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

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.

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.

Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

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

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

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?

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

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

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Loyalty,

Respect for the family

Honor to the matriarch,

And understanding of the father,

Whoever you are

Off of it,

For now, at least

A thoughtful subject

Willing to do anything and all

For the sake of the artform

Your hearts and your secrets are

Acknowledged,

I am honorable, trustworthy

And safe, you see

You really think I'd risk your reputation and put the future of my career in jeopardy?

I thought maybe—

Well, do me a favor—don't think at all

But especially of me

[The cream of the crop

Will rise to the top.]

All rise,

All I'm craving on Passover is

Things that rise up, like I oughtta

But I just bought a prescription

Full of omissions and admissions

A ticket to watch the policy reform

Or something,

I'm sure if imm watching closely I could

Probably find

I'm being brought up

And hung over board

Like I ought to be

I'm sorry,

But also bored,

Of him

And myself,

Sure there's a forward in my book for them all

Who wasn't there when I walked across the hall

To the commencement ceremony

Case adjourned or dismissed

As ridiculous as the algorithm its

As easy as it is just for

Forget it all, and move on from this

Polish up my trophies

I don't want a dog

Or no one to love me

Ever again

Honestly

Yo, dude, the truth is

I love music, Jews

And short stories

Whoever wrote em

Poems, and sure—

Your body's disgusting,

But beyond that,

You've had a fascinating personality

And fat ass

Since the very beginning

My friends, lovers and misterssses

All gallivant and rant about you

Give you attention

It's just another dick,

Another lesson

Another flatline, and after that

Was nothing

Where I went back to the dimension

Where I fear the electricity and cooking gas has no

Phantom,

It's actually random how bad it is,

The reverence for television

Another addiction

Or a magic trick

Another rabbit,

It comes and and it passes,

Thank god for that, though

I'd had it with him

Now, back to Patrick—

I like his attitude, actually

“Dammit”

Says Dillon Francis,

I was almost out of it,

Now I'm back in it again

“Yes” I said to him

“But differently”

This time,

I only pay attention to his

Filmography

Instead of his geography, genetics,

Latest releases and his girlfriend

Cause let's face it

I still hate that shady demon

But hey, I made the game up

So o guess you could say

I'm finally playing it

SUNNI BLŪ

Look at my dick!

I'm pitching a tent

Come sit on this!

Attention!

I'll pay you rent!

Let's get dinner!

Are you into this?

I got dentures!

Insurance on bitches

Suicide doors make you

Deathwish

If you do not get on my guest list!

(SYRUP)

Fuck man, I gotta get rid of this thing!

What is it?!

I don't know yet!

I got a hoe-y

Named Zoe

When my wifey ain't home

She come over and know me

Woah

Come over and blow me

Got another named Chloe

Don't know where my home is

Nope!

But I know how a hoe gets

Don't pick up the phone,

That's I no

I got problems

Just get her a Benz, yo

That makes more sense, bro

I'm coming down I got

Benzos all on my adderall

This isn't fun at all

I'm a superstar

I need a trip to the moon and back

For what.

I don't know.

There's something up there.

James cannon is an action hero line none other— and that's because there are so many of them, and yet

I'm James cannon

None of them look the same.

James cannon?

I'm-James Cannon,

Sir!

What is it?

I'm James cannon!

The complex collective is committed to serving the independent artist community by providing a safe and welcoming environment, performance opportunities, rehearsal spaces, and outlets in which they can grow, enhance their skills and master their craft, and create bonds with one another, by providing a community and protecting the mental health, promoting health, fitness, and wellbeing, while committing to improving the livelihoods of struggling artists by means of providing access to clean, organic nutrition, (The Starving Artist Foundation temporary emergency shelter and resources for battered women (Off The Map), and allowing safe, tech-free and low-tech spaces, chill out rooms, light and sound therapy during winter, and seasonal theatre productions, live showcases, and art exhibits and installations by at-risk, homeless, independent and full time artists committed to the passionate pursual of their unique dreams and goals, in every artistic endeavor imaginable.

