If it was, it was at least a good one— I was scared, at first, upon seeing what I had thought to be perhaps a package robbery—but was actually just a slit through the package—a clean slice, more specifically, through the bubble wrapped [Redacted] package, however, its contents still inside; The package had been left underneath another—which didn't belong to me, and though I had been cornered by security more than once at the [Redacted] market, for putting my nutritional needs above that of my morality—or rather, thought my morlity to exclude guilt from the nessecities, especially as I often pondered upon the elite had kept the lower classes in a devolved state by controlling the price of wellness, so much so that it had become impractical for the common being. I had never even thought to swipe someone else's mail—a personal foul, and at least in turn in that matter to all respect with karma, had never had any packages stolen, either—not that I had lived indoors long enough to have warranted that I was safe from what sometimes seemed like the non-human animals, especially of New York City, who crawled about the lower realms littering and taking up precious time, space, and energy—the almost less-than-common man, but still, actually and unfortunately—common, especially in New York.
The Sage sticks and palo santo I had ordered were still intact, entirely— to my surprise, and I wondered what else my package might have included, without remembering such.
I had become enfuriated with [Redacted], after realizing that there had been hidden charges and unrecognizable fees, on my credit card, of all the places—the Capital One credit card, with sky high interest rates and robotic customer service drones—who I mostly would hate talking to— and it seemed as though the [Redacted] algorithm had become just as predatory as the rest of them—as uncivilized as the trash-dropping, coughing subhumans that plagued the post-pandemic world, if there was such a thing. The overcrowded mess and overall pollution of the city at whole at best made it still acceptable to wear masks in public, to which I took full advantage of doing, as needed—which was as often as possible, actually, if not to hide the curiosities, and of course, the objections to whatever it would be on the train that sparked distaste—worst yet, I might even smile, and reveal my gap-tooth, only acceptable on Hurley models and Madonna, of course—either of whom I wished I was.
It was 3:16 AM, and a long lost song found its way into my head as I fettered the words into the document, multitasking a “modest” breakfast as I mulled over the day, most of which I had spent attempting peace and solitude, neither of which actually even seemed attainable in my 3rd floor “office”, being so careful not to consider anything home or a comfort, for the fear that whatever Death curse someone had thought to m destroy me with once would extend into all the years and all the realms of my presence— it was true, as I explained to my aunt, that the people around me had within the last few years turned into demonic and vampiric advocates of what seemed to be the devil itself, were I even holy enough to be considered sacred in such a way that the devil may be chasing me—and I was, in some ways, but not in others—my ability to aggrandize my judgements and flex my morality where needed, but less when wanted as it stood true that I never actually enjoyed immorality—I hated living in a world where one would be made to steal, and made to lie, in order to survive. But that, for 30 years is where I had lived; in, for the most part, an evil world, ruled by man, as he denied and tortured all things that would be thought to be God—in his thirst for whatever it was that had waged a world of war.
It seemed as though someone were sending a message, and it had been years since I had felt safe or comfortable anywhere, anyway—so I thought it best not to care, knowing that all in all, that the intentional hurt and harm done to me by any man, or any entity otherwise, would prove to l invoke the karmic justice law unto itself; that whatever pain I experienced would be amplified by its giver, and reflected back—that anyone who intended to hurt or kill me—would only hurt or kill themselves in doing so.
At the very least, I was inspired to continue writing the script which I had drifted from entirely—its contents and its driver too mad to be palpable, however—as sometimes this kind of magic did occur in flashes at random, with vivid visions as if I were watching—or even living inside of the scene itself, spoke volumes that it should—or would, whether I wanted it or not, be written eventually.
‘Man, fuck Jimmy Fallon.'
I knew nothing of the man at all besides his name and occupation, and that something had plastered him permanently into my mind with some kind of irreparable cement I could not seem to break lose or free from—and it was going to stay that way. The entirety of the festival project and all I had been prompted to have written had become a massive headache.
I have a massive headache.
Perhaps it was more multidimensionally attributed to the fact that I had been fawning over affordable razorblazes—I had been almost salivating at the thought of bleeding from my wrists—a constant pressure from the lack of things I wanted and needed piling up at my doorstep, my overdue bills, and the harrowing and what seemed like
A maniacle attack on my sanity, not actually practitioned by my abuser, but probably more likely the government, masquerading as such to plot and plan around various secret expirimentation, which would of course within the century become common knowledge, but as for such time we're simply conspiracies, perhaps to hide the shameful loss which was the war being fought with technology—which the dumbing down and brainwashing of millions had left us at an extreme risk, and those were were not at risk, with extreme bias against that which they had no ability or interest to understand.
