The Secret Life Of Sunnï Blū

“The yard woman”

** cat food is approx $21/ month

My shrinking belly was almost gone; I would lose the excess quickly, with the new order of pre workout I was expecting to arrive—then, I could lay off of the MCT oils; within my limited budget, my diet still consisted of too many carbs, and I had become dependent on eating grains and high sugar to supplement with my protein. It had been a rough month, and even sort of a rough year—I wasn't sure yet what to call whatever I was in the process of, but I was in the process of something. I was becoming apathetic, but not yet stagnant— never m complacent and in the very least, not comfortable, which kept calm a sense of guilt which burned within, speaking of how no matter what, I must not deserve it—it being, a happy and fufling, love-filled life. Surely I was some sort of monster who deserved to be punished. The solitude was hardly that in New York City—surrounded play people in very corner and crevice, I never felt alone. At least I was guided by falls and doors which kept out the actual presence of others. I thought I might die having to actually be around someone I didn't like—and I realized, by now, that I really didn't like anyone—maybe not even myself, who I loved dearly, but mostly couldn't beat the thought of.

Cream cheese

Honey

Voters

Coconut shreds

Dried fruit

I work out.

Like, a lot.

So why do I feel so bad about everything I eat?

I keep my cash and cards in a coffee can.

I collect dust and random antiques.

I just wrote a film but it has no score—

Just the words to a song,

As time moves on

I just dry up.

Stock the pantry with collectibles;

The cat was coming, but nowhere as of yet to be found.

I had everything for him—assuming that it would be a he, and somehow I knew it would be, my companion, just a flutter of happiness with the thoughts of his arrival and presence, however—the calculation that it would take approximately $30 a month to feed him kept me in waiting, calculating that it would be better to first finish what I had started before welcoming anymore sources of dependency, which included my own blood. I was still struggling to find balance in my own torture, the grueling process of becoming a ‘wantable woman' of substance and culture, collecting books and of course, constructing a world in which I could both live and love—in peace, and with what work I had so far done, it had become incomprehensible how much further I would have to move in order to be in the next bracket up—still, how far I had come, with some sort of pride of it all, and yet, humble— down to nothing but coins and crumbs in a figurative sense, which felt more comfortable than any low sum at all. My value was intangible—now began the process of making it all somehow add up. I swallowed my heart with the thought of l a war waging upon those of us who had wandered from other worlds into where I now resided—wherever that was, far from anything I had known before. Such simple luxuries as a couch and a kitchen table had enabled me to double my productivity level to what had at first been beyond even my own imagination— it had seemed all at once to be somehow, some way—under control.

Somehow, someway.

I wondered if the Cheerios and milk I had ordered would allow me to feel somehow more human than I had; if the peanut butter and jelly would allow me to sit for long periods of time chipping away at my projects without the accompanying shame from the intrusive thoughts which sometimes haunted my world—though I had increased my cardio tenfold, I still struggled with the volume of my thighs and leg muscles, and though …

‘Okay, I work out a lot…'

I drifted, unable yet to dress myself— I wondered if I would be attacked at the gym again; it seemed as though last time I had visited the gym during daylight hours, a mob of slow moving, coughing, horribly smelling robot people had descended upon me just to ruin my mood and frame of mind. I had powered through it, but had sense felt impeded, then rearranging my schedule to work out in the middle of the night, and unable to rest knowing that another project had been delayed for months without any steady progression, had extended my working into the daylight hours. Something about the experience had almost traumatized me into a state of paralysis— I didn't mind certain people altogether, however, in large numbers I began to feel suffocated and trapped. I wondered it perhaps I had been attacked politically, having been under isolation and moving below the radar, mostly off the grid. My mind had been somehow altered—and I knew that I was being played with, but not in any way which seemed to be benefiting me… I could not relax for anything, and continued to drift in a faded haze.

I wonder what kind of mistake I made.

Could I be bought and sold again by rich and powerful and famous men at will?

Was there any sense in trying?

Will I ever be whole or loved again?

Will I ever be worth as much to men

As the idea of love is

To any of us

Would I consider to be moved

Into my womb,

A woman

Would I become someone as worth it

To hold, as she was born as

Move.

Here come the demons dressed as robots

To serve the darks ones

The omens come as closing doors

And words against my wonder

The omens come as closer racists

Reptiles and borders

The omens come as novels, rarely

Often more in word forms

I lost an army of one to belong to

I stopped the stroke of the genius's tongue

I could belong to a murderer, monster

And yet i'm a martyr for motions uncalled for

Sermons, sermons

Salvage the rest of it

Word form, will you

Williams and Thomases,

Roberts and Johns,

Marks and David's, groups of them

I put them all on the mothers for service

I put them all up on crosses for curses

Nonesuch as Martyrs

But murderers, cursers—

Nonsuch as martyrs,

But cursers and monsters

INT.

TIA AND TAMERA are bringing their families to LISA and REY's for a holiday weekend—however, after a falling out between the sisters, they have not spoken to one another, and have been invited home unbeknownst the other is coming.

Okay, let's see I've had…

The news is a relief

The chair shoudl slip

from under me

And I could fall

Like I fall

In love with you

After all

Is it too late to get the ice cream?

Maybe.

(Seems like a bad idea at first…)

Getting anything with Jimmy Fallon's face on it is a bad idea.

