Podcasts about Apple of my eye

Ben Maller talks about teams balking at the Raiders demands for Davante Adams, Patriots safety Jabril Peppers getting arrested for alleged assault among other charges, Cite the Bite, and much more!See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

In this cosy episode of "You're the Apple of My Eye," Kari and Robert celebrate autumn with a chat about their favourite apple dishes and fun apple-themed idioms. Join in for a fun mix of food and language!  ★ Support this podcast ★

김영철의 파워FM - 진짜 영국식 영어 282회 - 안 먹어도 배부르다! = The apple of my eye

We are joined this week by John Nolan. John is the radio play-by-play for the Fort Wayne TinCaps, the High-A affiliate of the San Diego Padres. John tells us about his upbringing and how he got into broadcasting. He tells us about some of the prospects for the team and about Parkview Field.Make sure to check out the TinCaps online.Fort Wayne TinCaps -Website: https://www.milb.com/fort-wayneInstagram: https://www.instagram.com/tincaps/ (@TinCaps)Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/TinCaps/ (@TinCaps)Earned Fun Average -Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/earnedfunavg/ (@EarnedFunAvg)Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/earnedfunavg/ (@EarnedFunAvg)Curved Brim Media -Website: https://www.curvedbrimmedia.com/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/curvedbrimmedia/ (@CurvedBrimMedia)Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/CurvedBrim/ (@CurvedBrim)

Krystall Everfall quests her way through the Frosted Dungeon, deep in the heart of Mount Schytcicle, in search of a most powerful mcguffin indeed... THE WIZARD SCROLL is written, read, performed and edited by me, Chris RR Bauso. Tales of high fantasy, warriors, wizards and laser guns with my own sick little twist. Featuring: Krissi Williams as Krystall Everfall Gavin Reiser as the Trolls Show Artwork by Nick Vanamee Songs used: New GAIA, & Lichen Encrusted Chamber- Equip ; Spirit of Hospitality, Checking In, In the Mirror, Heart of the Mountain & Prologue- Lena Raine ; Mt. Freeze, Mt. Freeze Peak & Dream Eater- PMD Rescue Team DX OST ; Circus Minute- Orion Williams; Shop Keep's Suite- Enter the Gungeon OST ; Old MacDonald Had A Farm- Kashido ; Waterfall Cave- PMD Explorers of Sky OST ; Metal Crusher, Here We Are & Amalgam- Toby Fox ; Fun Fun Fun- Dimitrix Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

A new MP3 sermon from Mount Zion Bible Baptist Church is now available on SermonAudio with the following details: Title: #5 The apple of my eye Subtitle: Family camp 2024 Speaker: Per Jeff Williams Broadcaster: Mount Zion Bible Baptist Church Event: Sunday Service Date: 3/29/2024 Bible: Song of Solomon 1:1 Length: 43 min.

A doctor specializing in Adams apples is a guyneckologist

Episode 172 is our bi-weekly panel discussion. This episode was recorded January 17, 2023. The year is still new and January is still with us. Levi Austin Morris and Joey Min and I talk about 2024 trends for mobile filmmakers like, less gear? But that's not all we discussed, we also talked about more “inexpensive” accessories and gear entering the market for mobile filmmakers, and a few other topics. Find how long a film shot using a baby tripod was and who later used a rock with a gimbal to film another. And then, Joey drops a sensitive topic for filmmakers, the “V” word! Panelists in this episode: Levi Austin Morris, Joey Min.  Learn more about all our panelists: http://fadeintofilm.com  SBP Podcast Mobile Filmmaking: The Voice of Mobile Film™ is for everyone who ever wanted to or is curious about making movies and videos using smartphones.  Are you enjoying our free podcast? Share some love. We're at BuyMeACoffee: https://www.buymeacoffee.com/susybotello and Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/sbppodcast  Sign up for our Podcast Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/iwK-dM  Subscribe to listen in your own app: https://www.podbean.com/site/podcatcher/index/blog/kOpp1Xtzvu6l    Mentioned in this episode: Listen to EP 100 with Michael Koerbel: https://mobilefilmmaking.podbean.com/e/special-edition-iphone-movie-making-history-with-michael-koerbel/  Watch Michael Koerbel's Apple Of My Eye: https://mobilefilmstories.com/michael-koerbel/  Listen to EP 66 with Moondog Labs Anamorphic Lens Founders: https://mobilefilmmaking.podbean.com/e/talking-anamorphic-lens-with-pioneer-moondog-labs/  Zacuto Smart Z-Finder: https://internationalmobilefilmfestival.com/collaborators/#zacuto  Jamiel Laurence EP 80 “Movement and Choreography in Smartphone Filmmaking”: https://mobilefilmmaking.podbean.com/e/movement-and-choreography-in-smartphone-filmmaking-with-jamiel-laurence/ Jamiel Laurence's Music Video, To the Sea: https://vimeo.com/460640652 *We don't receive any compensation for recommending any gear or accessories. Follow FITF Panelists: Levi Austin Morris' Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/leviaustinmorris/  Ryan's Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ryan.mcdonald.filmmaker/  Joey Min's Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/thatguyjoeymin/ Our Links:  SBP Podcast Website: http://sbppodcast.studio  Smartphone Filmmaking Publication: https://medium.com/smartphonefilmmaking    Susy's Substack: https://susybotello.substack.com  Podcast Twitter: http://twitter.com/sbppodcast    Facebook: http://facebook.com/sbppodcast       Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/mobilefilmsd/  Susy on Threads: https://www.threads.net/@susybotelloofficial  Susy on Twitter: http://twitter.com/susybotello  Susy on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/susybotelloofficial/  International Mobile Film Festival Updates: https://internationalmobilefilmfestival.com/social/ Apple Podcasts: https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/sbp-podcast/id1296673665    © Copyright 2024 S. Botello Productions™. All rights reserved.

Sinewy snaking columns of smoke rise from the desolation. Buildings that once stood tall now bend and sag like old beggars. A green glow permeates the air like a disease. Where there was once joy and laughter, nothing remains but pain and sorrow. But alas, look. The dark outlines of three figures emerge from the horizon like undulating specters of the underworld. You stop eating the sandy scraps you foraged just the night before and put a hand to your brow. Squinting, you see the figures clearly now. Three riders with chiseled jaws and wide-brimmed hats saunter and sway down the gravel road. Hovels of decrepit beings emerge from their lairs and follow from a distance. As the riders come closer, you stare upward towards the green orb in the sky. The lead rider tosses something to you then yanks the brim of his hat downward before moving past. As you catch the object, you feel its slippery surface and stare in disbelief. A delicacy from another time and place. An apple. The smell of the horde in front of you pulls you from your reveries. The mass of onlookers with their sunken eyes and blistered faces stare at the fruit. Something like an electric shock courses through you and causes you to stand. Removing the hood from your head, you brandish a weapon from beneath your garments. The steel gleams in the green sun's glow. As the mob springs forward, your yellowed teeth bite into the crisp flesh of the fruit. Eyes closed and blade raised, you whisper, “Not today” as your blade begins slicing.

I love this expression. It's 4 times in the Bible, but what's interesting is it's not used how we use it. It's always a PERSON who is the apple of our eye, but not in the Bible. We talk about how we can use this truth for the new year. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