The complex collective is open to writers, musicians, graphic and visual artists, filmmakers, fashion designers, spiritual enthusiasts, world travelers, and others seeking a safe space to bond, heal, and create through collaboration, exploration, and self improvement.

Created as a warehouse project based in Brooklyn New York, The Complex Collective as a non profit seeks to encompass a large warehouse space which will serve as a multi-use facility which includes a kitchen and food pantry, dance floor/event space, black box theatre, cafe/ small stage, fitness spaces (Yoga/Dance) Boxing Club, and media room designed to open the minds of artists to a bustling Mecca of creativity and opportunity. The space will be used to hold flea markets, host seminars, community meetings, and lectures, as well as provide an operational and practical multimedia space to screen films, stage plays, musicals, and other theatrical productions, as well as host musical events and artists, such as DJs and live bands, poetry readings, dance recitals and other community geared events.

You smell like a dental office.

Must be my oral fixations.

You look like you wear dentures.

Okay, really?

–But nice ones.

You're a dead man, Fallon.

Have you visited your algorithm lately?

I'm not afraid of you!

[the man shoots a member of his own team]

Now are you afraid?

I'm more, concerned, actually— worried, maybe.

You should probably be afraid.

What, “probably”?

Don't get smart with me, I'll end you.

I'm not smart, I'm funny.

Uh, okay?

And you're not gonna shoot me, you know why?

Who said I was gonna shoot you?

[a moment of tension arises, FALLON gulps nervously, but doesn't back down, keeping eye contact with his captor]

That was my friend. I shot him.

That was your friend? You have friends?!

I HAVE FRIENDS,

I have the FRIENDS spec!

I have the kind of friends you're gonna need, Fallon; cause what I'm gonna do to you—you're gonna wish I'd just shot ya.

Turns out when I make wishes—they come true.

Nice.

Alright, Fallon or Leno.

What.

You have to pick

It's not even—that's—

Come on!

Aaaaahhh— Leno.

WHAT.

YES.

DAMMIT.

Alright. Next:

Call on me, would ya?!

Fallon, Or Kimmel?

Whaaaaaaaaat.

Come on.

You gotta pick, man.

Jesus [expletive] Christ.

Kimmel.

Are you serious.

Yippie.

Alright.

Now.

[explotive] me, man.

Fallon or O'Brian.

Don't do this to me.

Oh, come on man.

It's a death match. You have to—

Alright, alright— fine—

You leave Fallon alone.

Fuck off, I do what I want.

It was supposed to have been different.

You should have thought about that, before wishing so hard to be on the television

Here's a visual of your simulation

Hatred, assimilation of the nations latest migration

A rampant attack on

American integrity

At least have some respect,

For the rest of us

You don't go to someone's house after basically being invited

Whatever, they more just stormed in like

WE ARE COMING IN HERE

And you're like

That's fine, just—

You can earn your keep, just don't

*THROWING TRASH*

*PLAYING ONNOXIOUS LOUD MUSIC*

*HAVING 90 disrespectful ass kids*

Okay, that's…

Okay.

It's fine, just don't

*BREAKS EVERYTHING*

*facepalm*

{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.

Okay, Jimmy Fallon

Okay, God—

Your Wikipedia just told me everything I needed to know.

You can thank my wife

I did. I read her page first.

And the Grammy award goes to..

*plz let it be me*

NOT. You

Wait…

I can…

I just realized

This goes in the COMEDY category.

Oh, fucking —SHIT.

This is fucked up.

This—is accurate.

Look, I've been praying a lot about this

I guess so much that

Jimmy

What's up.

I knew everything on your Wikipedia page about you before I even read it,

Which must mean—

OH FUCK. I've got to get out of here.