Unremarkably so, I was still astonished that something did indeed seem to have happened—something that was not in my head at all, but rather, very much outside of it—and it was beginning to occur to me that perhaps others had gained an interest in what indeed seemed to be attacking me, for years, by then, with fear, humiliation, and detriment—to which I could only ever think to fight with white magic; there was a controlled chaos to what seemed like my being at a wits end, which I was, but also wasn't—for the most part, at least in public, I could take even the most outrageous offenses poignantly and tactfully, however sometimes realizing that—in Keisha having left her sunglasses behind, she had also left with them a little bit of Harlem—
The mindless drone controlled robots often stepped directly into my path, as if being driven by some force which was meant to annoy or some other way terrorize me—however, I had grown accustomed to new York's overall rudeness, and had become almost socially inept..speaking of
Just—socially unacceptable.
The white devil appeared as a fucked up
And I was so fed up-to-here
That I didn't even care what happened if I —
Damn, Mrs. Soprano, you look rough.
Are you sure that's not just
You gotta rub me the right way!
I been too strong, for too long
And I can't be without you baby!
My Serato's been acting horrible.
Tommy looked what I would learn to be like a be exact replica of 1988 Tom Cruise.
The 1987 Tom Cruise* is murdered by Supacree's jealous stalker, in a fit of rage, which spirals all known aliases and timelines into a terrible and chaotic nightmare, as
I'm just being honest, I don't know how to write this.
It's missing; I broke it.
Oh, I see what you mean, now.
Yeah, that guy is different.
The orb. It has chosen you.
Who the fuck are these creatures—?!
Man, fuck with your bullshit—.
Everything's on a grid system!
Wait, what are you doing?
A rifle, actually, more specifically—
What—why—what are you gonna do with that thing?
And you, if you don't get out—
Ah shit, this is getting serious:
It s seriously like dick-deep in pussy in here right now.
This is MINE. I own this:
Oh, this is what they mean by “ecstatic dance”
Actually, my feet are just coldX…
Wait, hold on. Before you go off on a tangent about— mm—
I don't know what that is.
Look, I wanted that to be Dillon's baby so bad—
Oh, baby, there's only one way you could ever do that.
Please explain to us what's happening in this movie.
Cause there can only be one Tom Cruise one
Because Tom cruise is Tom Cruise.
That's WHY, this happened.
Oh wait, that still works.
What?! You fucked that guy too?!
Well yeah, we're like—astronauts.
How did you get this all in your loft?
AHAHAHSJSJHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Wherereere in my miiiiiiiiind.
Fuck I gotta buy that album….again
[Beyoncé is not yet back with the coffee.]
Crazy in love— also Beyonce?
FUCK YOU, DILLON FRANCIS.
DEADMAU5 IS A WAY BETTER CONTROLLER
Where the fuck is that lady from?
[ANNE HATHAWAY dabbed tf out.]
That sucks! We gotta get her back in that princess movie before everything dies and we all collapse!
Which princess movie is it?!
She's like all the princesses!
KEKE PALMER will be playing the PRINCESS from princess and the frog
Put the princess—IN—the frog!
PUT DILLON FRANCIS, BACK IN THE OVEN.
AAAAANNNNNNNNNNKKKKKKHHHH
[a giant Ankh falls from the sky]
That cannot be a good sign.
Wizardrddd! What is this game?!
I dunno, but I just keep playing it.
This shit says ballsacks.
I don't get kids these days
Is that like, a good thing?
NEY-WHINNY-NEY-WHINNY-NEEEE
JOHNNY DEPP literally cannot speak.
Because he is not intoxicated.
lol someone help him, seriously.
All the DISNEY CHANNEL KIDS are WILD ‘N OUT
Look, the Nickelodeon Cult—
The Illuminati just called,
They want their stuff back.
FALLON, YOU FUCKING HACK.
oh, I'm a ‘hack' now that's—
Who's laughing?! You should be crying right about now.
I am crying, on the inside.
Oh no, this part of the series gets pretty—
You're in deep fucking shit;
[JIMMY FALLON sits calmly at his desk, he scoops some “sugar” into his coffee and stirs, seemingly emotionless.]
I wanna hold 'em like they do in Texas, please
Texas border patrol holding cell.
(In a stupid ass cowboy hat) m
Fold 'em, let 'em hit me, raise it, baby, stay with me (I love it)
“A little gambling is fun when you're with me”
What year was that anyway?
Idk. What year was any year before
Love game intuition, play the cards with spades to start
Okay. Fine. He wants to be Satan?