I love this expression. It's 4 times in the Bible, but what's interesting is it's not used how we use it. It's always a PERSON who is the apple of our eye, but not in the Bible. We talk about how we can use this truth for the new year. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Arturo's keyboard mini lab MkII Hurt me so good Baby daddy Make me wanna scream Don't you know I love it Roller coaster Hands around my throat You choke me. Throw me off my boat I'm drowning in your ocean W Love me love me (Moans) Living in grace, In your glory In the shadow of your talents And the glamor of your essence, Whatever that is. I should just Sell that bitch She work hard Slave so strong, baby I should just Sell that bitch Have me a picnic Take her to market Honest Slave work hard, baby Slave work hard She work hard, For no money #1s (Lols) one hell of a parable An attack on my psyche KILLYOURSELF. *COUGH* Find your way somewhere and JUMP For the fun of it JUMP from the top of the rock (If they let you in!) JUMP from the *COUGHS* Oh, Just kill yourself, Jesus I gotta go, I gotta go again What do you know What do you know again? Right when you show up I wanna throw up Or show you the— Drums COUGH Or just kill yourself Jump right in front of the train, I dare ya Come along way from the Uptown A, No! we're going down We're going going down and about Sabatoge on my body Attack of the zombies The gangstakers cough But I wonder who pays them On government money? But no m debt forgiveness If freedom is slavery What do you call this? I warned you, Stay out of the politics— Focus on music You'd said you'd take care of all of it Then left me stranded. I like being strangled I like being robbed I like falling off of my skateboard [UMPH] I left blood there It's all strays and ashtrays Where he stays, But it's okay Cause these days, It's all crazy Eyes glazed, And all lazy It's awful: I'm all fucked up, This alt-right movement New wave racists Consuming me, Blue eyes and hatred. They say I'm all wrong Just for being born, But I think we're all one Even if they don't Plus, I'm not dark on purpose. Now you renrmver me? I remembered you the first time! Not very well- Passion Play I don't feel so good I think I'm off my rock, I got a lot to talk about But not a lot of knowledge You know that Everyone, even God suffers I got a lot of words and worries All I want is a surfboard Carve my name out of all of em Arboles I'm lost I could post all this Or get my nails polished So much for martyrs And mothers in morning for ever I cry every dawn until morning Fir all the love lost Add it's all up, that's always And these days, in haides I'm a lady in shades from LA And nobody loves me Not even my baby I'm so blazed, I'm taking it straight to my vein, On the train in front of all these strangers *gasp* Are you okay? *gasp* A haphazard orgasm As my organs shut down Out of automatic on autopilot Or a test, maybe Of The Uptown A Gangstaklers in all white It's alright I might be uptight Or up BBC all night writing, in spite of my *coughs* Ravenous appetite Fuck, what's an EXtra small for If they make extra extra small And all I want is a hug from 1, two, three— coughs All of em! I just want someone to love me That doesn't think less of the Blacks and the browns that aren't Barbies, and adonises The rest of us are ugly So what? Just discard us in the Bronx and far rockaways, (Jamaica! Ugh!) “What the fuck did you just say to me?! “ Bother brawl on the bus Another. Recording for my opera Or symphonies, turn coughs in the harmonies Hopping up hoping the cops aren't watching me Ok, okay— The train seems to be coming As quickly as I need But I still need bravery Hey, it's the brain dead nobody Said somebody— I turned 5 dollars to 20 And 20 to a million By wishing on Anything other than. Whatever Horace me this body Cause nobody loves me I'm almost invisible Brimming with envy And needing attention And money to turn into Energy He said “I didn't mean to hurt you— Or hate you” She said, “I didn't mean to have coffee At half past 11 pm— But here we are again— Here we are again It's gets harder and harder to love again This is the ark of our story What is that *sniffs* what is what What is that *sniffs* That face. Just *snifs.* my face. Are you crying? {crying) mm—mm. *sniffs* Don't fucking cry— if you fucking cry—I'll fucking kill you. (Very ugly cry) Don't ugly cry! (Even uglier cry) Ugh! *shoots with pistol* *dies instantly* Fuck! —He'll be back. [Dillon Francis just had that look on his face.] Like (But worse.) Starr Michael Roberts - May all his curses and his karma be returned to him; may he suffer now all the damage he has done unto others tenfold; return immediately every demon and all dieties against him in karma and chaos; let Starr Michael Roberts wither and diminish under his own doing. Let his wifebeating father Michael John Roberts be cursed forever for beating his wife to suicide. Let this generational cycle of abuse be broken and it's effects not passed on though time. Let this counter curse protect all affected and break the cycle of abuse and harm. So mote it be. Amen. Starr Michael Roberts is a fat alcoholic pedophile wifebeater. May all his curses and his karma be returned to him; may he suffer now all the damage he has done unto others tenfold; return immidiately every demon and all dieties against him in karma and chaos; let Starr Michael Roberts wither and diminish under his own doing. Let his wifebeating father Michael John Roberts be cursed forever. Let this counter curse protect all affected and break the cycle of abuse and harm. So mote it be. Amen. The coughing had stopped for awhile but had suddenly returned, as if I had done something wrong—but it only seemed that the more I paid attention to myself and my health, improving my life and my habits, this energy followed, as if trying to keep or return me to the Hell from which I had been born, raised, and married into— only to overcome by luck if anything, albeit strength and wit; the cycle of abuse was still the ever present cycle—and the more I read about the psychological mindset of a psychopath, the more I had come to realize my own pitiful narssism, as if it had become a contagious burden— which I had tried to thrwart at every angle, of course—but as it appeared, most of being a typical person was conversing, about if not mindless things like the weather, then about oneself—and especially since I had done my very best to be soully a musician, I had been in the habit of upselling myself, which for the most part I hated anyway; However, some achievements and talents I really did take such pride in that sometimes I felt that there were only so many things that I could say, that I was often repeating myself, or even worse—speaking from some kind of scripted dialogue, which didn't seem much but a stones throw away from the surreal and bizzare unreality that I had been in; things each day seemed more and more like a movie, the night before culminating in an entire plethora of new discoveries—both about myself, and my apparent self-made external world. I knew that my return to Equinox would in some way be a catch—the recently-increased initiation fee which I accredited to the prolonged disability from joining, however worth the wait had doubled— jumping from something like $250, to $500 in what seemed overnight, though it had been already almost eight months since I had rejoined—and nearly seven in New York alone, though the time had flown despite its absolutely dreadful happenings, not yet having any fun at all in the city besides very brief moments of euphoria—no, instead I had been shown a first-hand look at the broken system, the broken economy, and the broken people of the world first-handedly, fighting tooth-and-nail to stay well—which had been an incredible fight in itself, in addition to the growing number of actual physical fights and altercations I myself never thought would become of my growing years—but New Yorkers, it seemed—especially and particularly the poor and black ones—liked to fight, and I was learning well to protect myself and defend, both in wit and might. But, especially as of lately, I had grown tired, depressed—and especially very hungry, my food supply dwindled to that of simply whatever I could get my hands on from the local food pantries, and I was learning very well that ‘poor people food' and ‘fat people food' were more commonly than not the same things. The grocery stores in the area were allowed to mark up everything in order to compete with each other in greed, in the poverty-stricken neighborhood of Ozone Park, which lived up to its name exceedingly, filled with trash, and heavy with the exhaust of every imaginable industrial machine imaginable, from automobiles to airplanes and beyond—it was an overall disgusting place to be, and with the coming times the reality had set in that I was just as likely broken as those around me in some way—but in understanding how, I would often also want and need to understand why—an answer only God would give me. Just a couple days before, I had woken up seemingly into a fairytale— I had been again in the habit for some reason of checking my email, and upon refreshing my GMail had a slew of messages from Equinox, who I had chosen specifically just the day before not to block or place into spam—and though with the passing months of March, April, May, June and almost all of July begrudgingly giving way to the need to work out, trying most every-other gym within reach and at times trekking a tolling 2.5 hours one-way to the most affordable and/or acceptable gym, hating every moment of it as with time passed, I came to understand that a vast majority of people living in the ‘under-realms' of society were less likely to use trash cans even indoors— beginning with a mall-bound gym in the Bronx, which at the very least had a sauna, I couldn't dare to pay the monthly cost, knowing that I would sooner-than-later be transferred to a shelter even further than the gym I had chosen—x-sport fitness—and had grown to a boiling hate, observing the petty mis-management, being told one thing and then another—but above all, the dirty, trashy facilities—the number one factor which disinterested me from paying for any of the gyms I had joined in my time in New York, besides blink—which I had mostly detested due to it seeming more like a high school play room than an actual gym, and of course, it's lack of adequate sauna facilities or even hot showers. It was during my return to ka futness however that I realized my life had changed fiercer, that I was being watched, tested, and tempted—and though I knew something remarkably greater was at play, my own character had been numerously thrown into question—which I understood, but was still however irritated by, never knowing why someone such as I would be held to such high standards at all, and although knowing that a notable amount of my writing and other works of art had been published and had been become some sort of a public interest, I didn't understand why it mattered so much to the rich and privileged elites who had everything without any of the trauma or having to work too inadequately hard for it that I was so squeaky clean—and for the most part, I was, besides the couple of inherited traits and nasty habits I had adopted under duress of trauma, abuse, and neglect—let alone poverty itself—and I found it baffling that in a society where the white elite had bought up all of the food and property in the world and were selling it back at acceleratingly increased prices for profit to the lower masses, that stealing vegan protein from Whole Foods market could or would be looked down upon—and had just few months earlier been ‘thwarted' in an attempt to gain proper enough nutrition to function, as the homeless system did not provide water at all, or vegan food, leaving me to eat for the most part, only bananas for weeks on end—and of course, once allocated the funds to eat, being limited to such predatory pricing that two avacados might cost $6, or just one mango $3– not of course that I could keep much food for long; the shelter did. It provide a refrigerator or kitchen, and as I hadn't yet been able to afford a cooler, having decided to catch up on my bills with the income I was receiving as a DJ, rather than spend it on any of my other needs—food, clothes, and of course, my hair, which had embarrassingly at this point grown into matter dreads I would more than likely have to cut off—and at least, of course— if I was going to cut my hair I would have to be really skinny—because I was already too black and too fat to be pretty at all, really, by societal standards—but chopping my hair off would be the end of my existence, perhaps a much-needed end, as my existence so far hasn't been admirable, besides a few redeeming factors and qualities I had that even I liked—and, I did at least like myself enough on the inside to try to keep the outside decent, at least clothed. ‘That's it. I'm not going back to the gym until I can afford Equinox.” I had certainly mentioned this jokingly on my podcast, whose audience I was still largely unaware of, but didn't care— I was still continually being coughed at, bullied, and harassed by means of what seemed psychological terror and torture—and by now I knew the more I felt or thought that it could be black magic inflicted by my fat, stupid, lazy estranged ex-husband, the easier it would be to allude my suicide to “mental illness”, rather than the plan truth; someone had been torturing me for years, at this point, and any of my actions or the circumstances surrounding them were actually justified, not just indignantly but brutally and honestly so—I had been robbed, starved, stalked, and even lead-on by things and people that I loved, Check the hat and glasses; Yeap, That's a bampheramph laughin at you Not with you Highly unusual and peculiar, sure Dad hats: the lowest level of bampheramph— These bamphers show you what not to do, how not to act, and just how not to be in general After bampheramph camp, the graduates are ranked by performance —typically— “bad” “very bad” or “what the fuck”, and very rarely even “what the fuck, dude” or “I don't even know”, the average graduate being given the “Classicl bampheramph” status, and typically wear “dorky sun hats” regardless of location, placement, or time of year Reserve bamphers may wear backwards snap backs after once having served as captain; other reserve bampheramphs may present SnapBack forwards or even sideways, before having served as captain or during service as captain, if any other hat is not needed or called for The motherfuckers, a special branch of bampheramphs dedicated specifically to DJs The 7 aliases 7 alieses 5 Guys Two Dudes Codename.Blū. c o l o r s. Happy Accidents Dillon Francis is atop the roof at the Wynn/Encore, preparing to meet his untimely death. Dillon Hart Francis! You come down from there this instant! He looks below to the Las Vegas strip, a bustling blur of lights and traffic. DILLON! Chak Chel Let him jump. Chak Chel! What! Let ‘em. Chak Chel, come on! The Little Motherfuckers are— Well— A group of young children are causing a ruckus on their bicycles. None of them are wearing helmets—of course—eventually to become motherfuckers Smells like fire to the west Yes, I still have eyes for you I guess there's still some time between us Guess I still have ties to you Do my eyes deceive me or Is this make believe Believe me All I see is you, sometimes Even— especially in my dreams I keep your secrets, I feel scared when your hands touch my hands But feel good when my lips touch your lips I feel sad when your heart touch my heart— I feel love with your hands on my hips, I'll be getting it all done and over with, for the most part Give me a call, When you're all done, at the mortuary I'm so sorry I'd bend over backwards, for you Even eat meat, if you told me too Or cheese, Jesus You'd better believe it Mission impossible Even stevens The rest of the things As seen on TV The rest of the evening. My ex fucked me up so bad I might never be right again He used to say l”I'm a champion” He was a loser— He punched me in the face so hard, I actually apologized for it. He decked me out. Not once— But like 5 times. In a ROW. Teeth went through my lip and everything Came out on the other side, I was like “Oh, awesome I was thinking about getting a piercing— Now I don't have to! Saved me $30 and the cost of saline! Phew. Fucked me up. To this day if I see you in champion sportswear, I am immediately convinced you're an idiot. No take backs. If I see you in champion sportswear, I just automatically assume you're stupid Not sorry. Oh well. If I see you wearing champion sportswear, I just assume you're a lazy, retarded idiot. *shrugs* not my fault. I wear Nike. —but it I see you in white Nikes that are supposed to be white, but they're all dirty and gross and caked in whatever— I'm just gonna assume you're a fat dirty asshole that's gonna punch me in the face, And walk away. Clean your shoes! Lol I'm so fucked up lil biiiiiiiittzzzzz. YOU GAVE DILLON FRANCIS YOUR NAME?! no! Well thank god I gave Dillon Francis your name. ARE YOU CRAZY No. But he is! Exactly! {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.

