of the shower running and my demon neighbors slamming things around angrily as if something was wrong, shaking the building brought me back to the monotonous world, morning coffee over the toilet quite remincent of Lyndon B. Johnson, the morning sifting through my Google documents for Emma Watson and John Slattery part of my morning report— and though I was due in the gym, there was nothing I wanted less than to go anybody or see anything at all—everything was just a reminder of my apparent “living hand to mouth”, and the more I kept on dreaming and writing of these people, the more grandiose and and delusional I felt—I had just been blindsided in court by my ex's attempt to discredit my ask for a protective order against him by using my mental health in the wake of his physical violence and our sons death, against me in such a way that the victory, the judge's granting of my protection against him, was still pyrrhic in such a way that I didn't feel so much protected, as he had lodged his way into my dreams once more just to cheat on me—though however had been twarted in doing so, by some particularly sour Golden Corral pizza, and the young girl accompanying him quite receptive to the speech I had given her on karmic justice. Strangely enough, the dream almost appeared as in my favor, that things were changing, and yet—I still didn't like to see him or think of him at all, and luckily enough, it was Emma Watson who had intercepted this sort of nightmare with the conjecture that I should keep writing, however with an American accent, which only forced me to wonder, if perhaps, too she had become some sort of Cosmic Avenger—or even so, as written, was JK Rowling in disguise as the actress playing her own character, some kind of magician's practitioner —who had herself been for some time one of my living spirit guides since childhood—finding as I grew older for us to be more alike than not, especially as a writer.

I stepped into the shower, still writing, and without the amount of coffee I really needed to move more quickly, but still in some sort of stupor—

‘I should probably get out of here.'

Another day trapped indoors would simply be unhealthy, however I hadn't the slightest idea where I might go.

Wherever it was, I would take my guitar—and at the very least—I knew which direction Manhattan was, anyway.

‘Fuck, I gotta find that episode with the earthquake…'

BEFORE:

ugh , where to begin?

Let's just start with–

LADY GAGA aka GAGA has been tasked with strategically marking the grid with

Various entrance and exit points; a job which she has tak quite seriously, and honorably.

Okay, moving forward .

You're not going to expand on that?

No, next thing.

HARRY POTTER, HERMIONE GRANGER

Wait–

What.

Wouldn't it be

HERMIONE WEASELEY

Did they not get a divorce?

I heard that.

That just sounds dumb, I'm not writing that.

That is dumb..

Anyway.

HARRY POTTER, HERMI–

Fuck it.

HARRY, HERMIONE, AND RON have accidentally shifted dimensions and into the bodies of their real-life counterpart, DANIEL RADCLIFFE, EMMA WATSON, AND RUPERT GRINT

Oh damn. I finally found something cool for Emma Watson to do.

That is cool.

SUPACREE

I need you to read all these, and watch all this.

SUPACREE leaves the three magicless, frietenghned, and shocked–

–flabbergasted–

what .

They're English, they should be flabbergasted.

[They are Flabbergassted]

Wait, go back?

I can't. I Have a hard time writing action scenes

why ?

Cause i'm not getting any.

Lol :

(Holy shit, that is probably why tho.)

Erase.

WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?

It wasn't good.

HOW DO YOU KNOW?!

*shrugs*

!?!-

::||pause.

ok .

So that dude from Drake and Josh is in all these episodes, but we only get one Harry Potter Episode?

…He seems less busy.

–Don't forget Jimmy Fallon.

Yeah, I still don't get that.

Neither do I?

Why is he even in this?

[Watching Saturday Night Live}

JIMMY FALLON!

Why Is he even in This?

?

?

AAAAANNNDRD—WE'RE BACK.

Fuck it, next thing.

gaga

Yeus.

What are you doing?

Hm. Mm…working on something.

If I stand quietly at the door, and await you;

Will you come to me,

And and open it, to let me in

To see the gate you keep

Let's read between the lines;

You weep for me and deep into my dreams

Then see me in the streets, and think

“It cannot be the she for me;

Maybe, if she were pretty.”

Don't look into my eyes

(I despise you!

I delicately delight you

Despite the never having time to

Now I'm desperate just to find you

In a life I left behind

And drew a line though

RATATA & TATTATA

I wrote this story years ago.

Are you going to listen to the album?

I already did that.

YOU GOTTA LISTEN TO THE

NO. And I don't expect Skrillex to listen to this, either.

It's over.

It's over

It's over

It's over.

I LOOOOOOVE HER

TIMMY TURNERS NEW BALANCE TENNIS SHOES TAP SWIFTLY ACROSS THE PAVEMENT AS HE RUNS FOR HIS LIFE

Well, that is a good place to start—thanks Emma Watson.

Captain.

Oh shit, what's SHE like?

I don't know, isn't she like, irl an American diplomat?

Uhhh—aren't you?

No.

Now hurry, we gotta do this before Jimmy Fallon shows up and

[JIMMY FALLON SHOWS UP]

Ugh.

Why is he even in this?

What is this?

I don't know. It's

“Poetry”

An album.

A couple of movies.

Some TV shows.

Will this suffice?

I don't know…

Enter that one scene here with John Slattery?

Which scene with John Slattery?

You're right. I have been writing for John Slattery a lot.

Bipolar disprder and other multidimensional preceptory functions could more likely be reclassified from a disease to a hypersensitivity to energy which one does not identify as belonging to oneself, which therefore counteracts within the mind's ability to alter or project and/or maintain balance in one's mood, as certain energies may be ‘absorbed' empathically or observed as a negative or draining energy; An elevated sense or shift due to the overstimulation of energy which the subject may receive as ‘“positive”, or shifting the mood undesirably by the overstimulation of negative sources, sounds, or persons within the subject's realm foreign, undesirable, or unwanted within one's field of energy—a heightened sense of awareness or vibrational field which inhibits or limits the ability to contain or transmute such energies.

It is, within its own sense, a sort of elevated mechanism for survival, ie a superpower, given the subjects placement within the proper environment, within the functional vibration of the subjects natural mood or state, whereas, lows may be the subjects own sensitivity to numerous outer sources of negative or prone to certain toxicities to his or her natural state, and highs whereas certain higher vibrational energies result in the conglomerate evolution of such energies as a newer form

So, bipolar, you think?

I think I don't know what I am, and nobody does—so nothing you give me will ever really fix me, because I was never really broken, or

Or?

Or I was broken rightfully so in that I should have been treated as a trauma victim, and not the subject of some cruel experimentation as an attempt to assasinate whatever force of nature is actually keeping me alive in the only survival mechanism it's been naturally given to battle the psychopathic standards and expectations of today's society.

Fine, very well then.

Why is this J. slatts again

Cause, I've got a beautiful vocality for narration.

Fine, I'll work on that character next, I guess.

What?!

John Slattery is in this!

YES.

I guess I have to watch it, then.

Collect the actors, again!

AGENTS.

Ufffghh.

MANAGERS

Fucking Christ.

JOHN SLATTERY (as himself)

“I'll do it, “, I said, “but there better be money attached to this project”

[Jimmy Fallon enters]

JOHN SLATTERY

There he is!

The man of the hour.

JIMMY FALLON

This is—probably going to take longer than an hour, I'm betting.

JOHN SLATTERY

Come, sit.

[He sits at the had of a long table]

JIHN SLATTERY (CONT'D)

I don't know what you did, you fucking idiot, but you did it.

JIMMY FALLON

Tell me what I did again.

CUT TO:

[unseen, on the opposite side of the room]

Oh shit, that's him;

Are you sure?

No, that's Patrick.

WhT's the difference?!

[Like, an entire generational gap of innuendos and pop culture reference.]

JOHN SLATTERY

Your presence is appreciated.

This meeting is now officially in session.

{Enter The Multiverse: LEGENDS}

[the festival project

What is this? Is this Scotch?

No! It's apple cider vinegar!

Does the trick.

I heard you were a Method-ist.

No, apparently I'm “the medicine man”

It's nearly team

But feels like night

Nearly forgot what this was like

Too many sunny days, no friends

Wasted yesterday latent,

Impatient creative

Heavy workload

But you know the rules

Overcast clouds say stay,

It's a workday

Every day is a work day

But it ll seems worthless

Almost, Amazon, Ten dollars

Cold, corrupt and almost

Out of water

I should be smarter than to call the code

I should be smarter then to call him over

Going nowhere but up

Calling a number, four

Number four

The hypnotists wish lists

What happens at number ten

Calling a number up

Four days of water left

I should have left him as

The protagonists, of supporting roles

Now number one is number four

And number four is often gone

The storyline and plot is

Two, three— too heavy.

Three-two-three

Walk away

310, cam the number

Hollywood is calling,

New York has hospitality, though

One, two—

Walk away

Three, four

catch the code

Hollywood, turn around

New York's got hospitality, though

How's Tokyo sound when November rolls around

How's Paris now, that were Marlboros on parliament

How it all come down

Then it all comes down

To the three two one

Four's nowhere, now

I had woken up with an overall feeling that something was wrong—I had overshot my 3 AM target time by 6 hours, realizing of course that I was a day ahead, and that the construction—more drilling and hammering, was out on hold thanks to an apparent oncoming rain, which hadn't come yet— my wavering mental state was apparent in the mess I had left in my room, clothes strewn across the floor and atop the bed, but at least otherwise clean—I had slept dressed, or at least half dressed, a protection stone lodged in my bra, as the necklace I had worn for my son had become somewhat damaged in some way—it was no longer protective, but had somehow defected; probably in the way that his father bearing over him, allowed the stone some sort of portal to be able to invade my dreams with nightmarish hauntings, and I instead opted to keep the necklace aafelu tucked away, until I would be able to give it to him as I had planned. But still, it seemed that the intention of his father was to ruin my life, and see to it so that I may never do well enough to visit my son, and it seemed no matter how hard I tried

I would not miss the band.