Seems like a good flavor.

Unless they have half baked In non-dairy

Seems like a flex.

I don't know what's actually wrong with me.

—Or anyone else, for that matter.

For the record, it was Patrick in the noose,

But it was as still disturbing to think of it

As any friend's fate,

At the hand of death

By their own doing

‘'

‘Minimum weight—

Minimum weight…'

I could counter the cheerios and peanut butter jelly on rye bread with more intense cardio than even I had been administering, but surely the lack of so much MCT oil would make a difference—certainly the fiber pills were working—something seeking like a nasty stomach bug actually put me at ease that through most the day much of what I'd had was liquid, or some combination of a liquid-solid. Three blended bananas split between two protein meal replacement shakes and water; now, a hearty salad, complete with pinto beans and couscous, and the mushroom broth soup I had decided that, of all the soups so far, was certainly my favorite.

I had burned almost 800 calories within my hour on the cycle—around 130 on the treadmill, and, without being able to count what I had burned during lifting, probably guessed they my short workout had totaled at about 1000 calories, in addition to the at minimum 1500 or so my body would burn just on its own doing nothing much— and without much else to add to it besides my protein shakes, coffee, the MCT oil and a couple of frozen bananas, I assumed that even with the soup and salad I was still within a safe enough calorie deficit so that I could focus, and would not shatter under the weight of eating like a normal person, or be prone to such tears that came with the bludgeoning thoughts of loneliness and not being “worthy” or “chosen”.

Shut up—

No laughing.

I never sold my soul.

Why am I being terrorized?

Because you didn't sell your soul.

I'd rather die

Than spend my life with you

Or people like you

I'd rather die tonight

Than write to fight you off

I don't want your love

Never before

Have I wanted

Anymore

Than to be forgotten

To fast forward

To a world

Where

…

{Enter The Multiverse}

[Festival Project.™]

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

I heard Robin Williams was here.

Very briefly, yes.

How did you do that?

TINA FEY

Do me next!

lol.

(That's not how this works.)

(lol.)

Season 9! Closer Notes: LEGENDS- ENTER THR MULTIVERSE: LEGENDS

The real Jimmy Fallon and the Actual Billie Ellish are trapped inside of each others bodies, along with their ascended counterparts, ancient alien mystics who, in search for a “missing link” extraterrestrial from a long forgotten cosmos, must search for

Dammit, how am I supposed to write that.

FUCK! I told you he was a magician!

—I TOLD you don't fuck with that guy!

I told you!

Fuuuuuck!

FUCK.

FUHCK.

Man, we're fucked.

We're so fucked.

Who's body is this?

Ah, wait.

Fuck.

Dammit…

Ughh.

Ugghhhhh.

Jim, could I see you for a moment.

Oh wait a second

[The Tonight Show, Starring Jimmy Fallon]

Oh—

Jim.

Is that who I am? I

Uh… I guess—?

I'm Jimmy Fallon?

…Sometimes.

Yeah. I'm Jimmy Fallon!

As far as I know.

We still have to figure out how this happened , [Liz]

How did you not know who I was?! We've met like 6 times!

I've met everyone 6 times! I'm mad famous! I'm a genius!

I'm a genius…

I fucking hate my life.

I want to die.

Ooh.

Could have been anything.

Whose body is THIS?

Just get in.

Just get in.

I—don't want to.

Oh, a body's about to open up. I gotta go.

—you're leaving now?!

Yeah, I gotta call you back.

This last minute?!

It's like a budget-fare-hopper thing.

But

*click*

lol I love how these aliens are using like

—like old times telephones.

You should see their existence. It's wild.

Why even use telephones as telepaths.

They're like relics.

I promise, I did not mean to hurt you.

—I promise, I hurt myself worse.

For the record, that little old Englishman that lives inside of

(Everyone)

—is something wrong with you.

A lot.

This body used to belong to “Tha Supacree?!” I LOVE that show.

What “show”

—tis a show.

It's a show on my home planet…

And what planet is this?

You will never know.

[Unfamous]

Ugh.

Now the magical negroes thing makes sense.

Have you seen the president of peacock?

Have you seen the president of my balls?

Have you seen the president?

What?

For real. She's missing.

Are you serio—

Yes.

You're secret service!

I'm just as disappointed as you are.

You're so fired.

I'm pretty sure only the president can do that.

THATS why they sent you.

That's it, yes!

TO BREAK MY HEART?

Cause it sings…

“CAUSE IT SINGS?!”

—it's supposed to…

Look, f-[censored]

Jesus Christ.

The only thing. you're gonna get from breaking my heart—is

[COMPLETELY INCOHERENT SCREAMO EMO ROCK MUSIC.]

lol I think I got my written WALKEN impression down.

—ACES.

What?

I got—

Goddammit.

Four—Aces.

Goddammit!!

Dammit! Who let him in?!

It's multidimensional poker. Nobody “let” him in.

—I just—

He just

VOILA!

Appears.

Dammit.

“Voila.”

Huh.

I wrote that ages ago,

Do you remember what it was about?

No.

Doesn't matter anyway, we're not gonna find it in here. Let's keep moving.

—

Supacree? No. I'm not supacree.

The

THIS IS THE BEST SHIW EVER.

I know, I love it.