Arturo's keyboard mini lab MkII Hurt me so good Baby daddy Make me wanna scream Don't you know I love it Roller coaster Hands around my throat You choke me. Throw me off my boat I'm drowning in your ocean W Love me love me (Moans) Living in grace, In your glory In the shadow of your talents And the glamor of your essence, Whatever that is. I should just Sell that bitch She work hard Slave so strong, baby I should just Sell that bitch Have me a picnic Take her to market Honest Slave work hard, baby Slave work hard She work hard, For no money #1s (Lols) one hell of a parable An attack on my psyche KILLYOURSELF. *COUGH* Find your way somewhere and JUMP For the fun of it JUMP from the top of the rock (If they let you in!) JUMP from the *COUGHS* Oh, Just kill yourself, Jesus I gotta go, I gotta go again What do you know What do you know again? Right when you show up I wanna throw up Or show you the— Drums COUGH Or just kill yourself Jump right in front of the train, I dare ya Come along way from the Uptown A, No! we're going down We're going going down and about Sabatoge on my body Attack of the zombies The gangstakers cough But I wonder who pays them On government money? But no m debt forgiveness If freedom is slavery What do you call this? I warned you, Stay out of the politics— Focus on music You'd said you'd take care of all of it Then left me stranded. I like being strangled I like being robbed I like falling off of my skateboard [UMPH] I left blood there It's all strays and ashtrays Where he stays, But it's okay Cause these days, It's all crazy Eyes glazed, And all lazy It's awful: I'm all fucked up, This alt-right movement New wave racists Consuming me, Blue eyes and hatred. They say I'm all wrong Just for being born, But I think we're all one Even if they don't Plus, I'm not dark on purpose. Now you renrmver me? I remembered you the first time! Not very well- Passion Play I don't feel so good I think I'm off my rock, I got a lot to talk about But not a lot of knowledge You know that Everyone, even God suffers I got a lot of words and worries All I want is a surfboard Carve my name out of all of em Arboles I'm lost I could post all this Or get my nails polished So much for martyrs And mothers in morning for ever I cry every dawn until morning Fir all the love lost Add it's all up, that's always And these days, in haides I'm a lady in shades from LA And nobody loves me Not even my baby I'm so blazed, I'm taking it straight to my vein, On the train in front of all these strangers *gasp* Are you okay? *gasp* A haphazard orgasm As my organs shut down Out of automatic on autopilot Or a test, maybe Of The Uptown A Gangstaklers in all white It's alright I might be uptight Or up BBC all night writing, in spite of my *coughs* Ravenous appetite Fuck, what's an EXtra small for If they make extra extra small And all I want is a hug from 1, two, three— coughs All of em! I just want someone to love me That doesn't think less of the Blacks and the browns that aren't Barbies, and adonises The rest of us are ugly So what? Just discard us in the Bronx and far rockaways, (Jamaica! Ugh!) “What the fuck did you just say to me?! “ Bother brawl on the bus Another. Recording for my opera Or symphonies, turn coughs in the harmonies Hopping up hoping the cops aren't watching me Ok, okay— The train seems to be coming As quickly as I need But I still need bravery Hey, it's the brain dead nobody Said somebody— I turned 5 dollars to 20 And 20 to a million By wishing on Anything other than. Whatever Horace me this body Cause nobody loves me I'm almost invisible Brimming with envy And needing attention And money to turn into Energy He said “I didn't mean to hurt you— Or hate you” She said, “I didn't mean to have coffee At half past 11 pm— But here we are again— Here we are again It's gets harder and harder to love again This is the ark of our story What is that *sniffs* what is what What is that *sniffs* That face. Just *snifs.* my face. Are you crying? {crying) mm—mm. *sniffs* Don't fucking cry— if you fucking cry—I'll fucking kill you. (Very ugly cry) Don't ugly cry! (Even uglier cry) Ugh! *shoots with pistol* *dies instantly* Fuck! —He'll be back. [Dillon Francis just had that look on his face.] Like (But worse.) Starr Michael Roberts - May all his curses and his karma be returned to him; may he suffer now all the damage he has done unto others tenfold; return immediately every demon and all dieties against him in karma and chaos; let Starr Michael Roberts wither and diminish under his own doing. Let his wifebeating father Michael John Roberts be cursed forever for beating his wife to suicide. Let this generational cycle of abuse be broken and it's effects not passed on though time. Let this counter curse protect all affected and break the cycle of abuse and harm. So mote it be. Amen. Starr Michael Roberts is a fat alcoholic pedophile wifebeater. May all his curses and his karma be returned to him; may he suffer now all the damage he has done unto others tenfold; return immidiately every demon and all dieties against him in karma and chaos; let Starr Michael Roberts wither and diminish under his own doing. Let his wifebeating father Michael John Roberts be cursed forever. Let this counter curse protect all affected and break the cycle of abuse and harm. So mote it be. Amen. The coughing had stopped for awhile but had suddenly returned, as if I had done something wrong—but it only seemed that the more I paid attention to myself and my health, improving my life and my habits, this energy followed, as if trying to keep or return me to the Hell from which I had been born, raised, and married into— only to overcome by luck if anything, albeit strength and wit; the cycle of abuse was still the ever present cycle—and the more I read about the psychological mindset of a psychopath, the more I had come to realize my own pitiful narssism, as if it had become a contagious burden— which I had tried to thrwart at every angle, of course—but as it appeared, most of being a typical person was conversing, about if not mindless things like the weather, then about oneself—and especially since I had done my very best to be soully a musician, I had been in the habit of upselling myself, which for the most part I hated anyway; However, some achievements and talents I really did take such pride in that sometimes I felt that there were only so many things that I could say, that I was often repeating myself, or even worse—speaking from some kind of scripted dialogue, which didn't seem much but a stones throw away from the surreal and bizzare unreality that I had been in; things each day seemed more and more like a movie, the night before culminating in an entire plethora of new discoveries—both about myself, and my apparent self-made external world. I knew that my return to Equinox would in some way be a catch—the recently-increased initiation fee which I accredited to the prolonged disability from joining, however worth the wait had doubled— jumping from something like $250, to $500 in what seemed overnight, though it had been already almost eight months since I had rejoined—and nearly seven in New York alone, though the time had flown despite its absolutely dreadful happenings, not yet having any fun at all in the city besides very brief moments of euphoria—no, instead I had been shown a first-hand look at the broken system, the broken economy, and the broken people of the world first-handedly, fighting tooth-and-nail to stay well—which had been an incredible fight in itself, in addition to the growing number of actual physical fights and altercations I myself never thought would become of my growing years—but New Yorkers, it seemed—especially and particularly the poor and black ones—liked to fight, and I was learning well to protect myself and defend, both in wit and might. But, especially as of lately, I had grown tired, depressed—and especially very hungry, my food supply dwindled to that of simply whatever I could get my hands on from the local food pantries, and I was learning very well that ‘poor people food' and ‘fat people food' were more commonly than not the same things. The grocery stores in the area were allowed to mark up everything in order to compete with each other in greed, in the poverty-stricken neighborhood of Ozone Park, which lived up to its name exceedingly, filled with trash, and heavy with the exhaust of every imaginable industrial machine imaginable, from automobiles to airplanes and beyond—it was an overall disgusting place to be, and with the coming times the reality had set in that I was just as likely broken as those around me in some way—but in understanding how, I would often also want and need to understand why—an answer only God would give me. Just a couple days before, I had woken up seemingly into a fairytale— I had been again in the habit for some reason of checking my email, and upon refreshing my GMail had a slew of messages from Equinox, who I had chosen specifically just the day before not to block or place into spam—and though with the passing months of March, April, May, June and almost all of July begrudgingly giving way to the need to work out, trying most every-other gym within reach and at times trekking a tolling 2.5 hours one-way to the most affordable and/or acceptable gym, hating every moment of it as with time passed, I came to understand that a vast majority of people living in the ‘under-realms' of society were less likely to use trash cans even indoors— beginning with a mall-bound gym in the Bronx, which at the very least had a sauna, I couldn't dare to pay the monthly cost, knowing that I would sooner-than-later be transferred to a shelter even further than the gym I had chosen—x-sport fitness—and had grown to a boiling hate, observing the petty mis-management, being told one thing and then another—but above all, the dirty, trashy facilities—the number one factor which disinterested me from paying for any of the gyms I had joined in my time in New York, besides blink—which I had mostly detested due to it seeming more like a high school play room than an actual gym, and of course, it's lack of adequate sauna facilities or even hot showers. It was during my return to ka futness however that I realized my life had changed fiercer, that I was being watched, tested, and tempted—and though I knew something remarkably greater was at play, my own character had been numerously thrown into question—which I understood, but was still however irritated by, never knowing why someone such as I would be held to such high standards at all, and although knowing that a notable amount of my writing and other works of art had been published and had been become some sort of a public interest, I didn't understand why it mattered so much to the rich and privileged elites who had everything without any of the trauma or having to work too inadequately hard for it that I was so squeaky clean—and for the most part, I was, besides the couple of inherited traits and nasty habits I had adopted under duress of trauma, abuse, and neglect—let alone poverty itself—and I found it baffling that in a society where the white elite had bought up all of the food and property in the world and were selling it back at acceleratingly increased prices for profit to the lower masses, that stealing vegan protein from Whole Foods market could or would be looked down upon—and had just few months earlier been ‘thwarted' in an attempt to gain proper enough nutrition to function, as the homeless system did not provide water at all, or vegan food, leaving me to eat for the most part, only bananas for weeks on end—and of course, once allocated the funds to eat, being limited to such predatory pricing that two avacados might cost $6, or just one mango $3– not of course that I could keep much food for long; the shelter did. It provide a refrigerator or kitchen, and as I hadn't yet been able to afford a cooler, having decided to catch up on my bills with the income I was receiving as a DJ, rather than spend it on any of my other needs—food, clothes, and of course, my hair, which had embarrassingly at this point grown into matter dreads I would more than likely have to cut off—and at least, of course— if I was going to cut my hair I would have to be really skinny—because I was already too black and too fat to be pretty at all, really, by societal standards—but chopping my hair off would be the end of my existence, perhaps a much-needed end, as my existence so far hasn't been admirable, besides a few redeeming factors and qualities I had that even I liked—and, I did at least like myself enough on the inside to try to keep the outside decent, at least clothed. ‘That's it. I'm not going back to the gym until I can afford Equinox.” I had certainly mentioned this jokingly on my podcast, whose audience I was still largely unaware of, but didn't care— I was still continually being coughed at, bullied, and harassed by means of what seemed psychological terror and torture—and by now I knew the more I felt or thought that it could be black magic inflicted by my fat, stupid, lazy estranged ex-husband, the easier it would be to allude my suicide to “mental illness”, rather than the plan truth; someone had been torturing me for years, at this point, and any of my actions or the circumstances surrounding them were actually justified, not just indignantly but brutally and honestly so—I had been robbed, starved, stalked, and even lead-on by things and people that I loved, Check the hat and glasses; Yeap, That's a bampheramph laughin at you Not with you Highly unusual and peculiar, sure Dad hats: the lowest level of bampheramph— These bamphers show you what not to do, how not to act, and just how not to be in general After bampheramph camp, the graduates are ranked by performance —typically— “bad” “very bad” or “what the fuck”, and very rarely even “what the fuck, dude” or “I don't even know”, the average graduate being given the “Classicl bampheramph” status, and typically wear “dorky sun hats” regardless of location, placement, or time of year Reserve bamphers may wear backwards snap backs after once having served as captain; other reserve bampheramphs may present SnapBack forwards or even sideways, before having served as captain or during service as captain, if any other hat is not needed or called for The motherfuckers, a special branch of bampheramphs dedicated specifically to DJs The 7 aliases 7 alieses 5 Guys Two Dudes Codename.Blū. c o l o r s. Happy Accidents Dillon Francis is atop the roof at the Wynn/Encore, preparing to meet his untimely death. Dillon Hart Francis! You come down from there this instant! He looks below to the Las Vegas strip, a bustling blur of lights and traffic. DILLON! Chak Chel Let him jump. Chak Chel! What! Let ‘em. Chak Chel, come on! The Little Motherfuckers are— Well— A group of young children are causing a ruckus on their bicycles. None of them are wearing helmets—of course—eventually to become motherfuckers Smells like fire to the west Yes, I still have eyes for you I guess there's still some time between us Guess I still have ties to you Do my eyes deceive me or Is this make believe Believe me All I see is you, sometimes Even— especially in my dreams I keep your secrets, I feel scared when your hands touch my hands But feel good when my lips touch your lips I feel sad when your heart touch my heart— I feel love with your hands on my hips, I'll be getting it all done and over with, for the most part Give me a call, When you're all done, at the mortuary I'm so sorry I'd bend over backwards, for you Even eat meat, if you told me too Or cheese, Jesus You'd better believe it Mission impossible Even stevens The rest of the things As seen on TV The rest of the evening. My ex fucked me up so bad I might never be right again He used to say l”I'm a champion” He was a loser— He punched me in the face so hard, I actually apologized for it. He decked me out. Not once— But like 5 times. In a ROW. Teeth went through my lip and everything Came out on the other side, I was like “Oh, awesome I was thinking about getting a piercing— Now I don't have to! Saved me $30 and the cost of saline! Phew. Fucked me up. To this day if I see you in champion sportswear, I am immediately convinced you're an idiot. No take backs. If I see you in champion sportswear, I just automatically assume you're stupid Not sorry. Oh well. If I see you wearing champion sportswear, I just assume you're a lazy, retarded idiot. *shrugs* not my fault. I wear Nike. —but it I see you in white Nikes that are supposed to be white, but they're all dirty and gross and caked in whatever— I'm just gonna assume you're a fat dirty asshole that's gonna punch me in the face, And walk away. Clean your shoes! Lol I'm so fucked up lil biiiiiiiittzzzzz. YOU GAVE DILLON FRANCIS YOUR NAME?! no! Well thank god I gave Dillon Francis your name. ARE YOU CRAZY No. But he is! Exactly! {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U. Starr Michael Roberts b.04.06.1989 i return to you this these dreadful curses and karmic energy; I relinquish these Hellish demons and suffering to be set free to love, to live, and to create without your essence throughout all time, in death and in the walk of life. Your curses and energy are returned directly and immediately to you. May you be bound from doing harm to yourself or others to the end of days and beyond all time. with love and light for ye shall never know my names