(A magician's hands)

I've been watching TV

i doubled back, low battery

In battery park,

I could watch the sun rising

I'm so full of worry

Of money

I wonder

What for, is my worth

Kelly Clarkson was the cutest thing ever—and sung so freely like a bird like I wished that I could—I remember breaking down in my car after just missing the cut off for entering her show, back in LA—more than likely over the fact that I would be missing a paycheck, rather than missing the show anyway— and I had almost thought to cancel my tickets for the View, had I not been lured by the blue hues of both their outfits—and though I hadn't meant particularly to be associated with the color blue at all, most people associated my name with the color anyway, as I hadn't intended.

Nothing was really intended, it had just happened. Whoopie Goldberg's fabulous denim cape forced me to wonder what I might wear the next day, had I decided to actually go—the colors of my closet mostly black and quite drab, and the denim dress I had acquired as a cleaning person the year before becoming a tired go-to when I needed to look nice. I almost wanted to wear my new Michael Kors stilettos, but was saving them for an actual party, an interview somewhere classy, or worse—my first date—as the anniversary of my cellibacy drew closer by the minute, and my need to continue my reproduction however with someone more fitting began to be the most harrowing thing on my mind, beside possibly returning to a homeless shelter, which I would not allow to happen. My exit strategy was simple, actually—in that if given an eviction notice for whatever reason—my neighbors seemed particularly afflicted as my former boss and lovers, roommates, and others I had become close to in this strange and seemingly cursed world with that thing I could only call a demon, since I didn't know what it was, and I was afraid they'd continue to report smoke coming from my apartment, although now I had been forced to switch to a diffuser with essential oils, taking a chunk out of what I considered my severance pay from The House of Illumination, which had indeed lived up to its namesake—the lesson had been quick, in that working for such a man, whoever he was or at least pretending to be, had taken me off my path, and had begun to dishevel my personal energy so much so that I had actually dropped my wallet—it had been so long since making such a mistake that I knew indeed that something was wrong, however, but needed the money so badly that it didn't matter—and besides, nothing could be so horrible as was my mother sometimes, growing up—and I had given Natural all that he needed to hurt me in telling the story of my own weight loss journey.

Telling, and in return, Natrual was showing that I had given the world the perfect excuse to continue trying to kill me—that perhaps, my time had passed anyway.

Kelly Clarkson looked incredible—the last I had seen, she was pleasantly plump, but never bad looking—now, she was. Incredibly veluptumous, and as she stated that she stood at merely 5'3, I was suprised once again that all of the TV people looked either taller or shorter on camera, and wondered what I might look like— I was almost stuck thin about 4 days into a water fast, but appeared and felt large otherwise, and most recently had been more tired and fatigued that ever, outraged that I had been dismissed from my only income in months over nothing, and that the income from anything else I was doing would simply not come at all if I could never wrap my mind around even trying to have it be seen by the right minds, with the right eyes, at the right time—and yet there was another force of evil, seeming always to stop me from the essence of true creation—this thing which had taken away my musical expression almost entirely by now, my sensibility wavering and all of my slayed projects, stagnant.

I was craving oats, and had even pre-prepared some, blending them in my magic bullet so that they would be easier to digest—and since Natural had made the suggestion that my BMI was to blame for my lack of focus and attention to detail, it had more been the combination of losing my wallet, having to deal with the public transit, constantly being reminded that Tula, a light skinned African was the music industry's new it-girl, and of course, that my son, now 7, was morbidly obese, probably somewhere discarded like junk under a cloud of cigarette smoke, head deep in a video game and surrounded by idiots—and that no matter how hard I tried to make the money to see him, something awful would happen so that I couldn't, and it became clear that his father's story—whereas I had simply and for no reason “lost my mind” and had abandoned my child, was the story he had told to all those around him, who believed him—that I was the villain in his story, and my son the tool he used to create a sympathetic picture of a loving and struggling father, though now he might have actually been trying, the damage was done; he had sent my son away unable to care for him to my mother, and in the time he was given alone, of course, created another child—all of which of course I wanted, in hopes that the one he had chosen for his new family would have some sort of love an appreciation for my own son, enough to have created a step mother, but alas, was some underwhelming someone with nothing to offer but her own struggle—and I wanted nothing to do but to be gone from this drama, however my own blood had been caught up in it enough so that I could feel it, knowing that at just 7, my son was as sick as I once was, depressed and miserable as the child of a narcicist becomes once the damage is done.

I was only eating blended foods, and had become obsessed with being stick thin—celebrity fit, which is how I had found the video at all, my love of Whoopi Goldberg and Kelly Clarkson creating a quick draw, a star studded combination I could not resist, though I wasn't resisting much—I had drifted back into the realms of television and film, my first loves—or rather, my first conscious endeavor, as I had been attracted to the piano from a toddler and learned to play around three, therein my is being my first love, however with a mother like mine and a life like ours, there truly never was one thing I could ever just ‘do', as anything I loved would soon be subjected to be taken away for some reason or another, whether it was a messy room, or just a mood swing—whether or not I wanted to watch lifetime and be best friends, even after a day of being yelled at and scolded for one reason or another—as my mother often seemed to forget ever being cruel after being so, often saying “I would never…” to whatever she had done, a narcissist's mark, in denying actions and words that had only ever been witnessed between the other party and God.

I had blended the ancient seed oat bend into a porridge with agave and sautéed apples and pears with cinnamon, and though I felt awful eating more than once, was struggling enough with this bout of depression which working at Temple of Illumination so briefly had caused that it didn't matter at all—coffee was simply not enough, and my Amazon package which would deliver my vitamin supplements and whatever else I had ordered—things I had gotten into the habit of pocketing at the Whole Foods market during my homelessness, but in trying to recover from the spiritually twisted and evil place the homeless system had put me through, I had, with all my might, been insistent on purchasing everything I had needed—and even though it was indeed wrong of the white supremacists movement to have been true health and nutrition almost unattainable to the common workforce, my food stamps never enough to actually supplement a full month of food—whole food veganism which would allow me to train for at least an hour a day to sustain clean energy, and of course, water in order to stay hydrated in doing so — I was getting better at keeping what I needed in stock, but almost always needed to run to a food bank at least once a week, hoping that I would collect there things I actually could eat, rather than processed junk my body no longer saw as food at all.

I peeled a mandarin into the watered down oats mixture and was worried that the dried cranberries I would pour over the top would be too much sugar, but I almost didn't care; I was on the verge of tears, and some evil, penetrating force had been altering my sleep patterns, my heartbeat, and my dreams—there was some group of motorcyclists who for months had been circling at any given time, and though some might have been able to ignore the roaring and awful vibrations of such, I could not—these motorists seemed to rip through my heart and up my spine like a serrated knife, a gesture that indeed noted that it was some evil or devilish, demonic force, as when in relax and meditation I often pondered with his, these striking forces would come, often creating a wave of fear, anxiety, and worry—terrorism, by definition, and disturbance of the peace, it was—but nobody seemed to care that it was pain for me, in fact, the more I began to wonder what or why it was, the more it became clear that this was intention to hurt or kill me, whether by an organization of some sort, or simply the force of evil itself against the divine I had become, not with intention at all, but in seeking my own freedom from such a world as cruel and unjust as I had come.

My neighbors had lodged an impressive amount of complaints against me for smudging—and it was 36 complaints before I had even been made aware that my neighbors were trying to get rid of me; not once had a note been left on my door, or had I been approached by them In the hallway to ask that I not use smudge—then again, sometimes as whites were, they were more concerned about themselves and their dogs than whatever might have been the cause of such heavy saging occurring—the motorcycles at all hours tearing through my heart, the slamming doors, the sound of their televisions or voices penetrating through my walls— the unwelcoming energy which at all times I was surrounded by, and though I loved New York, 3 stories above the ground floor and on the border of queens was simply not far enough away from the Godlessness of the cursed and usually dark others, whom could not understand the conciousness I had drawn from the long fasts, prayers, and summonings I had done in order to free myself from the force that had done away with me to begin with—my deep love for the man with whom I had fathered my sons, and a daughter, the two of the three were gone, though I had seen so that if I had not lost my daughter and my son, I would probably still be with their father, in attempting to give them a family—another poor, single, black woman and mother, I was now willing to be to my son, but was not; I had forgiven his father, however, it seemed some sort of curse he had done in my departure was still in effect, the demons he had called onto me not called off—and even in the reflection of my own self and flaws upon entetering such a relationship—the other things had been inherited from him; the homelessness, the toxicity and mismanagement of energy—however, my lack of control over time, I realized early on, had been inherited from my mother, who was more like my ex husband and her own abusive father than I ever was.

I wanted bread, but could not dare;

J[r was 6 ft tall, and for some reason, that bothered me more than anything else I had learned about him, for some bizzarre reason almost suddenly obsessed with the public figure, though at first the dollar project had been more of a game than the actual idea, and the festival project itself was at all but a halt, as I wanted and needed desperately to comb through my documents at once, but could never seem to— the metaphors of Natural's Basement drawing upon me as I realized that perhaps, I was too emotional about its contents to properly sort through them—atop this concern, was the concern that my body, though fitting quite nicely into an extra extra small pair of racer lined jockey style workout leggings, was still too large to be though of as ideal—ideal, which for a man 6 feet apparently was, according to Ali and the others, and though I had pretty much always hated Fallon from early on, always breaking fourth wall and blowing my mind coming from such a strong theatre background that someone like that could have ever been awarded a coveted spot on such a legendary show, it had been gathered somewhere that his audition was flawless, however—his second audition, according to Tina Fey, who I loved, maybe even more after learning that she had been given such a unique name, and had won almost every award I could possibly think to covet, although however much a writer I was, an actor and comic I was not, in that I had given up my own craft years before being fat or being black was ever in style—and now that it was, I had no reason to believe that at 31, while Tyla was 22, as was Billie Ellish, I had any business in even trying to make it in entertainment— I began preparing to die almost as readily as ever, deciding upon eviction, rather than fighting it and returning to the intake shelter in the Bronx to start the process again, I would simply jump either off my own building, hoping 12 stories would be enough to actually cause death, rather than just parilization, or find my way to the end of the platform at which the train moved most quickly in preparation to stop at the station, which I had nicknamed “the Jumping Point”—also the name of a pop up dance music club I had summoned up once, actually thinking that something, something at all would bring me close enough to success to actually become the dance music tycoon and entrepreneur that I wanted, however—as my hair again grew into a shoveled mess atop my skull, only hidden by a hit which the view wouldn't allow as an audience member, the only thing which might have kept me from going at all, besides my lack of knowing what to wear or just the daunting crises of having no money at all almost a shameful mark across my face— my nails for nearly a year undone, and of course— everything I knew that needed to be done, almost stuck and unable to move forward, my divorce papers included, another mark of the devil, as I had already done the paperwork 3 times, spending atrocious amounts of money in the process, of course, for all of them to be sent back, for some reason or another, and the case to still be opened without being shut—and at least it was opened…

As tears began to well up into my eyeballs, in thinking perhaps I truly was cursed, that the law was for whatever reason on all of my abuser's sides, and that I was doomed to become lost in this endless cycle of loss and pain for some reason or another, that became the task at hand—to, for what was either the third or fourth actual time, file for divorce, and to be rid of my abuser for good, the fate of my son at the crossroads of my wealth, or even better yet, at the very least securing a job, where I was no longer haunted by the massive work I had done on the festival project, or by, as I had once been, followed by some Jimmy Fallon doppleganger— an experience I had nearly forgotten.