We have to find the original supacree!

We must!

You are the supacree

The supacree

—no. I'm not.

But this body.

Yeah— I drove around in that body for a little while

Cause I had to

But that dimension ain't right

The whole world's gone wrong

Everyone's coughing, people are robots—

I got punched.

—I saw that.

I love your show.

Not my show. I'm not supacree.

But you are!!

But I'm not. Maybe I was, once—

But, that was at least two suicides ago!

WHAT.

Two suicides ago?!

Fuck this, imm out.

I thought you were obsessed with me.

No, Jimmy Fallon. I am you. And guess what; I'm the part of you, that hates myself, so.

The part that doesn't exist.

Oh. It exists. That's how we got here.

That's how we all got here.

We're all geniuses;

That is the singularity.

GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME—

Hey!

She's got a good arm.

That's cause it's

What the FUCK.

Get AOUT.

“Jack-Jack” Parr is a multidimensional poly form shapeshifter.

That doesn't seem like a coincidence, Disney,

I'm just saying.

“Book III: Puzzle Pieces”

AGH,

I—

HURT.

woah, okay. No.

If you ever actually ugly cry like that I'll kill you.

[very ugly cry]

(Eagerly seeking approval)

—it's funny cause it's just acting, right?

I—yeah—but, Jesus Christ…

GOD

If he actually ever ugly cries like that,

I'll shoot him.

[super-duper-very-ugly-cry]

GOOGLE

Oh my GOD.

SHUT UP!

[Shoots Jimmy Fallon *without looking up from cooking.]

DAMN, GOD.

—I hate that.

Oh,

Damn.

So that's how that happened.

Damn, God.

That was cold.

Don't worry.

He'll be back.

Damn.

He'll always be back.

MEANWHILE, on 30 ROCK in the actual multidimensional,

…Hornburger…!

Damn. So wait. Every since the fourth wall broke…

YO,

YO.

Oh, hey, Seth.

what in the [bleeeeeeep] is THIS?

This is my attorney.

Damn, even she's hot…

I'm suing you:

I'm honored.

Where's Jason Sudakis?

THAT'S RIGHT.

Ah shit.

I don't think about whips so much as chains

I tried to change,

But everyone hates me.

I hope it rains for the rest of the semester—

Talking only brings on motorcycles,

Slamming doors,

And awful robots.

I've got nothing for my son besides these songs.

Someone should just start a war on poverty.

I've got palms and novels, words galore—

But no money—

You can't hurt me

Johnny Carson's on the mornings

—and on varsity.

I lettered in Letterman;

I'll take Jack Parr,

Against my better senses,

Stick to Telivision,

This isn't Steve Allen;

I'm Steve Martin;

(Sure you are, hon)

Fallon's on the Dollar now;

If Regan was an Actor,

Then I guess—

Your session timed out.

Whatever.

I want to die.

[I'll wear a collar, now.]

[The Festival Project ™ ]

Lil bittttzxxx

I met a guy once, that told me

Every time he came,

He died.

Every time he fucking came,

He fucking died.

“Alright, next lifetime.”

Every single orgasm—

Different lifetime.

Every ejaculation—

New fucking shit.

Sometimes the bitch wasn't even the same.

He would just cum,

She turned into someone else.

Oh no!

I thought to myself like

“Fuck that shit. I couldn't imagine that.”

I couldn't even understand the concept—

But as I would learn later the word “orgasm” does in fact mean “tiny death”

Which is nuts.

I started to wonder

“Are all guys like that?”

That would explain things.

If they're all like that maybe that's why they seem to just—

*poof*

“All better now”

Only from a woman's perspective it's more like—

He turns into someone else.

No, I'm still the same—

Now he's over here like

“I'm a king”

I'm like

“Really? Before you were just a cashier.”

Hm. Look at that.

I'm a cash register.

lol.

But then, I started thinking more about it—

I've been celibate for a long time

But sometimes I still—

You know,

Whatever.

But I don't watch porn.

I just think it all up—

Just—

Use my imagination.

And after doing that for awhile,

Like, for years, I started to ponder on this:

With the age of OnlyFans and Snapchat and entire markets born from men needing something to look at to jack off too—

And deciding I was against doing that for myself because, you know

I didn't want the spiritual reciprocation of some dude collecting my photos and videos and jacking off to that shit.

Like, even if I got paid for it—

I'm going through all this spiritual shit ,

All this praying and meditation and I'm thinking

“Like no, if someone's like, buying all my content I'm some how some way going to feel that spiritually.”

“I'm going to have some kind of effect on my soul from that, and that's nonsense.”

That's like selling your soul in a way—

Like, yes, it's just photographs,

It's just your body—

But guess what.

Your soul lives in your body!

So— what!

Someone's jacking off to a picture or video of you in exchange for money—

That's a piece of you just —

Out there,

And you don't know who these guys are!

They're just guys with money!

Come to find out

Every time he ejaculates to your photo or video,

He goes into the next fucking life—

And takes your picture with him.

OH NOOOO.

So I'm like,

Fuck that.

Let's just—-

I don't need porn.

I'll just make something up,

Or like—

Hey,

I'll just-/

Fantasize a little bit.

But then I realized, also—

Like,

That could be dangerous.

What if I'm like—

Doin-the-do—

And someone from actual like real-life pops into my head.