Arturo's keyboard mini lab MkII Hurt me so good Baby daddy Make me wanna scream Don't you know I love it Roller coaster Hands around my throat You choke me. Throw me off my boat I'm drowning in your ocean W Love me love me (Moans) Living in grace, In your glory In the shadow of your talents And the glamor of your essence, Whatever that is. I should just Sell that bitch She work hard Slave so strong, baby I should just Sell that bitch Have me a picnic Take her to market Honest Slave work hard, baby Slave work hard She work hard, For no money #1s (Lols) one hell of a parable An attack on my psyche KILLYOURSELF. *COUGH* Find your way somewhere and JUMP For the fun of it JUMP from the top of the rock (If they let you in!) JUMP from the *COUGHS* Oh, Just kill yourself, Jesus I gotta go, I gotta go again What do you know What do you know again? Right when you show up I wanna throw up Or show you the— Drums COUGH Or just kill yourself Jump right in front of the train, I dare ya Come along way from the Uptown A, No! we're going down We're going going down and about Sabatoge on my body Attack of the zombies The gangstakers cough But I wonder who pays them On government money? But no m debt forgiveness If freedom is slavery What do you call this? I warned you, Stay out of the politics— Focus on music You'd said you'd take care of all of it Then left me stranded. I like being strangled I like being robbed I like falling off of my skateboard [UMPH] I left blood there It's all strays and ashtrays Where he stays, But it's okay Cause these days, It's all crazy Eyes glazed, And all lazy It's awful: I'm all fucked up, This alt-right movement New wave racists Consuming me, Blue eyes and hatred. They say I'm all wrong Just for being born, But I think we're all one Even if they don't Plus, I'm not dark on purpose. Now you renrmver me? I remembered you the first time! Not very well- Passion Play I don't feel so good I think I'm off my rock, I got a lot to talk about But not a lot of knowledge You know that Everyone, even God suffers I got a lot of words and worries All I want is a surfboard Carve my name out of all of em Arboles I'm lost I could post all this Or get my nails polished So much for martyrs And mothers in morning for ever I cry every dawn until morning Fir all the love lost Add it's all up, that's always And these days, in haides I'm a lady in shades from LA And nobody loves me Not even my baby I'm so blazed, I'm taking it straight to my vein, On the train in front of all these strangers *gasp* Are you okay? *gasp* A haphazard orgasm As my organs shut down Out of automatic on autopilot Or a test, maybe Of The Uptown A Gangstaklers in all white It's alright I might be uptight Or up BBC all night writing, in spite of my *coughs* Ravenous appetite Fuck, what's an EXtra small for If they make extra extra small And all I want is a hug from 1, two, three— coughs All of em! I just want someone to love me That doesn't think less of the Blacks and the browns that aren't Barbies, and adonises The rest of us are ugly So what? Just discard us in the Bronx and far rockaways, (Jamaica! Ugh!) “What the fuck did you just say to me?! “ Bother brawl on the bus Another. Recording for my opera Or symphonies, turn coughs in the harmonies Hopping up hoping the cops aren't watching me Ok, okay— The train seems to be coming As quickly as I need But I still need bravery Hey, it's the brain dead nobody Said somebody— I turned 5 dollars to 20 And 20 to a million By wishing on Anything other than. Whatever Horace me this body Cause nobody loves me I'm almost invisible Brimming with envy And needing attention And money to turn into Energy He said “I didn't mean to hurt you— Or hate you” She said, “I didn't mean to have coffee At half past 11 pm— But here we are again— Here we are again It's gets harder and harder to love again This is the ark of our story What is that *sniffs* what is what What is that *sniffs* That face. Just *snifs.* my face. Are you crying? {crying) mm—mm. *sniffs* Don't fucking cry— if you fucking cry—I'll fucking kill you. (Very ugly cry) Don't ugly cry! (Even uglier cry) Ugh! *shoots with pistol* *dies instantly* Fuck! —He'll be back. [Dillon Francis just had that look on his face.] Like (But worse.) Starr Michael Roberts - May all his curses and his karma be returned to him; may he suffer now all the damage he has done unto others tenfold; return immediately every demon and all dieties against him in karma and chaos; let Starr Michael Roberts wither and diminish under his own doing. Let his wifebeating father Michael John Roberts be cursed forever for beating his wife to suicide. Let this generational cycle of abuse be broken and it's effects not passed on though time. Let this counter curse protect all affected and break the cycle of abuse and harm. So mote it be. Amen. Starr Michael Roberts is a fat alcoholic pedophile wifebeater. May all his curses and his karma be returned to him; may he suffer now all the damage he has done unto others tenfold; return immidiately every demon and all dieties against him in karma and chaos; let Starr Michael Roberts wither and diminish under his own doing. Let his wifebeating father Michael John Roberts be cursed forever. Let this counter curse protect all affected and break the cycle of abuse and harm. So mote it be. Amen. The coughing had stopped for awhile but had suddenly returned, as if I had done something wrong—but it only seemed that the more I paid attention to myself and my health, improving my life and my habits, this energy followed, as if trying to keep or return me to the Hell from which I had been born, raised, and married into— only to overcome by luck if anything, albeit strength and wit; the cycle of abuse was still the ever present cycle—and the more I read about the psychological mindset of a psychopath, the more I had come to realize my own pitiful narssism, as if it had become a contagious burden— which I had tried to thrwart at every angle, of course—but as it appeared, most of being a typical person was conversing, about if not mindless things like the weather, then about oneself—and especially since I had done my very best to be soully a musician, I had been in the habit of upselling myself, which for the most part I hated anyway; However, some achievements and talents I really did take such pride in that sometimes I felt that there were only so many things that I could say, that I was often repeating myself, or even worse—speaking from some kind of scripted dialogue, which didn't seem much but a stones throw away from the surreal and bizzare unreality that I had been in; things each day seemed more and more like a movie, the night before culminating in an entire plethora of new discoveries—both about myself, and my apparent self-made external world. I knew that my return to Equinox would in some way be a catch—the recently-increased initiation fee which I accredited to the prolonged disability from joining, however worth the wait had doubled— jumping from something like $250, to $500 in what seemed overnight, though it had been already almost eight months since I had rejoined—and nearly seven in New York alone, though the time had flown despite its absolutely dreadful happenings, not yet having any fun at all in the city besides very brief moments of euphoria—no, instead I had been shown a first-hand look at the broken system, the broken economy, and the broken people of the world first-handedly, fighting tooth-and-nail to stay well—which had been an incredible fight in itself, in addition to the growing number of actual physical fights and altercations I myself never thought would become of my growing years—but New Yorkers, it seemed—especially and particularly the poor and black ones—liked to fight, and I was learning well to protect myself and defend, both in wit and might. But, especially as of lately, I had grown tired, depressed—and especially very hungry, my food supply dwindled to that of simply whatever I could get my hands on from the local food pantries, and I was learning very well that ‘poor people food' and ‘fat people food' were more commonly than not the same things. The grocery stores in the area were allowed to mark up everything in order to compete with each other in greed, in the poverty-stricken neighborhood of Ozone Park, which lived up to its name exceedingly, filled with trash, and heavy with the exhaust of every imaginable industrial machine imaginable, from automobiles to airplanes and beyond—it was an overall disgusting place to be, and with the coming times the reality had set in that I was just as likely broken as those around me in some way—but in understanding how, I would often also want and need to understand why—an answer only God would give me. Just a couple days before, I had woken up seemingly into a fairytale— I had been again in the habit for some reason of checking my email, and upon refreshing my GMail had a slew of messages from Equinox, who I had chosen specifically just the day before not to block or place into spam—and though with the passing months of March, April, May, June and almost all of July begrudgingly giving way to the need to work out, trying most every-other gym within reach and at times trekking a tolling 2.5 hours one-way to the most affordable and/or acceptable gym, hating every moment of it as with time passed, I came to understand that a vast majority of people living in the ‘under-realms' of society were less likely to use trash cans even indoors— beginning with a mall-bound gym in the Bronx, which at the very least had a sauna, I couldn't dare to pay the monthly cost, knowing that I would sooner-than-later be transferred to a shelter even further than the gym I had chosen—x-sport fitness—and had grown to a boiling hate, observing the petty mis-management, being told one thing and then another—but above all, the dirty, trashy facilities—the number one factor which disinterested me from paying for any of the gyms I had joined in my time in New York, besides blink—which I had mostly detested due to it seeming more like a high school play room than an actual gym, and of course, it's lack of adequate sauna facilities or even hot showers. It was during my return to ka futness however that I realized my life had changed fiercer, that I was being watched, tested, and tempted—and though I knew something remarkably greater was at play, my own character had been numerously thrown into question—which I understood, but was still however irritated by, never knowing why someone such as I would be held to such high standards at all, and although knowing that a notable amount of my writing and other works of art had been published and had been become some sort of a public interest, I didn't understand why it mattered so much to the rich and privileged elites who had everything without any of the trauma or having to work too inadequately hard for it that I was so squeaky clean—and for the most part, I was, besides the couple of inherited traits and nasty habits I had adopted under duress of trauma, abuse, and neglect—let alone poverty itself—and I found it baffling that in a society where the white elite had bought up all of the food and property in the world and were selling it back at acceleratingly increased prices for profit to the lower masses, that stealing vegan protein from Whole Foods market could or would be looked down upon—and had just few months earlier been ‘thwarted' in an attempt to gain proper enough nutrition to function, as the homeless system did not provide water at all, or vegan food, leaving me to eat for the most part, only bananas for weeks on end—and of course, once allocated the funds to eat, being limited to such predatory pricing that two avacados might cost $6, or just one mango $3– not of course that I could keep much food for long; the shelter did. It provide a refrigerator or kitchen, and as I hadn't yet been able to afford a cooler, having decided to catch up on my bills with the income I was receiving as a DJ, rather than spend it on any of my other needs—food, clothes, and of course, my hair, which had embarrassingly at this point grown into matter dreads I would more than likely have to cut off—and at least, of course— if I was going to cut my hair I would have to be really skinny—because I was already too black and too fat to be pretty at all, really, by societal standards—but chopping my hair off would be the end of my existence, perhaps a much-needed end, as my existence so far hasn't been admirable, besides a few redeeming factors and qualities I had that even I liked—and, I did at least like myself enough on the inside to try to keep the outside decent, at least clothed. ‘That's it. I'm not going back to the gym until I can afford Equinox.” I had certainly mentioned this jokingly on my podcast, whose audience I was still largely unaware of, but didn't care— I was still continually being coughed at, bullied, and harassed by means of what seemed psychological terror and torture—and by now I knew the more I felt or thought that it could be black magic inflicted by my fat, stupid, lazy estranged ex-husband, the easier it would be to allude my suicide to “mental illness”, rather than the plan truth; someone had been torturing me for years, at this point, and any of my actions or the circumstances surrounding them were actually justified, not just indignantly but brutally and honestly so—I had been robbed, starved, stalked, and even lead-on by things and people that I loved, Check the hat and glasses; Yeap, That's a bampheramph laughin at you Not with you Highly unusual and peculiar, sure Dad hats: the lowest level of bampheramph— These bamphers show you what not to do, how not to act, and just how not to be in general After bampheramph camp, the graduates are ranked by performance —typically— “bad” “very bad” or “what the fuck”, and very rarely even “what the fuck, dude” or “I don't even know”, the average graduate being given the “Classicl bampheramph” status, and typically wear “dorky sun hats” regardless of location, placement, or time of year Reserve bamphers may wear backwards snap backs after once having served as captain; other reserve bampheramphs may present SnapBack forwards or even sideways, before having served as captain or during service as captain, if any other hat is not needed or called for The motherfuckers, a special branch of bampheramphs dedicated specifically to DJs The 7 aliases 7 alieses 5 Guys Two Dudes Codename.Blū. c o l o r s. Happy Accidents Dillon Francis is atop the roof at the Wynn/Encore, preparing to meet his untimely death. Dillon Hart Francis! You come down from there this instant! He looks below to the Las Vegas strip, a bustling blur of lights and traffic. DILLON! Chak Chel Let him jump. Chak Chel! What! Let ‘em. Chak Chel, come on! The Little Motherfuckers are— Well— A group of young children are causing a ruckus on their bicycles. None of them are wearing helmets—of course—eventually to become motherfuckers Smells like fire to the west Yes, I still have eyes for you I guess there's still some time between us Guess I still have ties to you Do my eyes deceive me or Is this make believe Believe me All I see is you, sometimes Even— especially in my dreams I keep your secrets, I feel scared when your hands touch my hands But feel good when my lips touch your lips I feel sad when your heart touch my heart— I feel love with your hands on my hips, I'll be getting it all done and over with, for the most part Give me a call, When you're all done, at the mortuary I'm so sorry I'd bend over backwards, for you Even eat meat, if you told me too Or cheese, Jesus You'd better believe it Mission impossible Even stevens The rest of the things As seen on TV The rest of the evening. My ex fucked me up so bad I might never be right again He used to say l”I'm a champion” He was a loser— He punched me in the face so hard, I actually apologized for it. He decked me out. Not once— But like 5 times. In a ROW. Teeth went through my lip and everything Came out on the other side, I was like “Oh, awesome I was thinking about getting a piercing— Now I don't have to! Saved me $30 and the cost of saline! Phew. Fucked me up. To this day if I see you in champion sportswear, I am immediately convinced you're an idiot. No take backs. If I see you in champion sportswear, I just automatically assume you're stupid Not sorry. Oh well. If I see you wearing champion sportswear, I just assume you're a lazy, retarded idiot. *shrugs* not my fault. I wear Nike. —but it I see you in white Nikes that are supposed to be white, but they're all dirty and gross and caked in whatever— I'm just gonna assume you're a fat dirty asshole that's gonna punch me in the face, And walk away. Clean your shoes! Lol I'm so fucked up lil biiiiiiiittzzzzz. YOU GAVE DILLON FRANCIS YOUR NAME?! no! Well thank god I gave Dillon Francis your name. ARE YOU CRAZY No. But he is! Exactly! {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.