However, as I reflected upon all of the jobs I had in the years I was homeless, they all had one thing in common—horrible bosses, doppelgängers of people I loved or had written about—and toxic working conditions, in addition to extremely low wages and unconscious coworkers, with the exception of few, whom I kept in my heart and still loved—did I love Jimmy Fallon? As a fan, or an admirer of his portfolio, his presence to me simply only existing in clips and montages from the confines of my memory of all that I could draw from him—an impossible suitor, I found myself to be more in admiration and awe of his work as a comic, a host, his apparent professionalism and stage presence, all of which none surrounding him could doubted and which had given birth to my own re-entry into screenwriting anything besides enter the multiverse/and yet I wondered//what for, besides as to stand as a perfect example of what would and could draw the masses and stand as an acceptable and inexplicable mark for perfection—a television personality, all of which stood to be hidden in such, a person, none whom could ever know behind the likes of such, a camera, an audience, and the propagation of the ideas and words of the media would want to portray in such programming as to remain in control in one way or another, of the audience's minds, and therefore, the viewers hearts, and souls—commanding a presence within the collective consciousness, dependent of course on said viewer's own ability to draw from those things, what was actually being said and done.

That, in itself, was The Illuminati in its process.

Alright, so—a Jimmy Fallon is an extremely powerful magician, right?

Obviously.

So he must have talismans, somewhere, then—right?

Yeah, I guess, but—

I certainly wasn't willing to look.

Look, I already know what he likes.

Geez, how long have you had his eyes?

Long time.

I'm gonna get in so much trouble.

You are trouble.

What is the point of this redaction ?

It's just acting! It's just acting!

Look, whatever I just did with Fallon, just put him in The Winner's Circle, okay? I'll never see that dude again.

Thank God it's over.

Synesthesia Attack!

AHHHHHHHHH.

Well, sorry Jimmy—

Thank your parents;

They're geniuses.

Stay away from me, your crazy bitch!

Okay. ‍♀️

FUCK! There it is again!

What?!

Too deep, too deep!

This is deep, boss—

I don't know what I just read.

Medicine man

Would you give me a hand with this

I need some medicine quick

(Cause I can't with this)

Medicine man

Need a can of some laugher

I heard that's the medicine

Medicine man

Medicine man

could you give me a

Hand with this man

It's just damages

I need some aspirin

But imm

I'm better off dead

Than over the counter

It's just damages

Something like that

Rip Minnie ripperton

I knew you were gone

But not that gone

Not gone like that

I just had to know,

Now I'm 9 years old

But I can't do the math

Not at all,

Not at all

I'm so over it, actually

My goals are abandoned

I can't trust the man in the television

I haven't remembered an image this

Disasterous since

It was my family picture

Without me in it!

Damn!

Fuck,

Now I gotta finish this whole maya rudolph timeline this shit just keeps getting deeper and deeper.

Hey. You.

What the fuck, man.

Come here.

No!

Yes, Maya! Yes!

Mm. Vanilla ice cream is sounding

Like

The best.

Just plain, regular—

Just “vanilla”

Just vanilla bean—ice cream.

Uh.

Uh.

Woah

Where the fuck are we

Where the hell are we

Where are we GOING

Woah,

What does the man with the van do

Domino sugar

Kellogg

When you get off the

All the good days are gone

And I've sent you on right back

But I will still love you

I was just thinking of that thing

You never said

But I will still love you

When you get off the ground level

Just for a minute and

Find yourself a revolving door

Only to find

That the world revolves around you

And if all the world's a stage,

Then all the world is full of actors

And all the trains are out of order

And all the walk is out of water

You're just another

Meant to suffer

So you did again

And you did this again

And you did it

On camera

Cause if you asked,

Then they would have said no anyway

And if it was a hall pass

I wouldn't have been as flattered

To have

Never

Even left the apartment

I asked for something new

And what do you know

How does God do,

On the day of the dead

Cause

That's where I went

Every chair costs and thing,

You know

Every couch costs a fortune

And you would have been

On the couch, still

Cause you can't get a job

With the punches he dealt you

Who designed 111 Murray?

I see what you're on about

All out of automotive

Misery and mystical mistresses

Misdirection, misrepresentations and.

—mister you're into some sinister shit,

But I pictured it different

Consider it rhythm your interest is simmering in

Glistening instances dancing as angels in my headaches

Dressed as construction workers

Any difference it makes it's latent,

Simple

Listen into signals intercepting into intermission

Admissions of omissions and redactions

Oh to be your forever

The Masterful mystic is at it again

Fly Peter Pan, Fly!

Go Jimmy-O, Go!

Get Carson, Get!

Alright, this dude has the coolest job in the world.

Nice.

He must have died.

(With a lisp)

He's on ice cream.

What.

Yep.

Yesth.

Watch out

It's the bad touch

With the good guy

And a late night

On a long couch

Try the dad jokes

And the slap stick

That's a good job

And a big dick

Oops

What a career,

For a carrier pigeon

[You can't be serious with this, esh]

This cant be infinite, is it?

But it is

Forget to explain it all

Over the ante, that

Oh God,

For the sake of the art

Dear God, Nancy—

You're the luckiest lady alive

The guy

The dimples

The eyes

The life

The style

The slide

Can I die, yet?

Can I just lay down and cry yet?

I might,

It's way after midnight

I like the sound of a bullet touch

A stolen cheek

The subtle rush of a

Sudden fling

The market price

Of a custom ring,

The song I wrote

Or the poems you sing

So please don't leave the TV

On

You're sleeping with a blonde

I've got my mind on dying mine bright as

The title

1985 to idol eyes

On American idol

Calm the cold down

Stalk the mirror

Here and here

Both clear and near

Is here and Bearr,

But everywhere else is just—

Suicidal.

(I don't want your dick, I just want your job.)

Now,

Call Carson up

Says

The curse in reverse

Is

Osmosis Joneing

To watch this show

Not to know you

Go home

Or go figure

Go gold

If the goal was just Taylor

Then I'll see you later

Amen

Don't forget to pray away the day

You've just created

Hand to mouth

Here's a heavenly house

And the mouse just shaking

Take down the stairs

It's starting to scare me

The dare

On the heron, heroin

Heroine mare for the Mayor

Okay, here's the player

The game is

This disfigured imbicile,

Ignorant Indians

Indifferent indegenous

Genius, without a friend

Or penis,

Without a name of

Species to befriend

In pieces

Once again,

I said

I loved him

So it makes sense if it is

A glimpse at the pictures

A get together with friends

A spectacular special,

And get this

Creative intelligence

Intellect, individual inception

Attention deficit and

Genetic attraction

Damn,

That's a handsome man

Now, how can I have that?

The Title—

The title of show

As if

That demographic

Would laugh

At a black man

I must be

Cause trust me

My pants don't come in

Half sizes

It must be a sign from the heavens

I've just had my time done with and over

It's done

Suddenly, I was angry…

Don't eat in bed.

Don't tell me what to do.

(I really don't like eating in bed…)

Fuck it, it's too late.

Not at myself, not at Jimmy Fallon— but angry.

The astonishing part about it was,

I didn't even know why.

Well, first of all, I just sat through an hour and a half special, and I have realized that I am not a fan of this guy.

No?

No.

I like his face.

Huh.

He's the right body type.

Wait.

Good hair.

Uh huh.

Long, weird nostrils.

What.

That is a nice nose.

Yeah. It's aviary.

I get that.

And—

Wait.

What is it?

Was I just—

I was a very sad, very fat very broken 18-year-old girl.

Oh great, this again.

Always this.

A married man. How could you?

I couldn't! Didn't I made that clear!

What. He seems happy.

Yeah, on TV.

He looks fine

That's his job.

—and goddammit, he's good at it?

—and goddammit, he's good at it!

14 Faces, Lewis Del Mar

Okay, it's pretty safe to say that is not just one guy.

-Su.

Come on, Jim.

Why?! What?! I can't! My parents!

These are not your parents!

What?! What do you mean?!

I'll explain later—

—what?! Look!

That's my mom—

And that's my dad!

That is not correct.

Oh, I get it—

What. What happened.

So he's like—

An old soul, right?

Kind of.

Yes.

Not that old.

Old, though.

Suddenly, the anger turned to sadness, and tears welled up in my eyes—

No, don't you dare shed a tear over that man.

What are you?

Once, an obedient lap dog,

Now poised and poached over me,

A gargoyle, though picturesque and statuesque

As if drawn from an angel,

The guardian of the night,

Who watches over my heart,

Calms the raging rivers of my wishes,

Set boats to my dreams,

Blows wind to my sail,

A bassinet of hope

Really dog, Jimmy Fallon?

I don't know. I don't know.

It was too late, I was already in love—

But at a safe enough distance that it had become, in its own way, a guardianship of sorts—and it had run deep enough cut, but not scar, and even perhaps bumped up enough against my heart to bruise, but not be broken; I would have to let it run its course, and as it would, I would for show go everywhere I could within that realm; I simply could not be trusted, in my own mind, not to bond with such that had found me in the dreamworld. In the spiritual realms of such remained only as hidden as they each had been, out of sight, but ne'er out of touch, or out of mind. A strange but hearty love, a burden, as were the others—and so I knew it was good, but mine alone, left to wilt, withered and weathered as the time drew on.