Yeah, but he's so fucking cute.
Supacree, what are you doing?
BRB, I'm gonna go fuck this lil ass [censored]
S/he does not fuck around, that guy.
And after he's been hooked, I'll play the one that's on his heart
I guess we'll just have to…
wait till they play it on the radio again… /
MIXTAPES. GETCHUR MIXTAPES.
La da da Dee da da duh duhhh
La da da Dee da daaaah da duuuuuum
Da da Dee da da da da dum
Okay, Google, let's see what you got.
Can't figure out this song. Looking for help
hey you guys remember that song from back in the day that went "la da dee da da da daaaa, la da dee da da da daaaaa, ah la da dee daaa da la daa dee daaa daa daa dee daa da daaa da daaaaa" i feel like it was on night at the roxbury maybe im wrong..
wtf is “night at the Roxbury”
Holy shit, you were on SNL in 1998?!
How the fuck old are you? Jesus Christ!
[but everyone's still mad as fuck at Jesus for eating all of the pizza]
THIS lady only shows up if I—
[instantly back asleep] —m—
The Illuminati's gonna kill us!
Disney is the Illuminati.
AVERT YOUR EYES, CHILDREN!
All sixteen pairs of them!
wtf who has that many kids
GARGLE, RIGHT NOW OR I'll wash your mouth with soap!
Shit, why are there so many guns in this shit?!
Skrillex is like, Cartel, or whatever.
And the Crips, probably, also—
Ferrel—like an animal that won't shut up, or something?
Will bite you—may be rabid—
How the fuck do you do the same movie— like— infinitely.
Recap: every will ferret*
EVERY WILL FERRELL MOVIE IS ULTIMATELY...
They're all the same movie!
After waking up in a hungover/still intoxicated rage, Anne Hathaway causes a showdown worthy of historical proportions, which concludes with her legendary “yeet” of a mysterious object of extra planetary origin—this initiates round two of the party which never should have happened, and almost never ended.
In another parallel cross dimension:
Irl JIMMY FALLON and Ū are imaginary friends; rather, Ū is a figment of JIMMY FALLON's imagination and vice-versa—this scene pays homage to Wilfred; they share stories with one another as they pass the bong/blunt in a solid back-to-back rotation, making the tragic stories they are telling almost hilarious, but only because they are so generously stoned.
So he like—“yeeted” your baby?
That's not supposed to happen.
*shaking head in stoniness*
Is—not—a cool power to have.
I wouldn't, that's in—coughs—sane.
It is insane: cover your mouth:
No you're not, I'm right here.
HOW DID YOU GET INTO MY OFFICE.
You did not. I walked in—like right behind you guys
He forgot to lock The Rock
You probably forgot, dude.
Just—*hits blunt* stop talking .
[there is a knock at the door]
[Jimmy Fallon is suddenly alone in his office, with a blunt in one hand and a bong in the other. The lights automatically shut off; the coffee maker brings brewing automatically—-three more knocks at the door.]
Is it day?! Is it night?!
It's been months, probably
But all we actually know about this time and place is that—
GIVE ME ANOTHER BEER, SOMEBODY. ANYBODY.
I'MMM BUZZZZZED LIGHTYEAR
BUUUUUUUZZXXXED LIGHTYEARR
THERES A SNAKE IN MY BOOT
Hot as Finneas O' Connell
Possible homosexual, but god love him
Fuck, I forgot Rosie O'Donnal!
I cant get no Satiafaftion— The Rolling Stones
What's wrong, Saint Jimmy?
Precious would like to see you.
The prince Lucius hasn't left his chamber in days—however, as his brother Percius has just returned from war, he quickly emerges from his resting place, an alter of sorts.
Damn, I'm getting a headache.
I almost never have headaches.
It was true, and of course, as I started to write about this prince and his so said brother, Lucius and Perseus, I was reminded once more of Athens, where I had just been however briefly, in a short astral trip of sorts, wandering about in the dreamworld, looking for something or someone in place of my pillow to hold.
Did you want to walk to Trader Joe's?
My muscles were sore and I had just spent some two hours in the gym, not on purpose but quite by accident, though only having run just under two miles, though at least uphill, and spending the rest of the time lifting—I had been bound to mostly beans and rice, and so however was bloated and gassy, quite slow and not as strong, my regular protein just out of reach…
Dang. I have so much to fucking so today.