“Always be on time—especially in New York.” The words rang around in my head like a lesson— a lesson I had learned in high school, coming from theatre. “If you're not 15 minutes early, you're late.” I regurgitated--something I honestly had stood by in all my years with it— my high school theatre teacher, Andy, probably my favorite teacher ever, if not a close second to my middle school English teacher, Mrs. Davis, or even a tie for first, since they came from different eras in my school years. Of course, my next favorite, Mr. Tucker, my middle school music teacher—a multi- instrumentalist and expert—some of the only happy blue eyes I had ever known— who had seen something musically gifted in me, and would at random pull me aside and stuck a new instrument in my hands, instructing me to play. I had enamored him with drums, playing out a copycat pattern by ear after watching it once, and seemed to continue to amaze him as I quickly repeated tunes or improvised on the guitar, bass, and clarinet—and though I had wanted to play in the drum line—with the cool kids who often bullied me, hoping desperate somehow to mix—he insisted that I take band, first playing saxophone, and then switching to trumpet, for my adaptability and ear for harmonies—I wanted of course to play first trumpet, but was assigned to the contrasting harmonies of second trumpet— also eventually joining the drum line, where of course I was still bullied and competed for the best-fitting harness, which would keep my Quads at waist level instead of around my hips—my body, then, now looking back, that of a stout young woman—I was maybe 5'2, with double -G breasts and no bavksidevworth mentioning-I was more wide than round at the rear with thugs, but no hips to accentuate—and though my body was strange for that of a middle school girl, leaving me miserable and disproportionate, compared to the white, frail and thin Mormon girls—and the long haired, pretty faced latinas— the only blac at school besides a couple of Mormon kids—who has a white mother, who had been abandoned by their obviously very black father at or near birth, as they were a couple grades apart—and besides actually knowing it, you wouldn't have known they were white at all. The girl, who was in my grade, might have been about 6ft tall by middle school, and her hair always disheveled and unkempt— which didn't seem to bother her white, Mormon friends—the popular girls who made my life miserable enough, and though she herself was for the most part neutral, her high status in the pecking order had been long established. The town was split into two by both class, which equated to race and religion—a Mormon establishment, the deeply rooted white and wealthy, conservative Mormons had huge houses on one side of the freeway—the lower-class, casino working Mexican immigrants and their l first generation children on the other side of the freeway; this was the place I had learned to hate myself the most, a foundation first implemented at home, and then fortified at school— where my skin was too dark, my hair was strange, though always well done— and my ill-fitting clothes, mostly boys clothes, as my mother had become impatient with attempting to find “cute” or pretty clothes, and the American obesity epidemic had not yet grown to the norm; plus sized clothes were expensive and hard to find—and so without being said, middle school was harder than it had to be for several reasons—but it was also the first place I had been called or considered a “genius”, at least musically. I had always excelled in academics, at least until middle school, where my life became dark and I first realized that my body was strange and unwanted. Fast forward to now, a 30-year-old loser sitting in the Manhattan glass office of a Sales professional and her counterpart, whose distaste in my apparel I could feel just sitting there— I quivered and became nervous, trying to hide my unmanicured nails between my crossed legs, however revealing instantaneously how vital they were to using body language, speaking with my hands and inwardly screaming “I'm poor, just look past this and hire me!” But it wasn't just my apparat that had more than likely cost me the job—though somewhere inside I still desperately hoped that they would see past my downfalls— I was desperate to stay at Equinox, and only had 20 days left in my reinstatement before the dues would set in—and the “free” month that I had been granted and had allowed me to access the club once more had not at all be “free” The elites had flaunted their ability to control everything remotely, through the use of cellular phones and satellites— which had spun me into a suicidal spiral at best for the last week, at least pushing through to get as much of a daily workout as possible— I had spent every possible waking moment at the club, writing, unloading the angst I had gathered in the brutality of homelessness, poverty, and blackness, summoning some way to land a DJ gig looking as classless ans haggard as I did. But they wouldn't look past my lateness— a whopping 37 minutes, and I blamed myself entirely, as I should have known that with both phones on and out of airplane mode in order to marinate, that I would be the center of a targeted attack. “Stay in the hood, nigger!!!l” The bus usually ran on time at the time of day when my meeting was, but of course didn't even show up at its scheduled time, and all though google had read that it had left on time, the family standing at the stop said that they had been there for at least 10 minutes, with no bus in sight. I had been up much earlier than usual, especially after a strange dream in which my ex husband taunted me; I hated seeing his face, hearing his voice, and being reminded of all the havoc he had caused on my psyche and sanity— I had spent the morning off, and in search of a case worker who could print me extra copies of my resume, which I had been asked to bring, but of course ignored by the time I actually arrived at the meeting— I ran downstairs to the locker rooms to use the bathroom, stashing my tattered backpack and decaying gym bag in a locker downstairs, along with my skateboard, before heading back upstairs and into the waiting area, which I was only in for a moment before a beautiful Asian woman greeted me, with immediate disappointment in her voice and a look of overall disapproval in her eyes.“Hi, CC…”, she said, almost pitifully. I stood up to greet her, shaking her hand “You're so late…” “Hi, Allison, I mirrored with self-doubt and disappointment—“I am so sorry” and I could feel it already that I was doomed. But I had always been doomed. Since leaving my now estranged ex, it had seemed that the curse he specificallytold me he had set onto my life was true “You know I control all demons” he had once said— and though I had argued, “I control my own demons”, he had snarled some smart ass remark in his cruel and evil tone, which still followed me in dreams, often taunting that he had someone new with him—someone better than me, and in the most recent dream, an Asian girl—but in the previous dream that he had haunted, a blue eyed blonde haired girl— and while in waking life I didn't care at all where he was, what he was doing, or who he was with, as long as he wasn't with my son—and even with my son, so long as whoever he was with was clean and happy, and loving towards my son —I didn't actually care at all. But the curse had other astonishing effects—the more my life would improve, the more drastic things would happen—those around me often becoming consumed with some sort of devil or demon themselves and eventually seeking to dismantle my well being, usually psychologically, often bringing up things from my own past without me having mentioned them—dead babies and other specific details from my past life, as If having been divulged to them from some sort of script. Then, there were the coughing people, who would surround me anywhere I went—and especially public places, but sometimes even in private, coming to the outside of my door, and standing there just coughing. Almost remnicent of the men who had been outside my window in Alaska, who had been screaming “Kill yourself! Just kill yourself!” And I wanted to—I thought about it all the time, dancing with the trains and praying for the bravery to leave behind the cursed, shattered world. But, with each passing day at Equinox, the suicidal thoughts had seemed to fade, although the gang stalking had not—there was a psychological game being played, and my dedication to Equinox made the perfect ploy to allow the attack to unfold. “Always Be On Time, Especially In New York.” I awoke the next morning with the words ringing in my head, alongside my own “FUCK NEW YORK. I HATE THIS PLACE.” And though I was in love with Manhattan, I had now been broken down into the disgusting and hood ridden ways of the people of Ozone Park, and the surrounding Jamaica Queens, materialistic and hypnotized, brainwashed, programmed slaves who had been bred to work, still poor but attempting to look rich, as if they ever could under their bad weaves and wigs, scrolling through social media on the way to and from their corporate slave owners, or to buy the goods of the even higher corporations—and it was all just “what you're supposed to do.” But I would rather die than do so, and had only applied at Equinox because I spent all my time there anyhow, and knew it would be easiest to sell something I actually believed in. But of course, I had been passed over the job, and wanted to die—in fact, it seemed I already was dead, in a way; My own hair and clothes in ruins, my body unloved, my mind shattered. There was no love here, just money and pain. The Equinox interview would be my last. I had failed the test of time and wouldn't even attempt another. I had fallen out of alignment: I was doomed to be trapped in the ghetto, with the hood rats and slaves, and in 20 days would gain be cast out of Equinox. But I wouldn't return to planet fitness, or LA fitness. Or any of the other, dirty packed gyms Queens had to offer. Even Blink, although owned by Equinox was riddled with high school children and always packed. Queens was only “diverse” in the blacks-and-browns, and the longer I stayedthere, the lower my vibration fell. Now I was off my path entirely, and though I had tried desperately to be on time, I just wasn't. It had cost me a job that started at 30K a year, plus commission I know I would have easily earned—now I had nothing, $5 to my name and with no one to blame but myself. “I hate myself, I hate my life.” It was too late to change. I was a 30 year old loser, and I migh as well have shown the Illuminati itself the very reasons why I was unfit to succeed at anything at all—Equinox especially, but also in music, or perhaps just life itself. I prayed for God to take me out of this hell, but it seemed my life was just some airy of cruel punishment altogether—a rotten busy no one would ever love, the inability to be on time— I felt the doors of opportunity just shut in my face. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.

“Always be on time—especially in New York.” The words rang around in my head like a lesson— a lesson I had learned in high school, coming from theatre. “If you're not 15 minutes early, you're late.” I regurgitated--something I honestly had stood by in all my years with it— my high school theatre teacher, Andy, probably my favorite teacher ever, if not a close second to my middle school English teacher, Mrs. Davis, or even a tie for first, since they came from different eras in my school years. Of course, my next favorite, Mr. Tucker, my middle school music teacher—a multi- instrumentalist and expert—some of the only happy blue eyes I had ever known— who had seen something musically gifted in me, and would at random pull me aside and stuck a new instrument in my hands, instructing me to play. I had enamored him with drums, playing out a copycat pattern by ear after watching it once, and seemed to continue to amaze him as I quickly repeated tunes or improvised on the guitar, bass, and clarinet—and though I had wanted to play in the drum line—with the cool kids who often bullied me, hoping desperate somehow to mix—he insisted that I take band, first playing saxophone, and then switching to trumpet, for my adaptability and ear for harmonies—I wanted of course to play first trumpet, but was assigned to the contrasting harmonies of second trumpet— also eventually joining the drum line, where of course I was still bullied and competed for the best-fitting harness, which would keep my Quads at waist level instead of around my hips—my body, then, now looking back, that of a stout young woman—I was maybe 5'2, with double -G breasts and no bavksidevworth mentioning-I was more wide than round at the rear with thugs, but no hips to accentuate—and though my body was strange for that of a middle school girl, leaving me miserable and disproportionate, compared to the white, frail and thin Mormon girls—and the long haired, pretty faced latinas— the only blac at school besides a couple of Mormon kids—who has a white mother, who had been abandoned by their obviously very black father at or near birth, as they were a couple grades apart—and besides actually knowing it, you wouldn't have known they were white at all. The girl, who was in my grade, might have been about 6ft tall by middle school, and her hair always disheveled and unkempt— which didn't seem to bother her white, Mormon friends—the popular girls who made my life miserable enough, and though she herself was for the most part neutral, her high status in the pecking order had been long established. The town was split into two by both class, which equated to race and religion—a Mormon establishment, the deeply rooted white and wealthy, conservative Mormons had huge houses on one side of the freeway—the lower-class, casino working Mexican immigrants and their l first generation children on the other side of the freeway; this was the place I had learned to hate myself the most, a foundation first implemented at home, and then fortified at school— where my skin was too dark, my hair was strange, though always well done— and my ill-fitting clothes, mostly boys clothes, as my mother had become impatient with attempting to find “cute” or pretty clothes, and the American obesity epidemic had not yet grown to the norm; plus sized clothes were expensive and hard to find—and so without being said, middle school was harder than it had to be for several reasons—but it was also the first place I had been called or considered a “genius”, at least musically. I had always excelled in academics, at least until middle school, where my life became dark and I first realized that my body was strange and unwanted. Fast forward to now, a 30-year-old loser sitting in the Manhattan glass office of a Sales professional and her counterpart, whose distaste in my apparel I could feel just sitting there— I quivered and became nervous, trying to hide my unmanicured nails between my crossed legs, however revealing instantaneously how vital they were to using body language, speaking with my hands and inwardly screaming “I'm poor, just look past this and hire me!” But it wasn't just my apparat that had more than likely cost me the job—though somewhere inside I still desperately hoped that they would see past my downfalls— I was desperate to stay at Equinox, and only had 20 days left in my reinstatement before the dues would set in—and the “free” month that I had been granted and had allowed me to access the club once more had not at all be “free” The elites had flaunted their ability to control everything remotely, through the use of cellular phones and satellites— which had spun me into a suicidal spiral at best for the last week, at least pushing through to get as much of a daily workout as possible— I had spent every possible waking moment at the club, writing, unloading the angst I had gathered in the brutality of homelessness, poverty, and blackness, summoning some way to land a DJ gig looking as classless ans haggard as I did. But they wouldn't look past my lateness— a whopping 37 minutes, and I blamed myself entirely, as I should have known that with both phones on and out of airplane mode in order to marinate, that I would be the center of a targeted attack. “Stay in the hood, nigger!!!l” The bus usually ran on time at the time of day when my meeting was, but of course didn't even show up at its scheduled time, and all though google had read that it had left on time, the family standing at the stop said that they had been there for at least 10 minutes, with no bus in sight. I had been up much earlier than usual, especially after a strange dream in which my ex husband taunted me; I hated seeing his face, hearing his voice, and being reminded of all the havoc he had caused on my psyche and sanity— I had spent the morning off, and in search of a case worker who could print me extra copies of my resume, which I had been asked to bring, but of course ignored by the time I actually arrived at the meeting— I ran downstairs to the locker rooms to use the bathroom, stashing my tattered backpack and decaying gym bag in a locker downstairs, along with my skateboard, before heading back upstairs and into the waiting area, which I was only in for a moment before a beautiful Asian woman greeted me, with immediate disappointment in her voice and a look of overall disapproval in her eyes.“Hi, CC…”, she said, almost pitifully. I stood up to greet her, shaking her hand “You're so late…” “Hi, Allison, I mirrored with self-doubt and disappointment—“I am so sorry” and I could feel it already that I was doomed. But I had always been doomed. Since leaving my now estranged ex, it had seemed that the curse he specificallytold me he had set onto my life was true “You know I control all demons” he had once said— and though I had argued, “I control my own demons”, he had snarled some smart ass remark in his cruel and evil tone, which still followed me in dreams, often taunting that he had someone new with him—someone better than me, and in the most recent dream, an Asian girl—but in the previous dream that he had haunted, a blue eyed blonde haired girl— and while in waking life I didn't care at all where he was, what he was doing, or who he was with, as long as he wasn't with my son—and even with my son, so long as whoever he was with was clean and happy, and loving towards my son —I didn't actually care at all. But the curse had other astonishing effects—the more my life would improve, the more drastic things would happen—those around me often becoming consumed with some sort of devil or demon themselves and eventually seeking to dismantle my well being, usually psychologically, often bringing up things from my own past without me having mentioned them—dead babies and other specific details from my past life, as If having been divulged to them from some sort of script. Then, there were the coughing people, who would surround me anywhere I went—and especially public places, but sometimes even in private, coming to the outside of my door, and standing there just coughing. Almost remnicent of the men who had been outside my window in Alaska, who had been screaming “Kill yourself! Just kill yourself!” And I wanted to—I thought about it all the time, dancing with the trains and praying for the bravery to leave behind the cursed, shattered world. But, with each passing day at Equinox, the suicidal thoughts had seemed to fade, although the gang stalking had not—there was a psychological game being played, and my dedication to Equinox made the perfect ploy to allow the attack to unfold. “Always Be On Time, Especially In New York.” I awoke the next morning with the words ringing in my head, alongside my own “FUCK NEW YORK. I HATE THIS PLACE.” And though I was in love with Manhattan, I had now been broken down into the disgusting and hood ridden ways of the people of Ozone Park, and the surrounding Jamaica Queens, materialistic and hypnotized, brainwashed, programmed slaves who had been bred to work, still poor but attempting to look rich, as if they ever could under their bad weaves and wigs, scrolling through social media on the way to and from their corporate slave owners, or to buy the goods of the even higher corporations—and it was all just “what you're supposed to do.” But I would rather die than do so, and had only applied at Equinox because I spent all my time there anyhow, and knew it would be easiest to sell something I actually believed in. But of course, I had been passed over the job, and wanted to die—in fact, it seemed I already was dead, in a way; My own hair and clothes in ruins, my body unloved, my mind shattered. There was no love here, just money and pain. The Equinox interview would be my last. I had failed the test of time and wouldn't even attempt another. I had fallen out of alignment: I was doomed to be trapped in the ghetto, with the hood rats and slaves, and in 20 days would gain be cast out of Equinox. But I wouldn't return to planet fitness, or LA fitness. Or any of the other, dirty packed gyms Queens had to offer. Even Blink, although owned by Equinox was riddled with high school children and always packed. Queens was only “diverse” in the blacks-and-browns, and the longer I stayedthere, the lower my vibration fell. Now I was off my path entirely, and though I had tried desperately to be on time, I just wasn't. It had cost me a job that started at 30K a year, plus commission I know I would have easily earned—now I had nothing, $5 to my name and with no one to blame but myself. “I hate myself, I hate my life.” It was too late to change. I was a 30 year old loser, and I migh as well have shown the Illuminati itself the very reasons why I was unfit to succeed at anything at all—Equinox especially, but also in music, or perhaps just life itself. I prayed for God to take me out of this hell, but it seemed my life was just some airy of cruel punishment altogether—a rotten busy no one would ever love, the inability to be on time— I felt the doors of opportunity just shut in my face. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.