The Illuminati offered me like

1 million dollars to wreck your marriage

And I said no, but

I love you anyway—

And your family,

So—

Whatever,

Hope it works out.

There should be some crazy fine ass hoes and cumsluts on approach if that's like—

What you wanted, or whatever.

Please GOD—

Just make it STOP!

FUCK THIS JIMMY FALLON MOTHERFUCKER

JUST GET HIM WHATEVER THE FUCK HE WANTS

WHATEVER HE WANTS, just

GIVE IT TO HIM.

PLEASE.

Jesus CHRIST.

“Yeshua”

Huh.

What.

Oh, that shut you up, didn't it?

What happened?

Okay, so there's the impenetrable ten—

Alright alright

Apparently these 5 dudes

[5 GUYS]

I TOLD YOU IT WAS

SHH. Be quiet.

K

It's like

Breakfasts in bed stuff

And back rubs

And

Bathtubs

Long getaways on islands

Where

I'm sure nobody knows us

And I hope it holds up,

Cause I couldn't hold off

Somewhere I'm still homeless

And lost as I always was but

Hey,

That's music

Someone must be

Something somewhere

Something something

I'm sure of it,

I'm sure I was

— one of her muses?

Look, just use this for music.

Well, he…is amusing.

He's obnoxious.

This is a toxic relationship.

Do you want this?

Do you really want this again?

Right now all I want is some drugs

And a boyfriend who loves me

I don't do husbands

For nothing

My trust is all fucked up

And plus

GYM JIMMY FALLON

I don't do black girls.

I hate them.

Noted.

Anyway.

My times up.

Want this job?

Uhh?

[insert inflammatory drunkenly racist rant here]

Fuck this dude.

Okay, woah.

Okay—

See ya in New York.

WhT.

The Mafia is coming.

Don't you mean the mob?

Go…fuck yourself.

It—Woah. Okay.

T. Hanks

Here's a dollar.

Oh shit:

Tacos

$1

Lights on

I told you

It's gonna be a long night, hon.

You might want to run more

I don't though.

Alright, so just

Run for cover

Adjust,

And don't be so remarkable

As to summon up

Another God

To your Alter

So Justin Timberlake is your friend, huh

Oh those eyes

That's so—

Blinding

Well, that sucks, cause

Britney Spears is my best friend

And my worst nightmare

Like

Everything I wanted to

And should have been

Beautiful, scrawny,

Talented and gorgeous

And yet somehow also

Obnoxiously burdened

By so much being wanted

That now I'm just washed up

And wasted by sunup

To sundown

Now how's that sound?

H—inin..

Hi

See,

[Redacted]'s wife

Controls all our lives

His life and mine;

His for the better, however

And mine for the worse, I fear

For better or worse, they said

Year after year

For better or worse, they said

Year after year

I want a divorce, I said

I wouldn't hear it

The cycle of toxicity

Stops here with me

Hear ye!

Here ye!

Court is now in session

Hear ye

Here he

Ii hope you learned your lesson

Here he

Here

Designer children,

—Do you want this?

Here ye—

I hear ye!

—Your soulmate is Skrillex.

Well, just like the rest of them

The oceans of oceans of

Ocean eyed blondes

That I also love

But this shit gets haunting

Like mm—

(daunting)

Why would he

Or anybody

Want me?

This apprenticeship isn't going to be easy, you know…

Break her heart, Jim!

Alright, Jim-Boy—you got this.

It already is hard, on my heart.

That's what I've been trying to tell you—-

This—

Will require you to love with boundlessness, beyond limitation—- unconditionally, with no expectation.

I already hadn't any expectations regarding [Redacted] . Besides— he's married.

—No expectations whatsoever.

I've noticed your nonconformity and intention to mass appeal, actually.

I'm astonished, really.

I'm telling you, this is a dangerous man.

—my God, just beautiful.

A weaponized person, you see.

I do see.

Weaponized by beauty.

He's just beautiful.