Uh oh!

Then I was like,

“Damn, what if. Like. Whenever I came, like, whatever or whoever I came-to, just like—

Collapsed and shit”

I'm like,

“Ah—“

Some like supermodel from a magazine cover is like,

Just fucking drops.

Lol.

Just falls out, somewhere.

lol.

Oh no!

Now take like an outer look,

You porn addicts.

What if that happened to you?

What if whoever the fuck you're jacking off to just—

BLAM.

Lol.

Every time you cum—

Whoever you're thinking about just—

OH SHIT.

Someone help him!

Flat on their face.

Oh no.

What a world.

Jesus.

“Someone help him!””

Ahahaha.

Now I have to be careful.

I just make people up and hope to God there's no one on the planet that actually looks like that, who that might be.

I just make dudes up,

I'm like “I need a God”

lol

Create someone entirely just for this purpose,

Who then just—

OH SHIT.

vanishes.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project ™]

L E G E N D S

//return negative energy to sender

//return harmful energy to sender

//reflect pain to sender

>>banish demonic energy<<

//ground toxic energy.

><

-Ū.

Coming Up Next…

The Wonderful World of S Ū P A © R E E ™

Copyright 2024 The Complex Collective © | 2019 The Festival Project, Inc. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Chill out.

I'm not having a nervous breakdown.

I'm out of vitamins

And might be suffering from lamentation—

I'm not spending any money

And my whole life is backed up

I like, really need a hug

But all these broke dirty brown dudes

Remind me of my ex, so

No.

No thank you.

It's not a color, it's an energy.

You can be white and be brown—

—you can be black and be white.

You can be white and goddamned purple.

But if the vibe's not right,

And the smell is off.

I'm better off going it alone,

Until I put in enough work

To be impressive to somebody

That impresses me.

—what did you create today?

Vibe check.

The problem is,

I like guys

That everybody likes.

The Standard.

I dig creatives,

And well-groomed

Uppercut, upper class

Gentlemen

I like dudes who know how to dress themselves

Without it a woman

But still know how to respect them.

I like possessive guys

That are protective

Without getting angry—

All humanity granted,

I prefer silence to violence,

And getting a chance to be —

Nevermind.

I just like being alone—

But I need a hug

And I rub my own sore muscles

But it's not the same.

I want to die,

But not because I'm sick

Because the world is,

And I just realized,

That that shit is contagious.

I don't feel good.

I'm not having a nervous breakdown.

I'm out of vitamins and fruit and vegetables.

I guess you could beat my face in if you wanted to—

But don't blame me for talking to much,

When I shut up

Just to get rid of motorcycles

That I was made to think

Were all in my head

But as it turns out

Are very much real,

Very much loud,

Very much illegal,

Very much abusive

And very much toxic.

You can go ahead and beat my face in—

—but at least let me finish eating lunch first

Just in case my jaw cracks,

Like last time

And I can't chew anything

Or my tongue is too swollen to swallow.

—just let me finish lunch first.

Just—

Leave me alone.

I'd leave New York if I had the money to.

The only places I want to work won't hire me.

Being a DJ is like being a building in New York.

(They're everywhere and if you throw a rock, you'll probably hit one.)

The terrorists on my block ride motorcycles.

Nobody stops them or seems to care besides me,

They tend to attack when I'm trying to rest.

Maybe I shouldn't rest.

Maybe I should just die instead.

I am, after all—

Kind of useless.

I am—

After all—

Kind of worthless.

I am, after all,

Not skinny, or pretty

Not seeing anybody in my league as

Attractive at all

And therefore

Must be

Purposeless.

I'm not having a nervous breakdown,

I'm out of nutrition.

I'm not a gold digger,

Because if I were,

I wouldn't be so picky with looks.

I don't care about money so much as creativity and emotional maturity.

I'm not having a nervous breakdown,

I'm out of vitamins.

—what did you create today?

“Whatever, man”

I had half a mind to move the alter into my studio and force myself to fall back asleep, complicit with the fact that I was two days away from spinach and whatever other vitamins I was lacking. I was so tired and sore, and had run out of multivitamins days ago. Maybe this was the lasting effect of ever having taken vitamins and then stopping, and it seemed a cruel gesture to do anything but soak, knowing over all I should walk away from the world entirely. It was beginning to feel a lot like there was no escape from the constant and persistent ask to the universe for peace, protection, and wealth—and no end to the work that had been done, but had yielded not much to prosper.

I think that's the point though, so that you second guess your own judgement—

That your intrinsic sense of energy

Seems to have betrayed you

And leaves you somewhat altered.

I could have sworn she had blue eyes.

She did.

Maybe they change.

That much?!

Who knows. Maybe.

One must only be bitten by a dog one good time to learn that dogs can be dangerous—and yet— I had been bitten by the blue eyed many a times and still had somehow found my way into forgiveness, if not for my own sake.

Maybe she was wearing contacts.

I used to.