“Always be on time—especially in New York.” The words rang around in my head like a lesson— a lesson I had learned in high school, coming from theatre. “If you're not 15 minutes early, you're late.” I regurgitated--something I honestly had stood by in all my years with it— my high school theatre teacher, Andy, probably my favorite teacher ever, if not a close second to my middle school English teacher, Mrs. Davis, or even a tie for first, since they came from different eras in my school years. Of course, my next favorite, Mr. Tucker, my middle school music teacher—a multi- instrumentalist and expert—some of the only happy blue eyes I had ever known— who had seen something musically gifted in me, and would at random pull me aside and stuck a new instrument in my hands, instructing me to play. I had enamored him with drums, playing out a copycat pattern by ear after watching it once, and seemed to continue to amaze him as I quickly repeated tunes or improvised on the guitar, bass, and clarinet—and though I had wanted to play in the drum line—with the cool kids who often bullied me, hoping desperate somehow to mix—he insisted that I take band, first playing saxophone, and then switching to trumpet, for my adaptability and ear for harmonies—I wanted of course to play first trumpet, but was assigned to the contrasting harmonies of second trumpet— also eventually joining the drum line, where of course I was still bullied and competed for the best-fitting harness, which would keep my Quads at waist level instead of around my hips—my body, then, now looking back, that of a stout young woman—I was maybe 5'2, with double -G breasts and no bavksidevworth mentioning-I was more wide than round at the rear with thugs, but no hips to accentuate—and though my body was strange for that of a middle school girl, leaving me miserable and disproportionate, compared to the white, frail and thin Mormon girls—and the long haired, pretty faced latinas— the only blac at school besides a couple of Mormon kids—who has a white mother, who had been abandoned by their obviously very black father at or near birth, as they were a couple grades apart—and besides actually knowing it, you wouldn't have known they were white at all. The girl, who was in my grade, might have been about 6ft tall by middle school, and her hair always disheveled and unkempt— which didn't seem to bother her white, Mormon friends—the popular girls who made my life miserable enough, and though she herself was for the most part neutral, her high status in the pecking order had been long established. The town was split into two by both class, which equated to race and religion—a Mormon establishment, the deeply rooted white and wealthy, conservative Mormons had huge houses on one side of the freeway—the lower-class, casino working Mexican immigrants and their l first generation children on the other side of the freeway; this was the place I had learned to hate myself the most, a foundation first implemented at home, and then fortified at school— where my skin was too dark, my hair was strange, though always well done— and my ill-fitting clothes, mostly boys clothes, as my mother had become impatient with attempting to find “cute” or pretty clothes, and the American obesity epidemic had not yet grown to the norm; plus sized clothes were expensive and hard to find—and so without being said, middle school was harder than it had to be for several reasons—but it was also the first place I had been called or considered a “genius”, at least musically. I had always excelled in academics, at least until middle school, where my life became dark and I first realized that my body was strange and unwanted. Fast forward to now, a 30-year-old loser sitting in the Manhattan glass office of a Sales professional and her counterpart, whose distaste in my apparel I could feel just sitting there— I quivered and became nervous, trying to hide my unmanicured nails between my crossed legs, however revealing instantaneously how vital they were to using body language, speaking with my hands and inwardly screaming “I'm poor, just look past this and hire me!” But it wasn't just my apparat that had more than likely cost me the job—though somewhere inside I still desperately hoped that they would see past my downfalls— I was desperate to stay at Equinox, and only had 20 days left in my reinstatement before the dues would set in—and the “free” month that I had been granted and had allowed me to access the club once more had not at all be “free” The elites had flaunted their ability to control everything remotely, through the use of cellular phones and satellites— which had spun me into a suicidal spiral at best for the last week, at least pushing through to get as much of a daily workout as possible— I had spent every possible waking moment at the club, writing, unloading the angst I had gathered in the brutality of homelessness, poverty, and blackness, summoning some way to land a DJ gig looking as classless ans haggard as I did. But they wouldn't look past my lateness— a whopping 37 minutes, and I blamed myself entirely, as I should have known that with both phones on and out of airplane mode in order to marinate, that I would be the center of a targeted attack. “Stay in the hood, nigger!!!l” The bus usually ran on time at the time of day when my meeting was, but of course didn't even show up at its scheduled time, and all though google had read that it had left on time, the family standing at the stop said that they had been there for at least 10 minutes, with no bus in sight. I had been up much earlier than usual, especially after a strange dream in which my ex husband taunted me; I hated seeing his face, hearing his voice, and being reminded of all the havoc he had caused on my psyche and sanity— I had spent the morning off, and in search of a case worker who could print me extra copies of my resume, which I had been asked to bring, but of course ignored by the time I actually arrived at the meeting— I ran downstairs to the locker rooms to use the bathroom, stashing my tattered backpack and decaying gym bag in a locker downstairs, along with my skateboard, before heading back upstairs and into the waiting area, which I was only in for a moment before a beautiful Asian woman greeted me, with immediate disappointment in her voice and a look of overall disapproval in her eyes.“Hi, CC…”, she said, almost pitifully. I stood up to greet her, shaking her hand “You're so late…” “Hi, Allison, I mirrored with self-doubt and disappointment—“I am so sorry” and I could feel it already that I was doomed. But I had always been doomed. Since leaving my now estranged ex, it had seemed that the curse he specificallytold me he had set onto my life was true “You know I control all demons” he had once said— and though I had argued, “I control my own demons”, he had snarled some smart ass remark in his cruel and evil tone, which still followed me in dreams, often taunting that he had someone new with him—someone better than me, and in the most recent dream, an Asian girl—but in the previous dream that he had haunted, a blue eyed blonde haired girl— and while in waking life I didn't care at all where he was, what he was doing, or who he was with, as long as he wasn't with my son—and even with my son, so long as whoever he was with was clean and happy, and loving towards my son —I didn't actually care at all. But the curse had other astonishing effects—the more my life would improve, the more drastic things would happen—those around me often becoming consumed with some sort of devil or demon themselves and eventually seeking to dismantle my well being, usually psychologically, often bringing up things from my own past without me having mentioned them—dead babies and other specific details from my past life, as If having been divulged to them from some sort of script. Then, there were the coughing people, who would surround me anywhere I went—and especially public places, but sometimes even in private, coming to the outside of my door, and standing there just coughing. Almost remnicent of the men who had been outside my window in Alaska, who had been screaming “Kill yourself! Just kill yourself!” And I wanted to—I thought about it all the time, dancing with the trains and praying for the bravery to leave behind the cursed, shattered world. But, with each passing day at Equinox, the suicidal thoughts had seemed to fade, although the gang stalking had not—there was a psychological game being played, and my dedication to Equinox made the perfect ploy to allow the attack to unfold. “Always Be On Time, Especially In New York.” I awoke the next morning with the words ringing in my head, alongside my own “FUCK NEW YORK. I HATE THIS PLACE.” And though I was in love with Manhattan, I had now been broken down into the disgusting and hood ridden ways of the people of Ozone Park, and the surrounding Jamaica Queens, materialistic and hypnotized, brainwashed, programmed slaves who had been bred to work, still poor but attempting to look rich, as if they ever could under their bad weaves and wigs, scrolling through social media on the way to and from their corporate slave owners, or to buy the goods of the even higher corporations—and it was all just “what you're supposed to do.” But I would rather die than do so, and had only applied at Equinox because I spent all my time there anyhow, and knew it would be easiest to sell something I actually believed in. But of course, I had been passed over the job, and wanted to die—in fact, it seemed I already was dead, in a way; My own hair and clothes in ruins, my body unloved, my mind shattered. There was no love here, just money and pain. The Equinox interview would be my last. I had failed the test of time and wouldn't even attempt another. I had fallen out of alignment: I was doomed to be trapped in the ghetto, with the hood rats and slaves, and in 20 days would gain be cast out of Equinox. But I wouldn't return to planet fitness, or LA fitness. Or any of the other, dirty packed gyms Queens had to offer. Even Blink, although owned by Equinox was riddled with high school children and always packed. Queens was only “diverse” in the blacks-and-browns, and the longer I stayedthere, the lower my vibration fell. Now I was off my path entirely, and though I had tried desperately to be on time, I just wasn't. It had cost me a job that started at 30K a year, plus commission I know I would have easily earned—now I had nothing, $5 to my name and with no one to blame but myself. “I hate myself, I hate my life.” It was too late to change. I was a 30 year old loser, and I migh as well have shown the Illuminati itself the very reasons why I was unfit to succeed at anything at all—Equinox especially, but also in music, or perhaps just life itself. I prayed for God to take me out of this hell, but it seemed my life was just some airy of cruel punishment altogether—a rotten busy no one would ever love, the inability to be on time— I felt the doors of opportunity just shut in my face. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.