Don't do anything I wouldn't do.

What wouldn't you do?

—What did you do, actually?

—What didn't we?

We share a middle name,

and so we share a middle ground, I think

I found—

Something I can't have,

But want

Distractions,

This one has it all.

Go that way!

It appears, however, though,

My focus is here, suddenly.

Why.

I don't know.

Are you in any way miserable, at all, sire?

(They're all miserable, when they get to me, actually.)

I need peace with this.

Dearly beloved,

We are dearly departed,

You started a war with my heart

Then put some water on it

Sons and daughters of the alter,

Father figures and celebrities,

We are gathered here today,

To finally rest in peace,

Posthumously

Amen

Amen.

You may be seated.

Father!

My child.

Please!

What is it?

Come quickly!

Oh shit, what the fuck.

Shhh! Not in the church!

It's not a real church! They're just Catholics.

SHHHH.

Come on:

What the fuck Jimmy Fallon is this.

You know, I've got them all gathered up here,

At your alter.

pew-pew-pew

Haha, get it.

Very funny, God

Look, you got this.

Not now, imagination.

I don't have time for this.

I gotta get rid of all this Jimmy Fallon before…

I'm gonna kill that kid.

Fuck, man.

Well, you started it—

You know we're at war, here,

We're at work here

With each other and ourselves

The Hell comes from

Stardust above us

Neither or nor

Forever or awkward

The charm that undoes,

Then

Comes up as

The Impossible

Sweet and sour

Patches and pick up,

Lick up your weapons,

And kick out your husbands, kids!

God the Judge has come

Once and for all,

To the pulpit

Will she kill herself again?

Or finally publish

[The Festival Project ™]

“The Fallon Files”

Is an extention of the infinite Skrillifiles, most notably due to its conjunction within the enter the multiverse and legends franchises, as the infinite multiverses begin to more consistently intersect eith one another, creating continuity within the plots of each series respectively, and collectively combining eventually into a singularity in which the fictional SKRILLEX and the fictitious JIMMY FALLON, both established as extremely gifted extraterrestrial shapeshifters, possibly even of some, if even distant relation, due to their shared aviary hereditary ancestry and notable presence in the shared collective consciousness pre existence, which extends throughout the duration of the Ascension series, and appearing within nearly every subsidiary in some way shape or form within each series, playing either protagonists, or sometimes even exaggerated antagonists, caricatures of each other or themselves, or sometimes even playing themselves, and therefore one another, creating a soft of chaotic confusion

Lol— I'm typing this with one finger cause I have a palm full of shea butter in my hand.

Lol.

—amongst the audience, and other characters—almost invariably and distinctly being as undetectably as possible, one another, at some point/- reflectively at any given time within the series.

Line?

Nothing, you're just a bird right now, actually, Jimmy.

—looking like Jimmy?

Yes, but

[Aviary behavior]

—but maybe “Skrillex?”

Up to you, actually.

[The Appraisal of the Shapeshifted Ascended Mastery, Transcended, INC. ]

And alternate titles…

The Jimmy Fallon Effect

The Unrequittance of Jimmy Fallon

The Jimmy Fallon Disaster

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

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

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

The shock put me into immediate overload, which caused me to power down my phone for the night, only reaching for it once sure It was something I had to write about, and certainly it was, as I hollowed out the nearly extinct cantaploupe in the kitchen sink, sure that I was doomed, after once again some satanic force had ended my only income, possessing my short lived employer with its usual antics—lovebombing, then hating me—and worse making me hate myself, so much so that in had retreated into none other than the likes of binge watching 30 Rock, which was at the very least almost a laugh, in the worst of moods, but at least somewhat high enough spirits, that I could cope—until, that is, I noticed, something particularly odd about Conan O'Brien during his cameo appearance—odd, meaning, surprising, at least, that is—as he seemed to stand a full head over Alec Baldwin, who I always thought seemed particularly large… and so, at best, curiosity began to kill the cat—and kill the cat it did.