A quilted touch, a wandering whisper

To glassy eyes and hunted hearts

A crossbow, arrows sigh and wonder

The target marked, a sign of stone

Bewildered, the beast of burden

Fury, upon the alter

Aware, agape, agahst

Above you,

Wallowing in holy grave and matrimony

Sermon psalm, clary sage

Simple words,

Semper, the sound

I suffer not to know you;

A kindness

Dog's paw atop a stolen mantle

Pray you, I

Hear now, this;

To love is but a service

I shall keep to own a desire,

So shed upon the willow, to weep

Forgiveness, over ye

Cherished gentleman

DAMN. Who the FUCK are you.

Wordless warrior,

Come now,

The hour of desire strikes with night

And hallow tide,

The idol,

Set to barrow,

Barron wonder—

Seek now your truth;

I give not one but two

Of all you prey,

Of Ayer, amber,

Silver, set upon a stone

Casket of crowns, preach thee

Pray you I, gathered now

These in here,

We are above,

That is also below you

I'm gonna need some time with you.

Great. Now I have to be perfect.

So be perfect then.

Fine.

Great wind,

Fall upon us;

So sweet with will that I,

Ye, a mere stone, might stand

What.

Jimmy Fallon?!

I…

Yeah!

‍♀️

DEADMAU5

It's okay. I can handle it.

[JIMMY FALLON GETS SCRAPED.]

F*CK.

I GOT YOU NOW, MOTHERFUCKER.

Oh my God! It's Pat Kirkpatrick!

Oh great, so he's some sort of Diety, I guess.

Lesson 1: Continuity.

Lesson 2: Continuity,

Lesson 3: Continuity

—isn't that all just—

Continuity.

yessssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss—-

I'm a DJ, BITCH.

YO, LESSON ONE:

You're not the professor.

I'm the GURU. This the dojo!

Uh. No. You're not.

I AM.

Where's Jimmy Fallon?

Yo, FUCK JIMMY FALLON, alright.

He's possessed—

What?!

Oh NO.

Who possessed him?!

My ex husband.

I'M THE SENSEI NOW.

SENRAO

fuck. Where the fuck is this kid?

Dead.

DEAD?

Mm. Presumably.

Mmhmm.

wtf, who are you?

Woke up with Dillon Francis in my head—

“I'm my only friend”

I don't even like that song, it just gets stuck in my head.

Apparently Emma Watson wants to know what to do in the festival project. I still don't know.

My ex went to Golden Corral to cheat on me, then got sick from pizza; I got some kind of job at a weird party place for kids; the dude was weird and only hired non bianarynpeople and dudes; I left to help my friends who were getting married with car trouble.

Lol Emma Watson though, was like—

“Okay, what do I do?”

I was like, I don't know. Then I woke up.

I was starting to develop scabs in my ears from alternating between headphones and earplugs, which couldn't have been good—I needed to work, and was disasterously fat, however, toned, and I assumed that the extra weight had come from muscle. My legs were smooth, and all of the clothes I had picked up along my walk fit—all extra smalls and smalls, which included even a tiny bralette I was certain would fit, and it did—I only wondered what the world might be like after a panniculectomy—though my thighs seemed massive and I was certainly bloated, opting for less running and more lifting until my energy recovered, I was still anywhere between a size 4 and 5, sometimes a 6–which did kind of rather shame me in all of the ways that it could—6 was much greater than 2–and those praised as the world's most beautiful women were anywhere between 00 and 2; I wasn't sure where I was going to move my thighs or my arse to, but I was determined to be celebrity skinny—even without the added bonus of actually being a celebrity, and however oddly enough with the star studded dreams I had been having, there seemed somehow still some kind of hope, though even if in the next life, that I would become into a world of my dreams. It was the anniversary of my son's death—he would have now been 9, and I often was drawn to remember him walking about New York—seeing beautiful children about with long hair, and beautiful brown skin, with eyes like mine, moon shaped and dark…I began to softly weep as I remembered how beautiful he was, and that I had no pictures of him at all. It was better that way, really—the hurt that had come from holding on was too great—and yet, subtle reminders, in the way that sometimes, however music would just come to me, there was my boy; he loved my guitar, and the sound of my voice as I would sing, and had even once, just before his death, tried to sing along, as I clamored about the house, singing Seven + Mary—which he seemed to like enough that he found the need to make his way over to the table to get my attention, and sing with me.

Back in my current reality, the overall bored of the shower running and my demon neighbors slamming things around angrily as if something was wrong, shaking the building brought me back to the monotonous world, morning coffee over the toilet quite remincent of Lyndon B. Johnson, the morning sifting through my Google documents for Emma Watson and John Slattery part of my morning report— and though I was due in the gym, there was nothing I wanted less than to go anybody or see anything at all—everything was just a reminder of my apparent “living hand to mouth”, and the more I kept on dreaming and writing of these people, the more grandiose and and delusional I felt—I had just been blindsided in court by my ex's attempt to discredit my ask for a protective order against him by using my mental health in the wake of his physical violence and our sons death, against me in such a way that the victory, the judge's granting of my protection against him, was still pyrrhic in such a way that I didn't feel so much protected, as he had lodged his way into my dreams once more just to cheat on me—though however had been twarted in doing so, by some particularly sour Golden Corral pizza, and the young girl accompanying him quite receptive to the speech I had given her on karmic justice. Strangely enough, the dream almost appeared as in my favor, that things were changing, and yet—I still didn't like to see him or think of him at all, and luckily enough, it was Emma Watson who had intercepted this sort of nightmare with the conjecture that I should keep writing, however with an American accent, which only forced me to wonder, if perhaps, too she had become some sort of Cosmic Avenger—or even so, as written, was JK Rowling in disguise as the actress playing her own character, some kind of magician's practitioner —who had herself been for some time one of my living spirit guides since childhood—finding as I grew older for us to be more alike than not, especially as a writer.

I stepped into the shower, still writing, and without the amount of coffee I really needed to move more quickly, but still in some sort of stupor—

‘I should probably get out of here.'

Another day trapped indoors would simply be unhealthy, however I hadn't the slightest idea where I might go.

Wherever it was, I would take my guitar—and at the very least—I knew which direction Manhattan was, anyway.

‘Fuck, I gotta find that episode with the earthquake…'

BEFORE:

ugh , where to begin?

Let's just start with–

LADY GAGA aka GAGA has been tasked with strategically marking the grid with

Various entrance and exit points; a job which she has tak quite seriously, and honorably.

Okay, moving forward .

You're not going to expand on that?

No, next thing.

HARRY POTTER, HERMIONE GRANGER

Wait–

What.

Wouldn't it be

HERMIONE WEASELEY

Did they not get a divorce?

I heard that.

That just sounds dumb, I'm not writing that.

That is dumb..

Anyway.

HARRY POTTER, HERMI–

Fuck it.

HARRY, HERMIONE, AND RON have accidentally shifted dimensions and into the bodies of their real-life counterpart, DANIEL RADCLIFFE, EMMA WATSON, AND RUPERT GRINT

Oh damn. I finally found something cool for Emma Watson to do.

That is cool.

SUPACREE

I need you to read all these, and watch all this.

SUPACREE leaves the three magicless, frietenghned, and shocked–

–flabbergasted–

what .

They're English, they should be flabbergasted.

[They are Flabbergassted]

Wait, go back?

I can't. I Have a hard time writing action scenes

why ?

Cause i'm not getting any.

Lol :

(Holy shit, that is probably why tho.)

Erase.

WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?

It wasn't good.

HOW DO YOU KNOW?!

*shrugs*

!?!-

::||pause.

ok .

So that dude from Drake and Josh is in all these episodes, but we only get one Harry Potter Episode?

…He seems less busy.

–Don't forget Jimmy Fallon.

Yeah, I still don't get that.

Neither do I?

Why is he even in this?

[Watching Saturday Night Live}

JIMMY FALLON!

Why Is he even in This?

?

?

Fuck it, next thing.

gaga

Yeus.

What are you doing?

Hm. Mm…working on something.

If I stand quietly at the door, and await you;

Will you come to me,

And and open it, to let me in

To see the gate you keep

Let's read between the lines;

You weep for me and deep into my dreams

Then see me in the streets, and think

“It cannot be the she for me;

Maybe, if she were pretty.”

Don't look into my eyes

(I despise you!

I delicately delight you

Despite the never having time to

Now I'm desperate just to find you

In a life I left behind

And drew a line though

RATATA & TATTATA

I wrote this story years ago.

Are you going to listen to the album?

I already did that.

YOU GOTTA LISTEN TO THE

NO. And I don't expect Skrillex to listen to this, either.

It's over.

It's over

It's over

It's over.

I LOOOOOOVE HER

TIMMY TURNERS NEW BALANCE TENNIS SHOES TAP SWIFTLY ACROSS THE PAVEMENT AS HE RUNS FOR HIS LIFE

Well, that is a good place to start—thanks Emma Watson.

Captain.

Oh shit, what's SHE like?

I don't know, isn't she like, irl an American diplomat?

Uhhh—aren't you?

No.

Now hurry, we gotta do this before Jimmy Fallon shows up and

[JIMMY FALLON SHOWS UP]

Ugh.

Why is he even in this?

What is this?

I don't know. It's

“Poetry”

An album.

A couple of movies.

Some TV shows.

Will this suffice?

I don't know…

Enter that one scene here with John Slattery?

Which scene with John Slattery?

You're right. I have been writing for John Slattery a lot.

Bipolar disprder and other multidimensional preceptory functions could more likely be reclassified from a disease to a hypersensitivity to energy which one does not identify as belonging to oneself, which therefore counteracts within the mind's ability to alter or project and/or maintain balance in one's mood, as certain energies may be ‘absorbed' empathically or observed as a negative or draining energy; An elevated sense or shift due to the overstimulation of energy which the subject may receive as ‘“positive”, or shifting the mood undesirably by the overstimulation of negative sources, sounds, or persons within the subject's realm foreign, undesirable, or unwanted within one's field of energy—a heightened sense of awareness or vibrational field which inhibits or limits the ability to contain or transmute such energies.