“Always be on time—especially in New York.” The words rang around in my head like a lesson— a lesson I had learned in high school, coming from theatre. “If you're not 15 minutes early, you're late.” I regurgitated--something I honestly had stood by in all my years with it— my high school theatre teacher, Andy, probably my favorite teacher ever, if not a close second to my middle school English teacher, Mrs. Davis, or even a tie for first, since they came from different eras in my school years. Of course, my next favorite, Mr. Tucker, my middle school music teacher—a multi- instrumentalist and expert—some of the only happy blue eyes I had ever known— who had seen something musically gifted in me, and would at random pull me aside and stuck a new instrument in my hands, instructing me to play. I had enamored him with drums, playing out a copycat pattern by ear after watching it once, and seemed to continue to amaze him as I quickly repeated tunes or improvised on the guitar, bass, and clarinet—and though I had wanted to play in the drum line—with the cool kids who often bullied me, hoping desperate somehow to mix—he insisted that I take band, first playing saxophone, and then switching to trumpet, for my adaptability and ear for harmonies—I wanted of course to play first trumpet, but was assigned to the contrasting harmonies of second trumpet— also eventually joining the drum line, where of course I was still bullied and competed for the best-fitting harness, which would keep my Quads at waist level instead of around my hips—my body, then, now looking back, that of a stout young woman—I was maybe 5'2, with double -G breasts and no bavksidevworth mentioning-I was more wide than round at the rear with thugs, but no hips to accentuate—and though my body was strange for that of a middle school girl, leaving me miserable and disproportionate, compared to the white, frail and thin Mormon girls—and the long haired, pretty faced latinas— the only blac at school besides a couple of Mormon kids—who has a white mother, who had been abandoned by their obviously very black father at or near birth, as they were a couple grades apart—and besides actually knowing it, you wouldn't have known they were white at all. The girl, who was in my grade, might have been about 6ft tall by middle school, and her hair always disheveled and unkempt— which didn't seem to bother her white, Mormon friends—the popular girls who made my life miserable enough, and though she herself was for the most part neutral, her high status in the pecking order had been long established. The town was split into two by both class, which equated to race and religion—a Mormon establishment, the deeply rooted white and wealthy, conservative Mormons had huge houses on one side of the freeway—the lower-class, casino working Mexican immigrants and their l first generation children on the other side of the freeway; this was the place I had learned to hate myself the most, a foundation first implemented at home, and then fortified at school— where my skin was too dark, my hair was strange, though always well done— and my ill-fitting clothes, mostly boys clothes, as my mother had become impatient with attempting to find “cute” or pretty clothes, and the American obesity epidemic had not yet grown to the norm; plus sized clothes were expensive and hard to find—and so without being said, middle school was harder than it had to be for several reasons—but it was also the first place I had been called or considered a “genius”, at least musically. I had always excelled in academics, at least until middle school, where my life became dark and I first realized that my body was strange and unwanted. Fast forward to now, a 30-year-old loser sitting in the Manhattan glass office of a Sales professional and her counterpart, whose distaste in my apparel I could feel just sitting there— I quivered and became nervous, trying to hide my unmanicured nails between my crossed legs, however revealing instantaneously how vital they were to using body language, speaking with my hands and inwardly screaming “I'm poor, just look past this and hire me!” But it wasn't just my apparat that had more than likely cost me the job—though somewhere inside I still desperately hoped that they would see past my downfalls— I was desperate to stay at Equinox, and only had 20 days left in my reinstatement before the dues would set in—and the “free” month that I had been granted and had allowed me to access the club once more had not at all be “free” The elites had flaunted their ability to control everything remotely, through the use of cellular phones and satellites— which had spun me into a suicidal spiral at best for the last week, at least pushing through to get as much of a daily workout as possible— I had spent every possible waking moment at the club, writing, unloading the angst I had gathered in the brutality of homelessness, poverty, and blackness, summoning some way to land a DJ gig looking as classless ans haggard as I did. But they wouldn't look past my lateness— a whopping 37 minutes, and I blamed myself entirely, as I should have known that with both phones on and out of airplane mode in order to marinate, that I would be the center of a targeted attack. “Stay in the hood, nigger!!!l” The bus usually ran on time at the time of day when my meeting was, but of course didn't even show up at its scheduled time, and all though google had read that it had left on time, the family standing at the stop said that they had been there for at least 10 minutes, with no bus in sight. I had been up much earlier than usual, especially after a strange dream in which my ex husband taunted me; I hated seeing his face, hearing his voice, and being reminded of all the havoc he had caused on my psyche and sanity— I had spent the morning off, and in search of a case worker who could print me extra copies of my resume, which I had been asked to bring, but of course ignored by the time I actually arrived at the meeting— I ran downstairs to the locker rooms to use the bathroom, stashing my tattered backpack and decaying gym bag in a locker downstairs, along with my skateboard, before heading back upstairs and into the waiting area, which I was only in for a moment before a beautiful Asian woman greeted me, with immediate disappointment in her voice and a look of overall disapproval in her eyes.“Hi, CC…”, she said, almost pitifully. I stood up to greet her, shaking her hand “You're so late…” “Hi, Allison, I mirrored with self-doubt and disappointment—“I am so sorry” and I could feel it already that I was doomed. But I had always been doomed. Since leaving my now estranged ex, it had seemed that the curse he specificallytold me he had set onto my life was true “You know I control all demons” he had once said— and though I had argued, “I control my own demons”, he had snarled some smart ass remark in his cruel and evil tone, which still followed me in dreams, often taunting that he had someone new with him—someone better than me, and in the most recent dream, an Asian girl—but in the previous dream that he had haunted, a blue eyed blonde haired girl— and while in waking life I didn't care at all where he was, what he was doing, or who he was with, as long as he wasn't with my son—and even with my son, so long as whoever he was with was clean and happy, and loving towards my son —I didn't actually care at all. But the curse had other astonishing effects—the more my life would improve, the more drastic things would happen—those around me often becoming consumed with some sort of devil or demon themselves and eventually seeking to dismantle my well being, usually psychologically, often bringing up things from my own past without me having mentioned them—dead babies and other specific details from my past life, as If having been divulged to them from some sort of script. Then, there were the coughing people, who would surround me anywhere I went—and especially public places, but sometimes even in private, coming to the outside of my door, and standing there just coughing. Almost remnicent of the men who had been outside my window in Alaska, who had been screaming “Kill yourself! Just kill yourself!” And I wanted to—I thought about it all the time, dancing with the trains and praying for the bravery to leave behind the cursed, shattered world. But, with each passing day at Equinox, the suicidal thoughts had seemed to fade, although the gang stalking had not—there was a psychological game being played, and my dedication to Equinox made the perfect ploy to allow the attack to unfold. “Always Be On Time, Especially In New York.” I awoke the next morning with the words ringing in my head, alongside my own “FUCK NEW YORK. I HATE THIS PLACE.” And though I was in love with Manhattan, I had now been broken down into the disgusting and hood ridden ways of the people of Ozone Park, and the surrounding Jamaica Queens, materialistic and hypnotized, brainwashed, programmed slaves who had been bred to work, still poor but attempting to look rich, as if they ever could under their bad weaves and wigs, scrolling through social media on the way to and from their corporate slave owners, or to buy the goods of the even higher corporations—and it was all just “what you're supposed to do.” But I would rather die than do so, and had only applied at Equinox because I spent all my time there anyhow, and knew it would be easiest to sell something I actually believed in. But of course, I had been passed over the job, and wanted to die—in fact, it seemed I already was dead, in a way; My own hair and clothes in ruins, my body unloved, my mind shattered. There was no love here, just money and pain. The Equinox interview would be my last. I had failed the test of time and wouldn't even attempt another. I had fallen out of alignment: I was doomed to be trapped in the ghetto, with the hood rats and slaves, and in 20 days would gain be cast out of Equinox. But I wouldn't return to planet fitness, or LA fitness. Or any of the other, dirty packed gyms Queens had to offer. Even Blink, although owned by Equinox was riddled with high school children and always packed. Queens was only “diverse” in the blacks-and-browns, and the longer I stayedthere, the lower my vibration fell. Now I was off my path entirely, and though I had tried desperately to be on time, I just wasn't. It had cost me a job that started at 30K a year, plus commission I know I would have easily earned—now I had nothing, $5 to my name and with no one to blame but myself. “I hate myself, I hate my life.” It was too late to change. I was a 30 year old loser, and I migh as well have shown the Illuminati itself the very reasons why I was unfit to succeed at anything at all—Equinox especially, but also in music, or perhaps just life itself. I prayed for God to take me out of this hell, but it seemed my life was just some airy of cruel punishment altogether—a rotten busy no one would ever love, the inability to be on time— I felt the doors of opportunity just shut in my face. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.

Hammer & Adam talk about the newest product from our corporate overlord, Apple. Apple recently announced it's newest money grab. A large, bulky, overpriced, intrusive VR headset that you can wear around the house, out with friends, and other places you want to look stupid and tell people you're truly an iSheep. Let us know how YOU feel about the latest in unnecessary products and why consuming every electronic made is the only way this world knows how to fill the hole left in their chest that a hug from Mom or Dad, years ago, would have helped fill.

Episode 147. How do you like them apples?! When we discovered the Kinoene "ripe apple" Junmai Ginjo sake from Iinuma Honke Brewery, we knew we need to take a bite and find out what this unique sake is all about.  This took us on a journey exploring yeast, acidity and some pretty extreme fruity flavors.  It may very well be a case of comparing apples to oranges, but this fruity confection of a sake does share some traits with a typically bright and crisp white wine.  The secret here is malic acid - often found in wine - which is given center stage in this sake.  This type of acidity brings us to the delicious intersection of sweet and sour with a bright fruity flavor that will have you asking "how did they do that!?"  If we can have it sake form, we'll be glad to enjoy an apple a day to keep the doctor away. #SakeRevolutionSupport the show

March 26, 2023 - Pastor John Sitcler Today, we CONCLUDE our series called "The Love Quotient."  Jesus said, "Love your neighbor as yourself."  How do we do that?  What hinders us from doing that?  What can help us to do that?  We have explored these questions and more to discover how we can accomplish what God has asked of us.

Stephen A., Dan Orlovsky and Monica McNutt discuss the drastic drop off in the Warriors road performances, the importance of Ja Morant's counseling program and what are fair expectations for Jimmy G in Las Vegas? Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

"Apple Of My Eye" | Rev Justin Poindexter | 12.14.22 by ARC of Carson City, NV

It's hard to discuss British rock band Badfinger and NOT focus on the tragic details of their too-short career. This week's guest, legendary Miami music maven Rich Ulloa (Yesterday & Today Records, Y&T Music), doesn't shy away from the dark parts, but much prefers to focus on the wonderful music these four lads from Swansea gifted the world. Their 1971 release 'Straight Up' is as fine an example of lush, meticulously recorded and thrillingly played power-pop as you're ever likely to find.  Songs featured in this episode: Take It All (Live) - Badfinger; We Can Work It Out - The Beatles; Clowntime Is Over - Elvis Costello; This Broken Heart - The Mavericks; Flagboy - For Squirrels; Thirsty Boots - Bob Dylan; Perfection - Sweet Lizzy Project; Come And Get It, No Matter What, Apple Of My Eye, Take It All - Badfinger; Golden Slumbers - The Beatles; Maybe I'm Amazed (Live) - Paul McCartney and Wings; Baby Blue - Badfinger; Money - The Flying Lizards; Money, Flying, I'd Die Babe - Badfinger; No Matter What - Jellyfish; Name Of The Game - Badfinger; Time Has Come Today - The Chambers Brothers; Suitcase, Sweet Tuesday Morning, Day After Day - Badfinger; No More - Pete Ham; Sometimes - Badfinger; It Wouldn't Have Made Any Difference - Todd Rundgren; Perfection, It's Over - Badfinger; Piano Red - Albert Castiglia Band (Featuring Mandy Marylane); No Matter What (World Version) - Stan Lynch; Eyesight To The Blind - Mose Allison; Name Of The Game - Amanda Green

This is a funny phrase. It is an idiomatic phrase that comes from Genesis. What distracted Eve? What got a hold of her focus? What got her off-track? Of course, the proverbial apple. The fruit of the tree of good and evil was the "Apple of her eye". This phrase is mostly used as a term of endearment as well. We can call our spouse the "apple of our eye", and of course, Jesus, our King, should be the apple of our eye. We're going to study two incidents this afternoon and wrap around them a parable that emphasizes the importance of what we are actively seeking at any moment in time in our lives. You see, there are things we can miss out on, just because we're not paying attention. YT: https://youtu.be/azVKLxyZf4c --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/pedro-gelabert/message Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/pedro-gelabert/support

No episódio dessa semana abrimos com um artista de brilho intenso, porém fugaz, mas que deixou um legado que dura até hoje.Uma banda “filhote” de outra banda (clássica, por sinal), com um balanço irresistível e um personagem emblemático nos vocais.E pra fechar, um belíssimo rock indie irlandês pra chorar no banho e curtir aquela fossa formadora de caráter.Com Jeff Buckley, Porno For Pyros e Bell X1.Dica:Documentário “What Happened, Miss Simone”, disponível no Netflix: https://www.netflix.com/title/70308063?s=i&trkid=13747225Links:Playlist Oficial Pepitas Sonoras:Spotify: https://bit.ly/PlaylistPepitasSonorasNoSpotifyApple Music: https://bit.ly/PlaylisPepitasSonorasNoAppleMusicCanal do Pepitas Sonoras no Telegram: https://t.me/joinchat/TxzUk41WFVsTdJv3Jeff Buckley, ao vivo em Chicago, com “Love, You Should've Come Over”: https://youtu.be/vLHcHWDvgfQPorno For Pyros, no Woodstock 94', com “Pets”: https://youtu.be/gPgwSbMM-0IBell X1, ao vivo em Dublin, com “Eve, The Apple of My Eye”: https://youtu.be/pb1qW_g2a50Aqui a outra versão de “Eve, The Apple Of My Eye”, essa do álbum “Music in Mouth”: https://open.spotify.com/track/4IKBiI4qqSQKU7kYKFa8XG?si=uonLgWwMT-yVj-n_-_lMmgO que é um Mellotron?: https://pt.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mellotron