I had been thinking about investing in new colored contacts to make my eyes appear lighter, and a blonde wig to soften up the dark tan I had gotten unintentionally going about in the summer—still thought, it had been a long summer of not doing anything but going to the food bank, writing, and spinning in circles about how to make money. Long bouts of trying to shut out my old life from my new one, pushing my divorce, and becoming separated entirely from anything once having to do with my name at all. Within reason, I had suffered considerably over nothing, and despite my efforts, there seemed there was nothing I could do to find gains in my own creativity. There was only seeking and never really finding, the things I needed but none of the things I wanted. Everything I owned had been once owned by someone else, besides the few items I should have not even considered my own, but belonging to the world almost as much as I had. I was tired, consistently grief stricken, and felt unwelcome entirely by the entire world—or at least—an entire generation of people that were my own, but had learned not to respect what I had become— broke, and in turn, broken.

Sometimes I want to cry like Marcy D'Arcy in the 6th season of Married With Children.

I only smile when I see the color yellow and then dream of him,

Seeking nothing but solace

At the concourse, we converse momentarily

And then go our separate ways

Forever and always

Forever and always

Your secrets

I smell like dirt

And arrived in the real world

Covered in blood

And scraped over the,

Over the knees,

Yes I did

Come recover then,

What you've lost from the world

Born in chaos, not quite

But almost, as we're once swarmed the waters

Lee it better quiet, now

Keep it better quiet now,

Keep it better quiet now, your secrets

There lies no tru loyalty to bands tied

On middle fingers

Besides to one's own self

And they who they shall

Desire and claim as another

Extention of God,

In her

Or their arms

There is no claim to faith or mercy

Than what comes between us,

Bombshells

As argued in chaos

—mother, you're not listening

To the call of the wild

Then now,

How am i bound to that besides being

In sanctity

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective. ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

I gotta go watch bad girls club, just to find that comedian that looks straight like a Boov.

I was almost entirely sure they had to have based that animated cartoon off of that guy.

I knew what i was looking at, I just couldn't think of the name.

I took one look at that dude and thought.

“Oh dude, you must be a comedian.”

You couldn't be anything else.

…maybe a writer.

__

On that note.

JLo is literally the most beautiful person ive ever seen in my life–

Like, up close.

You would think its just camera magic, and all that.

No. Its the truth.

She really looks like that.

I used to do background work;

You know, like a paid audience

I hated it, but it was work.

I fucking hated it.

Those studios are always cold,

Effin freezing.

They pay you to fake smile,

fake cheer,

Fake laugh–

Applause.

I thought I was going to clap my hands off.

So I took this job not knowing what it was–

Usually it's that way.

They don't tell you what it is, because

some failing, out-of-work actors

are also super fans:

Imagine that.

And they're going to go tell all their friends about it,

And it's a conflict of interest,

yada -yada–

But also, there are people there who PAY to see the show,

Cause they're like die-hard fans;

And you're not supposed to ruin it for them, or whatever–

So the whole thing is just

Altogether a bad job.

But anyway,

I take this job,

And the highlight, I guess, of this particular job,

Is that I get to be front and center

To Jennifer Lopez, who I find out,

Is a judge on this show–

“Highlight” meaning

“Just kill me.”

I'm like all the other out-of-work actors

In this paid audience gig, like,

“JLO” was what I was initially aiming for

With my career;

This is where I am.

So I'm like

‘Oh lord here it goes',

And they bring her out–

Cause you know,

She's like an actual,

Like a great-big star,

They have to ‘bring her out'

and in all my life I could not have guessed

That her face–

Is actually her face.

I'm astonished.

She just looks like that.

Great scott.

Everybody talks about JLo

And the whole damn thing about JLo

Is always her butt,

But i'm not worried about that–

that's chump change,

Because this is Hollywood, California

On some fucking backlot somewhere

And I can't get over the fact

That she might be the only celebrity

To look like herself,

In person.

I became a fan that day.

Not particularly of JLo–

But her parents.

Genetics is real.

How in the fuck do you look like that?

You're like 106!

I'm mad as hell at my parents, and they did *alright*.

But the older I realize, and the less time I have,

I have realized, I give a fuck about selective breeding.

At this point, i'm like,

“shit , i could have been alright without the trauma and homogonized corn syrup packed into everything and shoved down my throat!”

I could have done without that.

That did not sit well with me,

Or in my gut.

But now, i'm thinking about my future kids like,

“yo...I got no business wasting my time with these scraggly ass motherfuckers…”

“...no more broke motherfuckers…”

“No more lazy, sleeping through the alarm ten times, always whining motherfuckers…”

I have to think about the dynamics of the world having become so visual that it will highly impact the livelihood of my children if they don't look right.

Facts.

I might adopt some ugly ass kids.

–but i'm not gonna be responsible for supplying them!

I will not be held liable for manufacturing the motherfuckers!

I'll raise them, and know, having grown up ugly myself, I can teach them to cope with their shortcomings.

I will know from experience how to handle the world with less love and satisfaction than your average barbie or ken doll. Yes.

Don't get me wrong. My parents did *alright*

They were some good looking people.

In real life.

But the fact is, that good looking people, with bad fucking habits–

Often lead to ugliness

That doesn't always mean you got a fucked up face.

No.

A bad environment can fuck up your thought processes,

your vibrational patterns,

your frequency–

Long before you're even well aware of yourself at all

Of what ‘ugly' is.