It is, within its own sense, a sort of elevated mechanism for survival, ie a superpower, given the subjects placement within the proper environment, within the functional vibration of the subjects natural mood or state, whereas, lows may be the subjects own sensitivity to numerous outer sources of negative or prone to certain toxicities to his or her natural state, and highs whereas certain higher vibrational energies result in the conglomerate evolution of such energies as a newer form

So, bipolar, you think?

I think I don't know what I am, and nobody does—so nothing you give me will ever really fix me, because I was never really broken, or

Or?

Or I was broken rightfully so in that I should have been treated as a trauma victim, and not the subject of some cruel experimentation as an attempt to assasinate whatever force of nature is actually keeping me alive in the only survival mechanism it's been naturally given to battle the psychopathic standards and expectations of today's society.

Fine, very well then.

Why is this J. slatts again

Cause, I've got a beautiful vocality for narration.

Fine, I'll work on that character next, I guess.

What?!

John Slattery is in this!

YES.

I guess I have to watch it, then.

Collect the actors, again!

AGENTS.

Ufffghh.

MANAGERS

Fucking Christ.

JOHN SLATTERY (as himself)

“I'll do it, “, I said, “but there better be money attached to this project”

[Jimmy Fallon enters]

JOHN SLATTERY

There he is!

The man of the hour.

JIMMY FALLON

This is—probably going to take longer than an hour, I'm betting.

JOHN SLATTERY

Come, sit.

[He sits at the had of a long table]

JIHN SLATTERY (CONT'D)

I don't know what you did, you fucking idiot, but you did it.

JIMMY FALLON

Tell me what I did again.

CUT TO:

[unseen, on the opposite side of the room]

Oh shit, that's him;

Are you sure?

No, that's Patrick.

WhT's the difference?!

[Like, an entire generational gap of innuendos and pop culture reference.]

JOHN SLATTERY

Your presence is appreciated.

This meeting is now officially in session.

{Enter The Multiverse: LEGENDS}

[the festival project

What is this? Is this Scotch?

No! It's apple cider vinegar!

Does the trick.

I heard you were a Method-ist.

No, apparently I'm “the medicine man”

It's nearly team

But feels like night

Nearly forgot what this was like

Too many sunny days, no friends

Wasted yesterday latent,

Impatient creative

Heavy workload

But you know the rules

Overcast clouds say stay,

It's a workday

Every day is a work day

But it ll seems worthless

Almost, Amazon, Ten dollars

Cold, corrupt and almost

Out of water

I should be smarter than to call the code

I should be smarter then to call him over

Going nowhere but up

Calling a number, four

Number four

The hypnotists wish lists

What happens at number ten

Calling a number up

Four days of water left

I should have left him as

The protagonists, of supporting roles

Now number one is number four

And number four is often gone

The storyline and plot is

Two, three— too heavy.

Three-two-three

Walk away

310, cam the number

Hollywood is calling,

New York has hospitality, though

One, two—

Walk away

Three, four

catch the code

Hollywood, turn around

New York's got hospitality, though

How's Tokyo sound when November rolls around

How's Paris now, that were Marlboros on parliament

How it all come down

Then it all comes down

To the three two one

Four's nowhere, now

I had woken up with an overall feeling that something was wrong—I had overshot my 3 AM target time by 6 hours, realizing of course that I was a day ahead, and that the construction—more drilling and hammering, was out on hold thanks to an apparent oncoming rain, which hadn't come yet— my wavering mental state was apparent in the mess I had left in my room, clothes strewn across the floor and atop the bed, but at least otherwise clean—I had slept dressed, or at least half dressed, a protection stone lodged in my bra, as the necklace I had worn for my son had become somewhat damaged in some way—it was no longer protective, but had somehow defected; probably in the way that his father bearing over him, allowed the stone some sort of portal to be able to invade my dreams with nightmarish hauntings, and I instead opted to keep the necklace aafelu tucked away, until I would be able to give it to him as I had planned. But still, it seemed that the intention of his father was to ruin my life, and see to it so that I may never do well enough to visit my son, and it seemed no matter how hard I tried

I would not miss the band.

(A magician's hands)

I've been watching TV

i doubled back, low battery

In battery park,

I could watch the sun rising

I'm so full of worry

Of money

I wonder

What for, is my worth

Kelly Clarkson was the cutest thing ever—and sung so freely like a bird like I wished that I could—I remember breaking down in my car after just missing the cut off for entering her show, back in LA—more than likely over the fact that I would be missing a paycheck, rather than missing the show anyway— and I had almost thought to cancel my tickets for the View, had I not been lured by the blue hues of both their outfits—and though I hadn't meant particularly to be associated with the color blue at all, most people associated my name with the color anyway, as I hadn't intended.

Nothing was really intended, it had just happened. Whoopie Goldberg's fabulous denim cape forced me to wonder what I might wear the next day, had I decided to actually go—the colors of my closet mostly black and quite drab, and the denim dress I had acquired as a cleaning person the year before becoming a tired go-to when I needed to look nice. I almost wanted to wear my new Michael Kors stilettos, but was saving them for an actual party, an interview somewhere classy, or worse—my first date—as the anniversary of my cellibacy drew closer by the minute, and my need to continue my reproduction however with someone more fitting began to be the most harrowing thing on my mind, beside possibly returning to a homeless shelter, which I would not allow to happen. My exit strategy was simple, actually—in that if given an eviction notice for whatever reason—my neighbors seemed particularly afflicted as my former boss and lovers, roommates, and others I had become close to in this strange and seemingly cursed world with that thing I could only call a demon, since I didn't know what it was, and I was afraid they'd continue to report smoke coming from my apartment, although now I had been forced to switch to a diffuser with essential oils, taking a chunk out of what I considered my severance pay from The House of Illumination, which had indeed lived up to its namesake—the lesson had been quick, in that working for such a man, whoever he was or at least pretending to be, had taken me off my path, and had begun to dishevel my personal energy so much so that I had actually dropped my wallet—it had been so long since making such a mistake that I knew indeed that something was wrong, however, but needed the money so badly that it didn't matter—and besides, nothing could be so horrible as was my mother sometimes, growing up—and I had given Natural all that he needed to hurt me in telling the story of my own weight loss journey.

Telling, and in return, Natrual was showing that I had given the world the perfect excuse to continue trying to kill me—that perhaps, my time had passed anyway.

Kelly Clarkson looked incredible—the last I had seen, she was pleasantly plump, but never bad looking—now, she was. Incredibly veluptumous, and as she stated that she stood at merely 5'3, I was suprised once again that all of the TV people looked either taller or shorter on camera, and wondered what I might look like— I was almost stuck thin about 4 days into a water fast, but appeared and felt large otherwise, and most recently had been more tired and fatigued that ever, outraged that I had been dismissed from my only income in months over nothing, and that the income from anything else I was doing would simply not come at all if I could never wrap my mind around even trying to have it be seen by the right minds, with the right eyes, at the right time—and yet there was another force of evil, seeming always to stop me from the essence of true creation—this thing which had taken away my musical expression almost entirely by now, my sensibility wavering and all of my slayed projects, stagnant.

I was craving oats, and had even pre-prepared some, blending them in my magic bullet so that they would be easier to digest—and since Natural had made the suggestion that my BMI was to blame for my lack of focus and attention to detail, it had more been the combination of losing my wallet, having to deal with the public transit, constantly being reminded that Tula, a light skinned African was the music industry's new it-girl, and of course, that my son, now 7, was morbidly obese, probably somewhere discarded like junk under a cloud of cigarette smoke, head deep in a video game and surrounded by idiots—and that no matter how hard I tried to make the money to see him, something awful would happen so that I couldn't, and it became clear that his father's story—whereas I had simply and for no reason “lost my mind” and had abandoned my child, was the story he had told to all those around him, who believed him—that I was the villain in his story, and my son the tool he used to create a sympathetic picture of a loving and struggling father, though now he might have actually been trying, the damage was done; he had sent my son away unable to care for him to my mother, and in the time he was given alone, of course, created another child—all of which of course I wanted, in hopes that the one he had chosen for his new family would have some sort of love an appreciation for my own son, enough to have created a step mother, but alas, was some underwhelming someone with nothing to offer but her own struggle—and I wanted nothing to do but to be gone from this drama, however my own blood had been caught up in it enough so that I could feel it, knowing that at just 7, my son was as sick as I once was, depressed and miserable as the child of a narcicist becomes once the damage is done.

I was only eating blended foods, and had become obsessed with being stick thin—celebrity fit, which is how I had found the video at all, my love of Whoopi Goldberg and Kelly Clarkson creating a quick draw, a star studded combination I could not resist, though I wasn't resisting much—I had drifted back into the realms of television and film, my first loves—or rather, my first conscious endeavor, as I had been attracted to the piano from a toddler and learned to play around three, therein my is being my first love, however with a mother like mine and a life like ours, there truly never was one thing I could ever just ‘do', as anything I loved would soon be subjected to be taken away for some reason or another, whether it was a messy room, or just a mood swing—whether or not I wanted to watch lifetime and be best friends, even after a day of being yelled at and scolded for one reason or another—as my mother often seemed to forget ever being cruel after being so, often saying “I would never…” to whatever she had done, a narcissist's mark, in denying actions and words that had only ever been witnessed between the other party and God.

I had blended the ancient seed oat bend into a porridge with agave and sautéed apples and pears with cinnamon, and though I felt awful eating more than once, was struggling enough with this bout of depression which working at Temple of Illumination so briefly had caused that it didn't matter at all—coffee was simply not enough, and my Amazon package which would deliver my vitamin supplements and whatever else I had ordered—things I had gotten into the habit of pocketing at the Whole Foods market during my homelessness, but in trying to recover from the spiritually twisted and evil place the homeless system had put me through, I had, with all my might, been insistent on purchasing everything I had needed—and even though it was indeed wrong of the white supremacists movement to have been true health and nutrition almost unattainable to the common workforce, my food stamps never enough to actually supplement a full month of food—whole food veganism which would allow me to train for at least an hour a day to sustain clean energy, and of course, water in order to stay hydrated in doing so — I was getting better at keeping what I needed in stock, but almost always needed to run to a food bank at least once a week, hoping that I would collect there things I actually could eat, rather than processed junk my body no longer saw as food at all.