I hadn't realized that somehow it was Saturday, although just a couple days before had been a Wednesday that felt like Sunday, and now again time was all out of sorts; it was a “holiday” weekend, and I was without a doubt, drowning in my own having-to-do's, and as such, weekends and days off were entirely not a thing, besides in ways that those bustled around me—and I was sure that some days had been lost, as I was planning to visit the food bank on Friday, but had somehow skipped over the end of the week entirely—somehow, that is, and I was sure sometimes that in skipping days, meditating and fasting about, however intermittently, that time itself shuffled in all the ways I had, between cross dimensions and parallels such as I—I had been hovering somewhere between the 6th and. 10th dimensions, for the most part, and none with having to understand the undoubted shifts in my own perception of time that were bound to happen, as I sprawled across the astral plains looking and searching for a sign that the tragic poverty, restlessness, and lack of peace wound end.
Bound to your alter, my dear brother?
So perhaps here there was another unfounded kingdom within the realm of Ascencia—Lucius, a prince, and Percius—seemingly slated the King, and yet I had unreached such a conclusion as to assimilate an entirely factionrd world, as of yet.
What did you write last night?
Something had shaken me from my almost-sleep, laying sprawled across my bed, in the middle of the mattress, rather than to either side, which was rare; I typically preferred the left side of the mattress, anyway, but as I waited to launder my bedding, after a sweaty and sweltering almost summer day of lounging, smothered in shea butter and lasidasicly scrawling about what recordings had been buried in my phone, between the collection of books I had practically all found in the streets of New York and the rising temperatures of the tepid summer weather, my room was starting to smell funny—and without being able to burn sage anymore, for fear of being thrown back into the streets like a dog, I with every hope in the world figured that washing my thick bedding, comforter included, would restore the crisp and rigid, almost factory clean that I found satisfactory.
Songs buzzed in and out of my head as if I hadn't enough already much to do—and still, I added into my growing pile of notes and mounds of work, even more songs—this time, The Rolling Stones.
God, I wish I could write something like that.
The rock Gods had at the very least been accompanying me, and in a certain sense, so had the Gods at The Rock;
I had been forced up out of my dormant state by a voice which urged me away from my near sleep—I had been up since six AM and it was something past midnight, and still the voice said—
And though I had words tinkering around in my head like little coins in some sort of metal box, none of them quite made so much since that I had to get up and write—however, still the voice, though not angry, but firm, insisted.
The voice, for once, sounded female— a welcome change, and though I had become quite fond of males in general, in the solemnly celibate sense, it was a difference and yet none at all— a voice of wisdom had projected itself at me, and as I dragged myself about, reaching for a notebook and flipping through the pages, finding that the notebook was practically full…
I held the words that had tinkered around in my mind like little whispers until I found a page to make them full formed, and the words which fell into my hand as scriptured by the pen—my favorite writing utensil, nearly out of its cherishable gel ink, danced upon the page nearly on its own, channeling the words written as such:
Glisten whispers of water
So flew with feathered Phoenix
Was the velvet woven path of us,
So honored in her fortress .
Yeah, something about Rockefeller plaza.
Well there were all these hooded figures in like weird, brown velvet robes—
You know, there's a lot more to this story.
I was hoping so, but however also, hoping not.
Man, Jimmy fallon's wife is super hot.
There was something else?
What the fuck is wrong with that guy?
The pages of the notebook were all full, something of a book of shadows and protection spells I had used in an attempt to ward off my ex husband—how of course, that they were done with, I should very well have been jotting them into with all the notes, into the documents—later to burn them, unable to afford the parchment book I wanted.
For what a withered wa t would call and honor m for fortunes duty,
Glorified wherein in am shadows,
Cast upon reflections in redacted incantations and enchantments, foreword come, theone who waits
Believing darkness be his fate
If you really feel that way!
Man—I learned all this dumb ass magic just to protect myself from this guy, and all this still happens!
I'm staying single forever.
What the fuck. Stop looking at her:
Fuck dude, like, the worst thing imaginable is that this Jimmy Fallon dude actually hates me so much for this—
And is so fucking powerful.
He is. A very, very powerful.
Well, that's not doing much, is it?
Seriously, just kill yourself again.
Fuck, why do all these robot demons SMELL like him?
Seriously, God really loves Jimmy Fallon—
(He's one of my favorites.)
Damn. This is getting to be like Greek Theatre.
Great. Now everybody's gonna fucking die.
This has mad good production value.
I just did give my OWSLA tat a kiss
A master of the MagicIan's chance at
Can I run a mile for President?
I should apply for Harvard
Son of a bitch, this is tragic
I'm too old for scholarship
Diploma's in another name
I just got protective orders on
But the world war is another
My Amazon cart is full of karma
I think imm married to the music
Mommy dearest mommy dearest
Swapping Vogue for the People
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