All that toxic shit–

that

drinking

And partying

And carrying on and

Smoking too much with the windows rolled all the way up

All that

Not paying so much attention when you needed to

or

Relying on your child for emotional support

From the early age of birth

can offset a child's entire world

Enough so that

Perception becomes reality

All that dysfunction

And chaos

And fighting

And screaming

and slamming doors

and running around

Not knowing what the fuck is going on

later becomes ugly

becomes

Eating too much

Becomes

always seeking security and attention

Becomes

vulnarabikity

that in the adult world,

Reads as ‘ugliness'

Tiredness

Obesity,

and of course

Developing the bad habits

You thought were normal facets

Of actual life,

Untl you reaize

one day–

Whether its too late, or not

Were in fact

not normal

These patterns

which shaped

your entire reality

For years in your upbringing

Had become

Ugliness

I realized, I got no business fucking around with other trauma cases,

because most of the time, instead of it leading to understanding and empowerment,

It becomes a powerstrugle within a relationship

two broken people competing for the need to feed and fuel the emptiness

That a life of being in such a way

Has rampaged.

I realize i've put in the work and the effort

To release myself from this ugliness

To find the truth that one day,

My inner beauty, will shine an outer light

Bright enough for some one worthy and capable of loving my scars–

the still-ugliness left over,

unconditionally

Seeking not someone who can fill in the emptiness

But can realize that on my own,

I have become whole enough

To create the beauty I had once lost

And cherish the filling-in

That i had taken on

As my own responsibility to myself.

Oh God, all that on JLo?

She has a nice face.

God!

The rest is alright, I guess.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective. ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

That was the fastest a document has ever opened up.

Jesus Christ, wasn't it?

I love God.

I just found a purple carrot,

That was orange on the inside.

I love God.

I saw bright white, hot lighting

Strike right outside my window—

And I love God.

Did you do anything out of line today?

Nothing that I can think of…

I saw a patch of birds that were camouflaged to match the ground perfectly

And I love God.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective. ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

Beat leasing/ purchase and licensing information coming soon.

Prod. by Blū Tha Gürū.

The Complex Collective, 2024

As I flirt with suicide, I realize

I am famous and of much importance without being paid for it—

People enter my line of sight just to exist, I.

(lol)

I'm in an existential crisis

And this residential area

Is under surveillance

Psychological violence

And terrorism is technological

I'm a flight risk

But if I die,

The devil inside my child l l

I digress

Will probably profit l l

Cause very n*gg*r is a star

With two consonants at the end,

Okay,

We're gonna kill each other

Okay

The song's almost over

Okay,

I've got a lot to do to day,

Would you throw yourself

At the bus

Or from under my keychain

Okay

I got pain in my heart, you know

Okay,

I'm stuck in the road you know

Okay,

So I left the door I open

To go play darts at the bar

And the dog walked in

Okay

You don't want a bad problem

Okay

I got a trunk full of bodies

Okay,

I need guitar lessons

Okay—

So this table wine calling my name

Or what

OKAY

so we're gonna kill each other

Okay

Alright

Okay

So I left the door open

OKAY

I got a pest problem

OKAY

I don't want no more problems

I don't produce movies

I got 12 dollars.

Okay,

Stop talking

Sunlit spells under midnight moon

You turned your heart on mine

The ocean calls

What realm of hell is this, I walk?

The devils eyes have found

Your world

Made of fractions of illusion

And robbed

Of stardust

The light of the cosmos

Is here upon lost,

With the mark of the crying dollar

For it was I who died high on the cross and

Yet, did not die at all,

So was boarded under rocks,

A bolder and slumped over

{Enter The Multiverse}

Serrated imagery

No response server

Straight at the begging of the seven years,

Was the forager blind, who would become journeyman, Shepard and son of all

Who had witnessed since, the oncoming of her arrival.

Come, now Ishii.

You were a terror.

Aren't I now?

Let's not forget, there are commonplace errors here,

Among the redaction

And in all time,

It could take years,

To find the days

Coming toward tomorrow

I say you should let him out, if ye know what's good fer ye.

I say, you should say less than nessecary, as my patience is shrinking and you, my foul ogre are a lot more pleasant when you're not speaking.

Forget I said anything.

I wish that I could do that.

I used to grant wishes, too, you know. And I'm only part ogre.

Hush, will you.

Yes I will.

[beat]

What's the other part?

—French.

Bitch,

CLEAN YOUR ROOM BEFORE YOU TAKE A SELFIE.

On God—

wtf am I looking at sometimes.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective. ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

An ascended extra terrestrial being with the ability to travel throughout infinite existence within the multidimensional world enters a simulation of their own creation in order to understand the dynamics of its interworkings, and to repair a mysterious series of problems plaguing the world'a inhabitants, in order to prevent the imminent eventual demise of the species and the world in which they live.

Sector 12, Dimension Q10

Just be on the lookout;

You know these primates aren't safe—

With some sort of thinking they're ‘evolved' more somehow.

—or less.

What's at stake here is the planet.

In totality,

I honestly couldn't give one single fuck about it;

whether it lives or dies, or who's on it.

—but you're on it.

I'm on it.

Somebody kill this raggedy motherfucker

Before I do

On good conscience.

Are you not worried that they're going to kill you?

They won't kill me.

They won't touch a hair on my head. You know why?

Cause it's fake?

Exactly.

You ought to be in prison.

Probably,

I'd suspect I'd be getting more ass that way.

Or something up yours.

Up mine—up yours—what really is the difference?