I peeled a mandarin into the watered down oats mixture and was worried that the dried cranberries I would pour over the top would be too much sugar, but I almost didn't care; I was on the verge of tears, and some evil, penetrating force had been altering my sleep patterns, my heartbeat, and my dreams—there was some group of motorcyclists who for months had been circling at any given time, and though some might have been able to ignore the roaring and awful vibrations of such, I could not—these motorists seemed to rip through my heart and up my spine like a serrated knife, a gesture that indeed noted that it was some evil or devilish, demonic force, as when in relax and meditation I often pondered with his, these striking forces would come, often creating a wave of fear, anxiety, and worry—terrorism, by definition, and disturbance of the peace, it was—but nobody seemed to care that it was pain for me, in fact, the more I began to wonder what or why it was, the more it became clear that this was intention to hurt or kill me, whether by an organization of some sort, or simply the force of evil itself against the divine I had become, not with intention at all, but in seeking my own freedom from such a world as cruel and unjust as I had come.

My neighbors had lodged an impressive amount of complaints against me for smudging—and it was 36 complaints before I had even been made aware that my neighbors were trying to get rid of me; not once had a note been left on my door, or had I been approached by them In the hallway to ask that I not use smudge—then again, sometimes as whites were, they were more concerned about themselves and their dogs than whatever might have been the cause of such heavy saging occurring—the motorcycles at all hours tearing through my heart, the slamming doors, the sound of their televisions or voices penetrating through my walls— the unwelcoming energy which at all times I was surrounded by, and though I loved New York, 3 stories above the ground floor and on the border of queens was simply not far enough away from the Godlessness of the cursed and usually dark others, whom could not understand the conciousness I had drawn from the long fasts, prayers, and summonings I had done in order to free myself from the force that had done away with me to begin with—my deep love for the man with whom I had fathered my sons, and a daughter, the two of the three were gone, though I had seen so that if I had not lost my daughter and my son, I would probably still be with their father, in attempting to give them a family—another poor, single, black woman and mother, I was now willing to be to my son, but was not; I had forgiven his father, however, it seemed some sort of curse he had done in my departure was still in effect, the demons he had called onto me not called off—and even in the reflection of my own self and flaws upon entetering such a relationship—the other things had been inherited from him; the homelessness, the toxicity and mismanagement of energy—however, my lack of control over time, I realized early on, had been inherited from my mother, who was more like my ex husband and her own abusive father than I ever was.

I wanted bread, but could not dare;

J[r was 6 ft tall, and for some reason, that bothered me more than anything else I had learned about him, for some bizzarre reason almost suddenly obsessed with the public figure, though at first the dollar project had been more of a game than the actual idea, and the festival project itself was at all but a halt, as I wanted and needed desperately to comb through my documents at once, but could never seem to— the metaphors of Natural's Basement drawing upon me as I realized that perhaps, I was too emotional about its contents to properly sort through them—atop this concern, was the concern that my body, though fitting quite nicely into an extra extra small pair of racer lined jockey style workout leggings, was still too large to be though of as ideal—ideal, which for a man 6 feet apparently was, according to Ali and the others, and though I had pretty much always hated Fallon from early on, always breaking fourth wall and blowing my mind coming from such a strong theatre background that someone like that could have ever been awarded a coveted spot on such a legendary show, it had been gathered somewhere that his audition was flawless, however—his second audition, according to Tina Fey, who I loved, maybe even more after learning that she had been given such a unique name, and had won almost every award I could possibly think to covet, although however much a writer I was, an actor and comic I was not, in that I had given up my own craft years before being fat or being black was ever in style—and now that it was, I had no reason to believe that at 31, while Tyla was 22, as was Billie Ellish, I had any business in even trying to make it in entertainment— I began preparing to die almost as readily as ever, deciding upon eviction, rather than fighting it and returning to the intake shelter in the Bronx to start the process again, I would simply jump either off my own building, hoping 12 stories would be enough to actually cause death, rather than just parilization, or find my way to the end of the platform at which the train moved most quickly in preparation to stop at the station, which I had nicknamed “the Jumping Point”—also the name of a pop up dance music club I had summoned up once, actually thinking that something, something at all would bring me close enough to success to actually become the dance music tycoon and entrepreneur that I wanted, however—as my hair again grew into a shoveled mess atop my skull, only hidden by a hit which the view wouldn't allow as an audience member, the only thing which might have kept me from going at all, besides my lack of knowing what to wear or just the daunting crises of having no money at all almost a shameful mark across my face— my nails for nearly a year undone, and of course— everything I knew that needed to be done, almost stuck and unable to move forward, my divorce papers included, another mark of the devil, as I had already done the paperwork 3 times, spending atrocious amounts of money in the process, of course, for all of them to be sent back, for some reason or another, and the case to still be opened without being shut—and at least it was opened…

As tears began to well up into my eyeballs, in thinking perhaps I truly was cursed, that the law was for whatever reason on all of my abuser's sides, and that I was doomed to become lost in this endless cycle of loss and pain for some reason or another, that became the task at hand—to, for what was either the third or fourth actual time, file for divorce, and to be rid of my abuser for good, the fate of my son at the crossroads of my wealth, or even better yet, at the very least securing a job, where I was no longer haunted by the massive work I had done on the festival project, or by, as I had once been, followed by some Jimmy Fallon doppleganger— an experience I had nearly forgotten.

However, as I reflected upon all of the jobs I had in the years I was homeless, they all had one thing in common—horrible bosses, doppelgängers of people I loved or had written about—and toxic working conditions, in addition to extremely low wages and unconscious coworkers, with the exception of few, whom I kept in my heart and still loved—did I love Jimmy Fallon? As a fan, or an admirer of his portfolio, his presence to me simply only existing in clips and montages from the confines of my memory of all that I could draw from him—an impossible suitor, I found myself to be more in admiration and awe of his work as a comic, a host, his apparent professionalism and stage presence, all of which none surrounding him could doubted and which had given birth to my own re-entry into screenwriting anything besides enter the multiverse/and yet I wondered//what for, besides as to stand as a perfect example of what would and could draw the masses and stand as an acceptable and inexplicable mark for perfection—a television personality, all of which stood to be hidden in such, a person, none whom could ever know behind the likes of such, a camera, an audience, and the propagation of the ideas and words of the media would want to portray in such programming as to remain in control in one way or another, of the audience's minds, and therefore, the viewers hearts, and souls—commanding a presence within the collective consciousness, dependent of course on said viewer's own ability to draw from those things, what was actually being said and done.

That, in itself, was The Illuminati in its process.

Alright, so—a Jimmy Fallon is an extremely powerful magician, right?

Obviously.

So he must have talismans, somewhere, then—right?

Yeah, I guess, but—

I certainly wasn't willing to look.

Look, I already know what he likes.

Geez, how long have you had his eyes?

Long time.

I'm gonna get in so much trouble.

You are trouble.

What is the point of this redaction ?

It's just acting! It's just acting!

Look, whatever I just did with Fallon, just put him in The Winner's Circle, okay? I'll never see that dude again.

Thank God it's over.

Synesthesia Attack!

AHHHHHHHHH.

Well, sorry Jimmy—

Thank your parents;

They're geniuses.

Stay away from me, your crazy bitch!

Okay. ‍♀️

FUCK! There it is again!

What?!

Too deep, too deep!

This is deep, boss—

I don't know what I just read.

Medicine man

Would you give me a hand with this

I need some medicine quick

(Cause I can't with this)

Medicine man

Need a can of some laugher

I heard that's the medicine

Medicine man

Medicine man

could you give me a

Hand with this man

It's just damages

I need some aspirin

But imm

I'm better off dead

Than over the counter

It's just damages

Something like that

Rip Minnie ripperton

I knew you were gone

But not that gone

Not gone like that

I just had to know,

Now I'm 9 years old

But I can't do the math

Not at all,

Not at all

I'm so over it, actually

My goals are abandoned

I can't trust the man in the television

I haven't remembered an image this

Disasterous since

It was my family picture

Without me in it!

Damn!

Fuck,

Now I gotta finish this whole maya rudolph timeline this shit just keeps getting deeper and deeper.

Hey. You.

What the fuck, man.

Come here.

No!

Yes, Maya! Yes!

Mm. Vanilla ice cream is sounding

Like

The best.

Just plain, regular—

Just “vanilla”

Just vanilla bean—ice cream.

Uh.

Uh.

Woah

Where the fuck are we

Where the hell are we

Where are we GOING

Woah,

What does the man with the van do

Domino sugar

Kellogg

When you get off the

All the good days are gone

And I've sent you on right back

But I will still love you

I was just thinking of that thing

You never said

But I will still love you

When you get off the ground level

Just for a minute and

Find yourself a revolving door

Only to find

That the world revolves around you

And if all the world's a stage,

Then all the world is full of actors

And all the trains are out of order

And all the walk is out of water

You're just another

Meant to suffer

So you did again

And you did this again

And you did it

On camera

Cause if you asked,

Then they would have said no anyway

And if it was a hall pass

I wouldn't have been as flattered

To have

Never

Even left the apartment

I asked for something new

And what do you know

How does God do,

On the day of the dead

Cause

That's where I went

Every chair costs and thing,

You know

Every couch costs a fortune

And you would have been

On the couch, still

Cause you can't get a job

With the punches he dealt you

Who designed 111 Murray?

I see what you're on about

All out of automotive

Misery and mystical mistresses

Misdirection, misrepresentations and.

—mister you're into some sinister shit,

But I pictured it different

Consider it rhythm your interest is simmering in

Glistening instances dancing as angels in my headaches

Dressed as construction workers

Any difference it makes it's latent,

Simple

Listen into signals intercepting into intermission

Admissions of omissions and redactions

Oh to be your forever

The Masterful mystic is at it again

Fly Peter Pan, Fly!

Go Jimmy-O, Go!