Google, How Tall Is Conan O'Brien?

GOOGLE

He's 6'4

Oh, wow, that's ridi—

GOOGLE

—and [Redacted] is 6'.

OH.

Fuck.

Oops.

GOOGLE CON'D

I knew you were wondering.

FUCK.

Thanks alot Google.

I had been curious, but wouldn't dare ask, and it had been by complete and total accident that I had gandered at such an atrocity as to what I had already suspected—this [Redacted] person was and had always been, by the hands of God, and exquisitely perfect man.

Perfectly ideal, that is, no less of a comforting gesture, in that the sudden onset and rampant attraction which had flattened the collection of scene and stories written in, for and about [Redacted], into an atrocity of parables and incomprehensible anagrams, analogies, and allegories— no such a world I might belong to at all, for if [Redacted] was at all not the man that I had hoped, certainly also I was not the woman I had hoped in any way at all that there would be sense in any of it; The sunken hole in my stomach where my soul used to rest sunk heavily, a gesture which could only mean to move on, and write something else. Perhaps a scene which had been rolling around in my head for some weeks, so incomplete and with consistent interruption that I worked whether or not it could or should be written—but there it is again.

‘Fuck, now I know he has a huge dick'

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Ū/SUPACREE

You're a miserable son of a bitch, do you know that?

JIMMY FALLON/THE COSMIC AVENGER

I know that.

The aliases have been captured, and are handcuffed with their arms above their heads, back to back, as to keep them from using their powers to break free.

You're making me nervous.

It's not like I'm going to do anything.

Here, fishy.

Ooh.

Don't bite this. ⚠️

…

You're a shark,

I'm Chum in the water

No fat bitches

I must have scared you off

For certain

A Jack o lantern

A Jack of all trades

A mad hatter

An alchemist

Some

Scientific recollections

On

The theory of genetic attraction

It must be time to find a man

The chaos, destruction, and sadness had yet to turn to music yet but I was due at any moment to vanish without a trace into some realm where even the satanic and horrible masses that I had been tied down to could not find me, beyond that of the trolls in the parking lot adjacent to my window and the world below, I was sure that the motorcycles would bellow as I wallowed in my underwhelming polished apartment, which at least now felt somehow more like home after having to go out of it, and with all on pause as I waited to replace the cards from my wallet, seemingly long lost as I was from any hope that I might see my son again. The sadness refused to turn to music at all and instead welled up into tears in my eyes—it had been so long since I had lost something of importance that I knew something was of and wrong—making the judgement that my ex husband had tried to curse me with luck that was damaged, anytime I did well, met someone, or started to become happy without him— but, even if I was broke, I was happy without him, the only traces of him the broken and ugly battered people, racing around on motorcycles to over compensate, and of course, the women I wish I was, but could never be—his demons, also—the kind of woman he always wanted, but could never have—and of course— if there was ever a chance in hell at a perfect man, I would have to somehow become that.

I liked the Jimmy Fallon with the mullet the most.

Same.

He was the best,

Why are the rest of them like bald?

Idk.

Ishii is bald.

That's true, but, I think it was something like

Kind of in the same way Skrillex can shapeshift into anything but a regular traffic cone, Jimmy Fallon/The cosmic avenger can't clone himself—which is why he usually has like—-

No hair?!

No, it's like a weird, buzz cut or whatever

Yeah. So.

Wait.

If that's not Jimmy Fallon

Is it?

I don't know, fuck it.

311-18434268

OOOH—Fallon, you fucked up!

I didn't? I what?! I what?!

You—you know what you did.

I didn't do anything! It wasn't me!

IT WAS YOU. I KNOW YOU.

You—don't know anything.

You idiot, I know EVERYTHINT.

The jig is up!

Listen, I can explain!

No—no explaining, Jimmy Fallon!

YOU are NOT FUNNY.