Did you really think you were protected.

Nothing is safe, nothing is sacred, my dear—but you see, what I've purchased here is time.

Time? Where did you get all this time?!

Where did you get all this money?

It wasn't made out of time!

So the old adage stands corrected.

So it does.

So what did your parents do for a living?

I beg your pardon?

To what do I owe the honor of your privelege?

Hard work.

Try again.

Back massages

And thick cut bacon

I just went to sleep

And woke back up again reviled

Revelations on motorcycles

Harpists on steroids

And movies on markers

God ought to have thoughts of

Something, honest and awkward

Other than to govern up a sermon

Of prophets

On Altoids,

Or morons—

No mountains,

So far I

Have leapt from the riverbed

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective. ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

I'm inside of the machine–

Santa Monica–

As Seen On TV

It's just a game to me

Life's a beach

Skip the tent

This ain't Venice

(I'm on Celebrity Apprentice)

BURBANK.

VENICE.

WESTWOOD

PANTAGES.

HOLLYWOOD.

CENTURY CITy

MARINA DEL REY

Lol i might never finish I _ NY cause i'm too busy fucking hating how fucking noisy and rude it is over here.

At least it's not homeless and tents under bridges over here.

yeah but it's segregated as fuck tho.

At least there's affordable housing!

That's correct.

—And transit.

Also true.

And everyone's not so fucking perfectly pretty that I like, need to slit my wrists over it.

I mean, there are perfectly good reasons to slit my wrists on the East Coast.

Yeah, but it's not dying of “why don't I look like that”

(no, it's definitely not that)

The fruit fly sighed,

“When I die,

I'd like to be a butterfly–

Admired in the wild,

Just for flying by

And I replied,

“Well, so would I”

It was a wonderful sentiment.

I thought about killing him just so that he'd make it more quickly to butterfly

Maybe that's why white supremacy is out here killing niggaz.

“You'll be better in the next life. promise!”

“Maybe”

*blat blat*

“Lets hope”

Probably immediately recycled into a better existence.

Lets hope.

(I didn't kill the fly, I just figured both our lifespans were just about the same length and hoped the best for either of us to be recycled into something beautiful and admirable by others–instead of seen as ‘pests'.)

–it became less of a beautiful sentiment and more of a crises when a few days later, I thought of the fruitfly again as a beautiful butterfly fluttered across my window, and as I admired him, a bird swooped down and ate him.

That shit was raw.

Yep. Nature's a GOAT.

–and you expect me to believe that less than 200 years ago we were still brutally fucking murdering people publically just for fun and that all of a sudden that shit is over? Fuck outta here. These people are natural born fucking killers with the equivalant sadism as a fucking lion that likes to play with its food before he kills it.

BBQ'n

The Spider

alienz.

Kool-Aid.

“The 6th Saint”--whatever the fuck that is.

anonymity . (VI)

Book I: Secrets // Seekers

Book II: Lies // Lights

Book III: Shadows// Values

A car full of caskets

An ear full of oxymorons

–A cat full of questions

Wallets full of oxycodones

Fountains of cocaine

Romance on obstacle of fortune,

Lust,

And emotionless reconciliations

–”Illuminatus.”

This fucking trap won't open.

did you put the password.

Yeah, like six times already–

I'm scared if I try again and fail,

I'll have to restart the level.

Did you try saying it?

What do you mean?

Say the password.

Say it?

Did I stutter?

Like, out loud?

Yeah, out loud.

Why would I do that?

It might work.

It's not–there's no mic.

Try it.

…

…

“Illuminatus.”

[unlocked]

huh .

What's up.

It opened.

Huh.

For Your Consideration

Unfamous

Whatever

LEVELS

(Or Lack Thereof.)

Explorers of The Multiverse

The Wonderful World of

Series Q10 (A Sociological Experiment)

Flux Capacitor

Every time that door slams I swear to GotT I get fucking richer

I swear to GOD every time that door slams I become a fucking icon

I fucking swear every time that door slams money is added to my fucking metaphorical piggy bank

I swear to God

Every time that door slams

Karma crawls up the ass of whoever the fuck slammed it

and waits there

Until it becomes the most painful everliving shit

that door slamming piece of fucking shit

ever has to take

In their life

I fucking swear

This beat is made of cotton

I picked it,

But i didn't want to

(I didn't want to pick it)

Then the master made me

Nobody even paid me

To do: lol [never in my life and all my gods would i ever]

—fuck these f*gg-t motorcycle door slamming ass…

The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

I am the nylon light

That sheds Grattitude

With kindness

To your fortress

In honor

There's a certain power that comes in realizing that you don't give a fuck anymore—

Whether you win or lose—

Succeed or fail—

Whether you live or die.

There's a certain kind of magic in the chaos that comes from the world's own utter confusion in not knowing how to react to a fully volitile ticking time bomb.

When you get finished with being fucked with—

And you realize the greatest of all evils—the thing fucking with you—is somehow still also yourself— you give up and give in to the torture that becomes knowing that in a world where there's everything— you were made to be from nothing.

I can't tell.