Get Carson, Get!

Alright, this dude has the coolest job in the world.

Nice.

He must have died.

(With a lisp)

He's on ice cream.

What.

Yep.

Yesth.

Watch out

It's the bad touch

With the good guy

And a late night

On a long couch

Try the dad jokes

And the slap stick

That's a good job

And a big dick

Oops

What a career,

For a carrier pigeon

[You can't be serious with this, esh]

This cant be infinite, is it?

But it is

Forget to explain it all

Over the ante, that

Oh God,

For the sake of the art

Dear God, Nancy—

You're the luckiest lady alive

The guy

The dimples

The eyes

The life

The style

The slide

Can I die, yet?

Can I just lay down and cry yet?

I might,

It's way after midnight

I like the sound of a bullet touch

A stolen cheek

The subtle rush of a

Sudden fling

The market price

Of a custom ring,

The song I wrote

Or the poems you sing

So please don't leave the TV

On

You're sleeping with a blonde

I've got my mind on dying mine bright as

The title

1985 to idol eyes

On American idol

Calm the cold down

Stalk the mirror

Here and here

Both clear and near

Is here and Bearr,

But everywhere else is just—

Suicidal.

(I don't want your dick, I just want your job.)

Now,

Call Carson up

Says

The curse in reverse

Is

Osmosis Joneing

To watch this show

Not to know you

Go home

Or go figure

Go gold

If the goal was just Taylor

Then I'll see you later

Amen

Don't forget to pray away the day

You've just created

Hand to mouth

Here's a heavenly house

And the mouse just shaking

Take down the stairs

It's starting to scare me

The dare

On the heron, heroin

Heroine mare for the Mayor

Okay, here's the player

The game is

This disfigured imbicile,

Ignorant Indians

Indifferent indegenous

Genius, without a friend

Or penis,

Without a name of

Species to befriend

In pieces

Once again,

I said

I loved him

So it makes sense if it is

A glimpse at the pictures

A get together with friends

A spectacular special,

And get this

Creative intelligence

Intellect, individual inception

Attention deficit and

Genetic attraction

Damn,

That's a handsome man

Now, how can I have that?

The Title—

The title of show

As if

That demographic

Would laugh

At a black man

I must be

Cause trust me

My pants don't come in

Half sizes

It must be a sign from the heavens

I've just had my time done with and over

It's done

Suddenly, I was angry…

Don't eat in bed.

Don't tell me what to do.

(I really don't like eating in bed…)

Fuck it, it's too late.

Not at myself, not at Jimmy Fallon— but angry.

The astonishing part about it was,

I didn't even know why.

Well, first of all, I just sat through an hour and a half special, and I have realized that I am not a fan of this guy.

No?

No.

I like his face.

Huh.

He's the right body type.

Wait.

Good hair.

Uh huh.

Long, weird nostrils.

What.

That is a nice nose.

Yeah. It's aviary.

I get that.

And—

Wait.

What is it?

Was I just—

I was a very sad, very fat very broken 18-year-old girl.

Oh great, this again.

Always this.

A married man. How could you?

I couldn't! Didn't I made that clear!

What. He seems happy.

Yeah, on TV.

He looks fine

That's his job.

—and goddammit, he's good at it?

—and goddammit, he's good at it!

14 Faces, Lewis Del Mar

Okay, it's pretty safe to say that is not just one guy.

-Su.

Come on, Jim.

Why?! What?! I can't! My parents!

These are not your parents!

What?! What do you mean?!

I'll explain later—

—what?! Look!

That's my mom—

And that's my dad!

That is not correct.

Oh, I get it—

What. What happened.

So he's like—

An old soul, right?

Kind of.

Yes.

Not that old.

Old, though.

Suddenly, the anger turned to sadness, and tears welled up in my eyes—

No, don't you dare shed a tear over that man.

What are you?

Once, an obedient lap dog,

Now poised and poached over me,

A gargoyle, though picturesque and statuesque

As if drawn from an angel,

The guardian of the night,

Who watches over my heart,

Calms the raging rivers of my wishes,

Set boats to my dreams,

Blows wind to my sail,

A bassinet of hope

Really dog, Jimmy Fallon?

I don't know. I don't know.

It was too late, I was already in love—

But at a safe enough distance that it had become, in its own way, a guardianship of sorts—and it had run deep enough cut, but not scar, and even perhaps bumped up enough against my heart to bruise, but not be broken; I would have to let it run its course, and as it would, I would for show go everywhere I could within that realm; I simply could not be trusted, in my own mind, not to bond with such that had found me in the dreamworld. In the spiritual realms of such remained only as hidden as they each had been, out of sight, but ne'er out of touch, or out of mind. A strange but hearty love, a burden, as were the others—and so I knew it was good, but mine alone, left to wilt, withered and weathered as the time drew on.

A quilted touch, a wandering whisper

To glassy eyes and hunted hearts

A crossbow, arrows sigh and wonder

The target marked, a sign of stone

Bewildered, the beast of burden

Fury, upon the alter

Aware, agape, agahst

Above you,

Wallowing in holy grave and matrimony

Sermon psalm, clary sage

Simple words,

Semper, the sound

I suffer not to know you;

A kindness

Dog's paw atop a stolen mantle

Pray you, I

Hear now, this;

To love is but a service

I shall keep to own a desire,

So shed upon the willow, to weep

Forgiveness, over ye

Cherished gentleman

DAMN. Who the FUCK are you.

Wordless warrior,

Come now,

The hour of desire strikes with night

And hallow tide,

The idol,

Set to barrow,

Barron wonder—

Seek now your truth;

I give not one but two

Of all you prey,

Of Ayer, amber,

Silver, set upon a stone

Casket of crowns, preach thee

Pray you I, gathered now

These in here,

We are above,

That is also below you

I'm gonna need some time with you.

Great. Now I have to be perfect.

So be perfect then.

Fine.

Great wind,

Fall upon us;

So sweet with will that I,

Ye, a mere stone, might stand

What.

Jimmy Fallon?!

I…

Yeah!

‍♀️

DEADMAU5

It's okay. I can handle it.

Rachel dratch and her counterpart, the cat woman from 30 rock, along with Elizabeth Taylor are all looking for orangey, the immortal superstar movie cat, in order to restore the time continuum, and return to their proper respective dimensions.

I got pro hoes from soho

Bohemian low blow

Colombian blowouts, and

Smoke to stroke rolled gold

Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. ©

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

“How Patty Met Kandi”

A flashback episode,season 1

Veronica Moises is an extremely attractive young starlett, known in entertainment for her sexually aggressive attitude, especially towards men of power–after turning her down, Veronica fires back from being rejected by planting a seed in Katie's mind, suggesting that she ‘the camera man caught us” and urgent her to check the tapes–however, without the audio, as the microphones were off, Catherine mistakes Veronica and Patrick's gestures as infidelity, and after Patrick returns home, Catherine, in a wine-fueled and drunken rage, ejects Patrick from their home, and as he is captured upon the townhome's doorstep, stil scolded by Katherine (Catherine?) *check notes*,

Well, he does call her Katie, right?

Right.

So it must have been Katherina

It was actually Katherina, and was changed to Katherine

But couldn't Katherine have changed, then, to Catherine?

DOES IT MATTER?

YES. She's a very important character, we almost actually can sympathize with this person.

For WHAT? She's listed as an antagonist in the first season.

SECONDARY Antagonist, cause that other lady.

Who, Karen?

Her name isn't Karen, she's just A Karen…

What is her name?

Idk.

And how does Esha go from receptionist–

Secretary.

Whatever. How did this bitch go from working at Starbucks to hosting her own Television series.

Since when did she work at Starbucks?!

I don't know! I haven't written that part, yet!

FUCK

FUCK.

FUCK!

I thought for sure Goldberg would pull us out of this.

Doctor Goldberg! Doctor Goldberg!

WHAT! I'm BUSY.

My Proctor…

What, Ishii?

You must see…

Fuck.

Fuck. If i write this I'm dead.

Take my hand–

Fuck that.

If I don't write this, i'm dead.

FFUCK!

Two F's on that.

It's a sharp fuck

FUCK.

Then what's that?

That's a hard fuck.

What's the difference?

FUCK, man!

*shrugs*

Somethin'.

Episode Summary:

–Patrick's daughter watches in awe from the bottom window of their townhome, though she is supposed to be sleeping, more than likely the cause of his spiral than actually being thrown out of his home–the eyes of his daughter watching he and Katherine

Are we sticking with Katherina, then?

Katherine.

Whatever, yeah.

Alright. Fine.

–argue sets him off into his own drunken rampage, as he rents an opulent suite and for the first time in his life, hires a companion to accompany his drug-fueled backhanded

google , synonyms for revenge….

Requital or Retribution?

I like Requital, but let's see what best suits Patrick's rampage.

This dude is a bleeding heart.

Or half of one, at best.

We like Patrick.

No, we love Patrick.

Everyone does.

Too close for comfort,

And too far to talk

I fed my soul instead of burning my body for once

A luck of the draw,

A call of the cards,

Is the ace of wands

It's Wednesday,

But feels like Sunday

Run, would you, offhand for someone

Not only do I not qualify, but

Alright, I have no alibi.

I lied.

I died that night.

Finally, a truce.

What would you like, Ivy?

Hmm

Buy me a motorcycle.

A motorcycle, really?

Yes, i'd like that.

Really? What kind?

A fast one! like – A kawasaki.

OWW–

Shut up, Frank.

Alright.

WHo the FUCK is FRANK.

Yo, I fucked hobo Johnson in a bathroom stall at some festival in my dream once, and that guy was like an adonis.

You what.

But let's be fair, i've fucked deadmau5 way more times both sleeping and in my waking life, than anybody–and that includes the father of my children.

Explain to me this part.

Which part.

Alright, i'm calling it off.

THe engagement?

No, the stipulations surrounding the engagement.

WHO'S DRIVING THIS?

IT'S IN AUTOPILOT.

Sir, i've lost control.

That's what you think.

PATRICK:

KATIE, WAIT.

KATHERINE:

KATHERINA?

NO, it'S KATHERINE.

PERIOT.