I am—a comic.

YOU ARE NOT FUNNY.

I LAUGHED HARDER AT A SALAMANDAR THAN YOU.

[Salamander]

That's actually a

You know what?

That tiny fat Jimmy Fallon almost did it

Yeah, almost

Almost a laugh, eh?

Heeeh.

I mean, when it's bad, it's bad and—

Okay, I'm

Assault with a deadly weapon

Stalking

Psychological terrorism

And

My ex had a baby and nobody even told me about it

I thought that's what you wanted!

I wanted that exactly, but I wanted to at least be TOLD about it

This should do the trick

Do the trick

UGH.

THE SNEEPLEZ ARE COMING.

THE SNEEPLEZ ARE COMING

OK, what the FUCK are SNEEPLEZ?!

I don't know but

RUN

I just found out what a shmeckle was, and now i'm wondering exactly. How many of them is worth what.

don't look at me.

Okay, that kid is terrifying

Who, what—the kidd

Wait, go back, why is Fallon infinite all of a sudden.

Well, he was, and then…

DAMMIT.

What. This is your luck. Not mine. I didn't

PULL THE PLUG ON

I prepared tofu over the sautéed spinach and Brussels sprout kale medley I had made just the night before; I hadn't yet been to the gym, however, I would not go, until my Amazon package, containing the nutritional supplements and workout equipment I had ordered —falling just under a dollar short from being able to afford a new lifting pad—not evening having put together that the awful pain in my neck and shoulders might have come from my thinking that squat lifting two 45s with no protection, as I had seen some others do would do no harm—and although it had been days since I had had a ‘rest' day, it wasn't enough. According to Kylie Jenner, models often worked out 4-8 hours a day, like other athletes, and required to be 90 to 110 lbs—though I was far above age to even imagine a career as a model—I still at least wanted to become as small as possible.

First Saint James,

And now St Patrick's

It's a shame,

To play to the candid camera

I was framed, like Roger rabbit

I was blamed by bad, bad habits

It's a sister act, I tip my hat to the fans

And have none

My numbers dropped

As I scrambled at best to blame

For half of what I had yet

An internet presence

Past or present tense

The algorithm corrects

My Arcadian rhythm hasn't yet

I forget as I listen

To what always plays in the back of my head, anyway

A repetitive silence

He's got a good taste in girls,

Fascination with words,

and immortal preference for dismemberment

Embellishments

…

Interest in cryptocurrency

Where were you when I was a punk?

Either cuddled up to my mother;

Or curled up in a ball,

Trying to learn how to walk,

Just to run from her—

Or under something

Forgotten,

Had I not the lungs to call for someone to watch me

Or even a party,

A theology of sorts,

As I lost all the world's appeal

By the age of four,

When school started,

Probably

Maybe, even

The start of a fart,

Or the swirl of a thought,

Sail away,

I'm an unwelcome failure

I left [Redacted] alone,

On moral obligations, by admissions

A standard set for respect, besides my own transgressions

Expressions of love of man and animal,

Influx of output and perfectly capable of nonchalance, but not

Were the works and words of artform,

Demolished by cause of a hazard,

Wreaking havoc on lost God's

Prepare for the apocaplse,

Either by train, a fall, or by gun

Under all of the money

In The Galley

The housekeeper dremt of playing piano

But could not overcome the rotten body

The tree stump of a mother

Left to become nothing of Pocahontas

Or Pocatello

Either one, assumed of such

A potato

The moral of the story,

A new understudy

And Marlon Brando

Curiosity killed Johnny Depp

And what have you got to know

Other than to Zoom

Or assume that the hat is atop

Something or someone you want

But these star studded ones

Covered in lovers from dawn until dusk

Nothing wanted at all, besides love

Which could not be done by a man

To such a body

Summer Allfruit Jam

(Trfruit)

Come on, Jack, we don't have time for this!

I can't! I don't have any blocking for this scene!