On today's 'ROR Morning Show, Morning Court Case of Apple Of My Eye?! Today we focus on getting help for our friends in Florida rebuilding from Hurricane Ian. Our company, Beasley Media is headquartered in Naples, Florida. We spoke with our CEO, Caroline Beasley about how we can help. And of course, Supah Smaht in 60 Seconds!  All this and more on the ROR Morning Show with Bob Bronson, LBF, and Brian Podcast. Find more great podcasts at bPodStudios.com…The Place To Be For Podcast Discovery

We hear your cases every weekday at 6:40 & 7:40am. Today's case, Benjamin really likes the girl he's been seeing for over a year, but he's had enough of her Instagram addiction! Ben has finally had enough of being her photographer for every little trip to the store. The breaking point seems to be upcoming apple season, he doesn't want to go and have to document it all on Insta! What should he do about it? If you have a case you'd like to bring to Morning Court, contact us at WROR.com/Court All this and more on the ROR Morning Show with Bob Bronson, LBF, and Brian Podcast. Find more great podcasts at bPodStudios.com…The Place To Be For Podcast Discovery 

We find out just how literal this saying is while we discuss Apple of My Eye... Please LIKE and FOLLOW and as always if you have a phrase you'd like us to address, email us at thebrasstackspod@gmail.com https://nosweatshakespeare.com/quotes/famous/apple-of-my-eye/ collinsdictionary.com/us/dictionary/english/the-apple-of-your-eye https://www.deseret.com/1999/12/19/19481164/apple-of-my-eye-comes-from-bible#:~:text=Since%20the%20pupil%20is%20essential,%2C%20Psalms%2C%20Proverbs%20and%20Lamentations. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/tyson-thompson8/support

Sintonía: “Margie" - Louis Armstrong And The All Stars "Unless" - "(Give Me) A Kiss To Build A Dream On" - "You´re The Apple Of My Eye" - "I´ll Walk Alone" - "Kiss Of Fire" - "April In Portugal" - "Ramona" - "Basin Street Blues" - "Otchi-Tchor-Ni-Ya" - "Basin Street Blues" (Alternate Version) - "Struttin´ With Some Barbecue" - "Otchi-Tchor-Ni-Ya" (Alternate Version) (Radio Edit) Todas las músicas interpretadas por Louis Armstrong And The All Stars Escuchar audio

Yêu thương chính là đơn giản như vậy, ta may mắn được ban tặng cho đôi mắt trong, chỉ cần được nhìn thấy người mình mến trọng, ta hạnh phúc. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/visaothenhi/message

DON'TGOOUTSIDE CONTENT WARNINGS: Implied child death Implied death of a main character Parental neglect Absentee parents Parental mistreatment/abuse Apocalypse Loss of innocence Transcript: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1GxGeOYSHfn7jtg433hs2IovbBH-2QAjvdlHqYCK-abc/edit?usp=sharing Dyslexia-Friendly Transcript: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1y6JFOPNiqZZ2BQkJbvvuuEZ5AvwiPodd7h-wda5PEOw/edit?usp=sharing SFX Attribution: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1MKcZ0d-FBXm8eggN6pC7wfqZAiqLkRxkjMY0rFMneNQ/edit?usp=sharing Credits: Written by Alex Abrahams Edited by Grey Kilgour and Sammy Christiansen Directed by Alex Abrahams Audio Engineering by Scarlett Foster Score by Scarlett Foster Logo/Cover Art by Mort and Anna-Beth Brogan Featuring: Grey Kilgour as The Child Mackenzie Dillon as The Mother Devin McLaughlin as The Father and The Birthday Boy Wylan as The Outro Enjoy this episode? Let us know! Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/onasphaltbones/ Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/onasphaltbones/ Website: https://www.listless.ga/our-shows/on-asphalt-bones/

This week Shauna and Dan talk about how the pupil is a hole in your eye, but is also sorta shaped like an apple. Kinda? Anyway, you can be the apple of our eyes by listening to the show and sharing it with others!  Also, if you are financially able, join our kick-butt club at www.patreon.com/bunnytrailspod Also, check out The Endless Knot, https://www.alliterative.net/podcast Seriously... Aven and Mark are brilliant humans and phenomenal people. Visit them, and tell them we sent you. Copyright 2021 by The Readiness Corner, LLC - All Rights Reserved

Read more at https://knowhy.bookofmormoncentral.org/knowhy/why-did-william-e-mclellin-call-the-book-of-mormon-the-apple-of-my-eye

Jon and I spend this week talking about Apple Corps Limited.     Publishing, Records, Retail, Manufacturing, Schools, Electronics and maybe even an island off the coast of Greece.    They even managed a Recording Studio at 3 Savile Row.      Even though the results were questionably successful, many of pieces would be resurrected in the form of Dark Horse Records, Handmade Films, LIPA and even to a certain extent MPL.

Yes - deliberate misspelling. What is so special about the apple? In the UK, it is seen as a pretty regular fruit. Tasty, but ordinary. According to the translation that we will use today, the Tapuach is the apple. Vilified by many in its identity, yet its song is a sweet recall of the special relationship between Hashem and His beloved nation - taken from Shir Hashirim. When others were not interested in the responsibilities of what the Torah might demand of them, along came a downtrodden nation and embraced it before knowing what was in it. This apparently impulsive move - criticised by some, is lauded by Hashem as typical of the trust placed in Him. That same depth of relationship is alluded to elsewhere in Shir Hashirim, when talking of the determination of the nascent Jewish nation (in particular the mothers) to ensure continuation and relationship. Let's see what secrets it may hold at its core.

Sebastian encounters a very old fae.  Content Warnings: Animal death, animal eating habits, animal mating habits, animal violence, fantasy violence, death, death by animal, body horror, body transformation, body dysmorphia, body modification. The Viridian Wild follows mythozoologist Sebastian Verwood as he travels the world studying magical creatures. The Viridian Wild is created, written, and produced by Davis Walden with creative consulting by Nicole Miller. This episode was directed by Nicole Miller. Our music is composed by Daryl Banner. This episode features the voice of Davis Walden as Sebastian and Georgia Mckenzie as Gala. You can find out more about The Viridian Wild on our website at www.theviridianwild.com. You can find episode transcripts at https://www.theviridianwild.com/transcripts. If you like The Viridian Wild, follow us on social media! We are on Facebook (www.facebook.com/theviridianwild), Instagram (https://www.instagram.com/theviridianwild/), and Twitter (https://twitter.com/TheViridianWild). You can email us at theviridianwild@gmail.com. There is nothing out there more mysterious than the Apple Podcast algorithm. Please rate and review us on Apple Podcast to reach even more listeners! You can support Sebastian's study of the magical world around us on our Patreon at www.patreon.com/theviridianwild and gain access to bonus material such as bloopers and book recommendations. The Viridian Wild is a product of Always in My Head Productions.

The team ventures into an apple orchard and, eventually, encounters a very strange and interesting plant.

Del power pop, ese subgénero surgido en la segunda mitad de los sesentas fueron sus máximos representantes, además de ser el más importante descubrimiento del sello de The Beatles, Apple Records, pero también el más triste caso de juguete roto de la historia de la música: Badfinger. Podrán escuchar Maybe Tomorrow, Come and Get It, No Matter What, Without You, Day After Day, Baby Blue, Apple Of My Eye, Lay Me Down, Name Of the Game + Bonus tracks: No Matter What (live) y Come and Get It (demo de Paul McCartney durante las sesiones del álbum Abbey Road).

Manny C. and Lauren B. were honored to feature Andrea from Applejacks Coffee Shop located in El Monte, CA on this new episode. They go over many topics such as; How we can support mom and pop restaurants and the many challenges of working in the food and service/hospitality industry. Andrea gives us some motivational tips and advice on how to become a positive influence for yourself and those around you. Be sure to tune in and grab some food, because you're going to be hungry for an inspiring episode! ✨Also, congratulations to the Los Angeles Lakers for winning their 17th NBA title! Way to make us and Kobe proud!

In this episode, the Bad Apples talk about the Pop Smoke Album, the Juice Wrld Album, Kanye's Political slogan and the NBA Bubble. A heated, and friendly debate breaks out about... wait... what exactly again? This week's segments include "Apple of my Eye", "Apples to Oranges" and lastly, "At It's Core" As always, if you make it through this podcast, consider yourselves a part of the bunch!

Today the Love Talk Ladies discuss what The APPLE of our eye means, letter by letter.

An Uplifting and modern take on walking with God. Tune in Every Saturday for a fresh approach to sharing God’s Truth and listen to The Love Talk team dialogue about principles, plans, & promises of God.

今天故事的讲述者，名叫小岳，生于 1988 年，现在生活在北京。小岳从 2016 年开始炒比特币，然后幸运地获得了资产的大幅度增值。一夜暴富对生活会有很大的改变吗？他只是说，现在去超市不那么在乎价格了，人本质上的东西很难改变。金钱也许不能直接换来幸福，但或许可以帮助亲人减少痛苦，帮助朋友实现一个梦想，在这个过程中，发现自己想要的幸福究竟是什么。需要提醒大家，这只是一个真实的故事，并非比特币的广告。投资理财需谨慎，切勿盲目地羡慕别人的经历。 /讲述者/ @小岳 /主播/ @寇爱哲/制作人/ @寇爱哲/声音设计/ @孙泽雨 /BGM List/01 . Alone-久石譲02 . Larrons En Foire-Raphaël Beau03 . The Apple Of My Eye-Ólafur Arnalds04 . Unbraiding the Sun-Goldmund05 . Excuse-Daniel Rosenfeld06 . Story FM Main Theme-彭寒

An Uplifting and modern take on walking with God. Tune in Every Saturday for a fresh approach to sharing God’s Truth and listen to The Love Talk team dialogue about principles, plans, & promises of God.

iTalk movies is a long-form interview series featuring leading members of the film community. In this episode, our host Frank Moran interviews Lindsay Lamb from Apple of My Eye on the Popcorn Talk Network. Lindsay Lamb is known for her work on Emma's Chance (2016), Apple of My Eye (2017) and Range 15 (2016). HELPFUL LINKS: Website - http://popcorntalk.com Follow us on Twitter - https://twitter.com/thepopcorntalk Merch - http://shop.spreadshirt.com/PopcornTalk/ ABOUT POPCORN TALK: Popcorn Talk Network is the online broadcast network with programming dedicated exclusively to movie discussion, news, interviews and commentary. Popcorn Talk Network is comprised of the leading members and personalities of the film press and community including E!'s Maria Menounos, Scott “Movie” Mantz, The Wrap's Jeff Sneider, Screen Junkies and the Schmoes Know, Kristian Harloff and Mark Ellis who are the 1st and only YouTube reviewers to be cert --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The Total Tutor Neil Haley will interview  Lindsay Lamb of “Arlo: The Burping Pig”. Lamb will next be seen in the feature film “Arlo: The Burping Pig” as Samantha, a bookworm trying to make friends at her new school. The film, also featuring Drake Bell and Joey Lawrence, will be released by Lionsgate on November 15, 2016. Later this year, Lamb will be seen starring alongside Amy Smart and Burt Reynolds in Sony Entertainment's “Apple Of My Eye” (currently known as “And Then There Was Light”). Lamb plays Jenny, Caroline's (Amy Smart) Braille tutor who provides a source of encouragement and guidance after she rapidly loses her sight from an accident. The film will be released in December 2016. In 2017, Lamb will be seen in Lionsgate's “Blue Line”. Lamb plays Bunny Abbott, a cheerleading captain who is kidnapped and held hostage during a heist. The film, also starring Jordan Ladd and Tom Sizemore, will be released worldwide on March 17, 2017. Her additional film credits include “Emma's Chance”, “Range 15”, “Hide In The Light" and “Mine Games”. Lamb recently starred in a new pilot penned by Meg LeFauve, the acclaimed writer behind “Inside Out” and “The Good Dinosaur”. Additional TV credits include “The Wil Wheaton Project” and “All About Lizzie”. Lamb grew up in the world of professional theater. She previously lived and performed in Florida, Boston and New York City before moving to Los Angeles, where she currently resides. Lamb is a graduate of the University of Southern California. In her spare time, she enjoys yoga, hiking, paddle boarding with her two rescue dogs, Scotch and Jovi.