BEFORE:

WHOOPI GOLDBERG

I'm a “mimick”

Not with those hands, she isn't!

How many talismans is that?

Looks like

FACTS:

That's a magician!

Good cover, though.

WOAH, WOAH, WOAH.

Not yet, Joe. Not yet.

“The New YOrkisode”

CUT BACK TO: [THE TV PEOPLE]

PATRICK:

KATIE! WAIT–

[KATHERINE slams the door]

PATRICK (CONT'D)

KATIE!

[KATHERINE CONTINUES YELLING FROM THE PARLOR (UPSTAIRS WINDOW)]

Lol that is some New York-y shit–

Yelling out the window

Yeah, if you're in a neighborhood that doesn't have bars on the window

Or like–

This fancy ass shit, right here

Yeah, my luxury apartment with paper thin walls and paper mache exterior made so cost effectively that the traffic alone gives me whatever disgusting trash disease is plaguing the rest of this city's inhabitants.

[I haven't made my bed for like 3 days straight and my room is not clean. This is bizarre to me, besides the fact that I'm basically still writing as if I might actually find gainful employment with this–

Creativity, is it?

I'm pretty sure at this point, it's just divinity, all of which will be

[SKYROCKETED TO LITERAL FAME BY MEANS OF A VERY IMAGINARY, METAPHORICAL KITE]

Devastating to kill myself without seeing any of this stuff actually published.

HOW DO I EMBED MY SUICIDE LETTER ONTO MY WEBPAGE.

Excuse me.

IS THAT INCLUDED IN MY FREE TRIAL?!

ELOHIM

Oh, my God.

Which Elohim? The singer or–

GOD ALMIGHTY

AH, MY GOD.

Tell the one about the wedding ring.

*lols infinitely*

KATHERINE:

Your kids are sleeping. Try not to wake them up!

PATRICK:

They're our kids…

KATHERINE:

That's what you think…

Technically, this line doesn't make sense, and Katherine is simply trying to be flippant, however, she does, as often so, get the last words–as Patrick spots his eldest (read: favorite) child, poking her head out from below, where however her mother cannot see her, but Patrick can, and is clearly made ashamed of his presence, locked out and on the doorstep of his own home, leaving afterward in a calm and disgraced rage, as not to further disturb his daughter; this initial occurrence can, at the very least for the audience be seen as Hazel's reason for such obstinate aggression and rebellion towards her mother, especially as the series progresses.

Patrick then lashes out against Veronica, ultimately swearing to have her blacklisted from the entertainment industry, to which her egotistic response only allows Patrick's more deviant shadow to become awakened, his response something along the lines of…

Wait, what was that conversation?

Something like

PATRICK

You'll never work in this town again.

VERONICA

Well, lucky for me, I'm more fond of the Hollywood life.

PATRICK

You think my reach doesn't extend across the country since its on the only arm that hasn't been up your ass?

yeah , something like that–but i've got classic deadmau5 on trying to soothe my way into filling out my divorce papers for hopefuly the last time–but we'll see how far I get– and I'll be lucky to be divorced before being stuck in that bullshit causes a forfiture to my own life by suicide–but i'd be damned if everything I'd ever written automatically belonged by half to my only living son's father, and perhaps I had become the devil and the only real villain if it meant being so selfish as such that I would rather leave my son nothing at all in the event of my death, than have anything more I'd created end up in his father's clutches. I would rather die alone than return to the hands by which I died and crumbled.

Patrick's an asshole.

Yes. But not a wifebeater.

Correct.

‘Tis true.

Shall we?

We shall.

“The Oldest Souls In New York”

Now, Go:

I don't have a heart, I have a fist, and a gun

I don't have the dirt,

But a shovel and a bird

I don't have to look but once, to know

Two times, twice,

Three times,

It's done

My soul is older,

But I want to know you,

Sit on your show

Just across from this

Donovan, dove

or Jack Doughnogy,

Lick me a doughnut

So awful, my last action

Is Jack Canon

On James Cameron

And

Poor little Nancy

Who never was

Poverty stricken at all

Or a poet

The blow was so low below the belt

I had hoped not to bury the hatchet

or merry the knot

or tie the astronaut to the dog,

Click, click motherfucker

I'm onto all of you

Hello,

You ugly motherfucker

I'm an ugly motherfucker

Getting older by the moment

SENATOR

Hello, is this Fallon?

No, this is Patick.

Strawberry Patches and management

Haven't you had enough of the good stuff?

A starburst, Ali, is all that I wanted
All you wanted was done

All i wanted was

Aliocha back

Now Alidoja runs ghost;

If i put this all out, it's a pulitzer,

Tony,

And Oscar

All in the same award show

Another old and lost broken soul in New York

I love God

But fuck money

I lost a lot more than one,

Just a dollar

MANAGER

I got you an interview on Fallon.

SUNNI BLU

I'm not doin' Fallon. That dude is weird.

MANAGER

You're doing it. IT's PR for your next album.

SUNNI BLU

Whateva.

MANAGER

By the way–Have you picked a title yet?

SUNNI BLU

Yeah, I'm The President.

MANAGER

No, I mean–for the album.

SUNNI BLU

Oh yeah. It's NIGGAZ.

MANAGER (kind of afraid)

–Where?!

SUNNI BLU

Oh yeah, my friends are comin over later, too. Hehe. you racist basta'd.

MANAGER

I mean wait. What?

SUNNI BLU

That's the album title: It's NIGGAZ.

MANAGER

You chose the name

SUNNI BLU

Watch it…

MANAGER

(using heavy quotes)

Hold on, i got something in my throat that's almost vomit,

But i'm gonna ball it up into a love note or poetic whatever or something so i don't hurl

All you are is a punching bag,

and a bullet wound waiting to happen

I'm at least half of a man,

If I dress up in drag,

Despise all I can't have

And wind up cleaning bathrooms

Rather than wining and dining

Drying the eyes that I cried for you

Some ungodly reason, if it's

Some Unholy war that got us

All up in shambles

Your name upon Dollars

I'm closing my curtains

Curtailing my words rather carefully

Looking in mirrors, aware of you

Beware of this woman

Aware of the wolf

If the world that you wanted

Was so far from what's wanted

I might as well jump

From the stop sign

I bought

At the Art walk.

That should do it.

Man, fuck Jimmy Fallon.

I can't! My hands are tied!

That's – not what I meant.

FOOTBALL (EN ESPANOL)

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL

GOAT:

I'm Skrillex.

lol celebrities.

Everyone is perfect, and huge

Well, the women are tiny

But also some are huge–

And still tiny.

But more on the atrocious expectations of man later

And why my God apparently fucking hates me so much

That my body might not ever see the sun.

What in the fuck does Skrillex even DO on the red carpet?

Isn't that dude like 4'11?

Does he just show up and have to look up at everybody, like

“Hey”

Or do they run it like elementary school,

Shortest to tallest

ok:

Sonny, you go first

Then all the pop stars and disney kids…

Wait, those are the same people

Hold up.

There's only like 20 names on the A list

And like 5 of them Rotate.

What's that like?

Nobody remembers you

like 5 seconds after your first Grammy–

I guess that's like “15 minutes”

Or Nobody can ever forget you,

Cause you're Billie Ellish,

Or Taylor Swift,

And literally every other grammy award ever made is like

Made specifically, just for you.

What's that like?

What's that world?

Meanwhile i'm over here wondering what the fuck kind of favor Jimmy Fallon put in with the Heavens

To get this many entries in The Festival Project™

(Almost as much as Skrillex)

Almost,

But not

FUck dude, I just want to try that trifruit jam I made on the organic sourdough bread I have, but I haven't been to the gym today– and I'm teetering on rest day, or just getting it in super hard until I still die of sexual starvation anyway, cause–

How the fuck do you be that tall anyway?

What the fuck is “5'11?”

WHY are you that TALL?

WHAT do you DO up there?

What are you doing up there?!

WHAT'S up there to SEE.

Meanwhile, i'm like

5'7 masquerading as 5'4

Cause, you know–

Skrillex.

Meanwhile,

I'm reading Russell Brand's Booky Wookie

And it might as well just be

Every male celebrity's bookie wookie

Cause who wouldn't go out and et the maximum amount of pussy with like

Umpteen million fucking dollars?!

Am i right, or am I just

DYing of celibacy?

“Jimmy Fallon's Alibi”

And other short stories

By

Story Lord

As Told By

CCS Stone

“The Scribe of all Times”

They say you had a show today at 14th street.

Couldn't have been me!

I was out—

Uh—

Sick.

Can't find him anywhere.

He's gone.

GONE.

Look, I'm just gonna

Hover here, for a second.

Goddammit, Jimmy Fallon!

Fallon, you idiot.

Come with me.

No:

Don't say that.

I need new interns!

Why!

Make sure they're—

Like— guys.

(Guys being guys)

Ugh. Okay. Look—

Just make them—

Like—more mature?

Smarter?

I don't know

{older guys being older guys)

Ugh.

You're losing at this.

I know. I can feel it.

WHERES JIMMY FALLON

I DKNT MNOW

JUST KILL HIM.

Look, he's probably.

Found him.

Are you sure?

What tipped you off?

The horribly awesome bad Australian accent

Fuck this nigga up.

WHERE IS IT

AND WE'RE ON IN 5…

Mfuck man. I don't know how the fuck to be Iimmy Fallon!

(Yes you do)

Just—

Do an impression!

Of WHO

Of Jimmy Fallon!

Uhhhhhhhh—-

I'm so fucking dead for this.

Can it, would you.

OKOKOKIHATETHISFUCKINGPIECEOFSHITJOB—

CHAOSMAGICK.

Aww. I love your mom.

She's awesome.

Here's some snacks.

Awww.

Yay. Moms.

Yay.

She's awesome.

Sometimes.

But uhh—who's your dad.

*ploof*

PILLOW FIIIIIIIIGHTTTT!

*shoots with a tranq dart*

Nice.

Ahahaha… *drinks harder*

Haha…

*falls onto bean bag chair, sleeps*

…hasaahhh.

Holy shit.

Okay idk what the fuck—

This can't be accurate, or anything, is it?

It is…it's…extremely accurate.