I think I'm still sweating, but I don't know. Could just be my hair; I pat my head with the towel and feel my hair with the palm of my hand—No, I'm still sweating profusely. Whatever. I'm too fat. I slept the night away and woke up later than usual again—came one half mile short of my usual cardio routine before dashing upstairs for my weekly phone meeting—I made strawberry and oat whole wheat pancakes the day before. I was a size 5-slash-6. I needed to be a size two.

If you could make me feel.

I wouldn't be standing here

Looking for a way to feel

I would be

Walking by

Looking for a reason to live

I wouldn't be standing here

Craving a book to fill the cases I've emptied

Or the crimes that I've drafted

The tears on my pillow

The time that I've wasted

The scars on my lips

Or the release in my heart

I'm counting the reasons to smile

The words to a song still forming

On my crumbled mind

You wanted a story;

On fast approach, I wrote one

Trying not to belong here

whatever.

-whatever EP.

The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.

What are you doing?

Nothing you wouldn't.

Hm.

[a pause.]

—It smells of blood.

Hm. Keen sense of smell—and familiarity with uncommon scents.

A bird flew into my window this morning.

BIRD

hey!

*smashes against window*

…it wasn't open.

Damn! How does that happen?!

GOD

Did you see that, though?

Yeah, God—okay, you win.

I'm up, I'm up.

GOD

You okay, Jack?

I'm fine, I'm okay.

Try being a better bird.

I'm—the best bird I can be.

I meant— a bigger bird. Much smarter.

It's not my fault; I thought that the fourth wall was already broken.

It was; your mistake however lies in the simple fact that that wasn't the fourth wall, it was a window.

My mistake.

Try a Seagul.

Wouldn't it be amazing if peacocks could fly.

CUT TO:

[PEACOCKS can fly.]

OH DEAR GOD.

CUT BACK TO:

No, it would not.

Kesha — tik tok

Ohhhhh, that was Kesha.

Yes.

I get it now.

No, no you really don't.

Should I be afraid of whatever's about to happen?

I think you should be more concerned about the things that shouldn't, and are.

Oh…Kay…

Every kiss begins with

—kill the bitch.

Holy shit! Another one!

Don't worry about it.

The DJs

(It would be the DJs doing this)

It would have to be!

Have developed a bird-cannon.

(Actually, it's just a t-shirt cannon from the music festival.)

Which music festival?

Idk, you pick

MAGIC MIKES MUSIC MAYHEM

{Sponsored by Mike's Hard Lemonade}

Sure.

I like that one.

It—yeah.

Whatever. Isn't it just technically—

INT. THE INFINITE RAVE.

—wait, are you naked right now?

…

I'm always naked.

GROSS.

Barf.

If you want.

I'm not changing.

The three DJ's with the bird cannon have successfully tricked—

Who is it

Idk

—The DJ inside into rescuing the three birds catapulted at the window; this results in the DJs then shapeshifting into the three birds in order to infiltrate the DJ's kitchen, which has been reportedly used as a multidimensional portal.

We soon discover (or have already discovered, keeping on the series progression or multidimensional arc,) that the entire building itself can be transported throughout time and space, which the DJ, [who has been revealed as an immortal mystic space God] often moves through realms and throughout time and space in order to bend and manipulate reality—destined to find a hospitable destination, where likely the planet's inhabitants have reversed earth's untimely demise and preserved humanity, and ideally, where the world is living in peace and harmony with itself and one another.

Lol the building moves.

It doesn't exist!

It kind of exists! It has to!

Yeah— kind of.

Psh!

I'm so hot

That I put

Pancakes on my Mancakes.

Psssst.

(Sizzle)

I put pancakes on my mancakes

(Flip em)

I put pancakes on my pancakes.

(Sweet and hot like a McGriddle)

I put pancakes on my mancakes.

For rizzle.

SUNNI BLŪ has become so visibly veluptuous that people are beginning to talk about it— a lot.

I told you, stop squatting!

I can't! All the tour bus gots is barbells!

Can't you just go running like a NORMAL person?

Go run where?! My face is on everything!

CUT TO. FLASHBACK- before:

FANS

Omg is that him.

*girls screaming*

*cattle stampeding*

*pandemonium*

CUT BACK TO:

—and that was at my house!

Sunni—

—in Iowa!

s—you bought I house in Iowa?

Hence the cattle. Duh.

God.

I thought it would be quiet there!

SUNNI BLU counters this speculation with a new single which references having glutes so intensely hot that one is able to cook pancakes atop them, in which the music video showcases Sunni's bottom being used as a pancake griddle and features rap legend SNOOP DOGG—

MANCAKES ft. SNOOP DOGG

Models and dancers surround SUNNI rapping and take turns making pancakes on the veluptuous butt—ie—“mancakes.” Dressed in scantily clad chefs outfits/ sexy aprons and barbecue outfits// a barbecue pool party scene in which the booty is used as a pancake grill while the models and dancers drink mimosas at a backyard brunch.

The song wins numerous accolades including song of the year, and skyrockets sunni BLU even further into fame—luckily, this distracts the public from further speculation, however— a small group of other celebrities become suspicious after unanimously deciding that the “jiggle factor” of the butt is explicitly female, and launch a secret csmpaign to expose Sunnï Blū as a transgender—thinking that this will upset the rap and hip hop community, and resulting in Sunnï Blu's removal from the top of the pyramid crowned as the entertainment kingpin.

The Festival Project.™]

The Complex Collective ©

COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-Ū.