Podcasts about does it matter

A new book by the Pulitzer Prize finalist Nicholas Carr is always a major event. And today's release of SUPERBLOOM: How Technologies of Connection Tear Us Apart offers a prescient critique of our social media age. As Carr explains, our assumption that more communication leads to better understanding is fundamentally wrong. Instead, he suggests that excessive communication through digital platforms actually tears people apart. Carr's use of the “Superbloom” metaphor refers to an actual 2019 event in Southern California where people flocked to photograph wildflowers for social media, trampling the actual flowers in pursuit of the perfect image. Carr uses this as a metaphor for how we increasingly experience reality through online media rather than directly. Carr challenges the idea that new communication technologies automatically bring people together, noting how previous innovations like the telegraph and telephone came with similar utopian promises that were never fulfilled. He argues that modern smartphones and social media have created an unprecedented environment where we're constantly connected and socializing, which conflicts with how humans evolved to interact in bounded, physical spaces. Rather than offering simple solutions, Carr advocates for more mindful technology use and speculates that future generations might reject constant digital connectivity in favor of more meaningful direct experiences.Nicholas Carr writes about the human consequences of technology. His books, including the Pulitzer Prize finalist The Shallows: What the Internet Is Doing to Our Brains and the forthcoming Superbloom: How Technologies of Connection Tear Us Apart, have been translated into more than twenty-five languages. He has recently been a visiting professor of sociology at Williams College, and earlier in his career he was executive editor of the Harvard Business Review. In 2015, he received the Neil Postman Award for Career Achievement in Public Intellectual Activity from the Media Ecology Association. He writes the Substack newsletter New Cartographies. A New York Times bestseller when it was first published in 2010 and now hailed as “a modern classic,” Carr's The Shallows remains a touchstone for debates on the internet's effects on our thoughts and perceptions. A second edition of The Shallows, updated with a new chapter, was published in 2020. Carr's 2014 book The Glass Cage: Automation and Us, which the New York Review of Books called a “chastening meditation on the human future,” examines the personal and social consequences of our ever growing dependency on computers, robots, and artificial intelligence. His latest book, Utopia Is Creepy, published in 2016, collects his best essays, blog posts, and other writings from the past dozen years. The collection is “by turns wry and revelatory,” wrote Discover. Carr is also the author of two other influential books, The Big Switch: Rewiring the World, from Edison to Google (2008), which the Financial Times called “the best read so far about the significance of the shift to cloud computing,” and Does IT Matter? (2004).Named as one of the "100 most connected men" by GQ magazine, Andrew Keen is amongst the world's best known broadcasters and commentators. In addition to presenting KEEN ON, he is the host of the long-running How To Fix Democracy show. He is also the author of four prescient books about digital technology: CULT OF THE AMATEUR, DIGITAL VERTIGO, THE INTERNET IS NOT THE ANSWER and HOW TO FIX THE FUTURE. Andrew lives in San Francisco, is married to Cassandra Knight, Google's VP of Litigation & Discovery, and has two grown children.Keen On is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit keenon.substack.com/subscribe

Nicholas Carr has been amongst the most persistently prescient observers of the digital revolution over the last quarter century. Take, for example, his 2012 essay "The Arc of Innovation Bends Towards Decadence," which, in many ways, foresaw our current technological and social predicament. Carr's thesis was that technological innovation increasingly moves toward fulfilling self-indulgent desires rather than addressing fundamental human needs, following a pattern similar to Maslow's hierarchy of needs. Carr accurately predicted the shift from idealistic views of technology as tools for self-actualization to their current role in feeding narcissism and anxiety. The timing of his essay proved particularly significant, as 2012 marked a crucial turning point when smartphones became dominant and social media reached mass adoption. This period coincided with what social psychologists like Jonathan Haidt identify as the beginning of a sharp rise in anxiety and decline in self-confidence, especially among young people. Carr's insights extend to current debates about AI, where he sees a potentially "decadent" trend of outsourcing fundamental human activities like writing and thinking to machines. He frames this as part of a broader pattern where technology, instead of enhancing human capabilities (in the manner of Steve Jobs' "bicycle for the mind"), increasingly substitutes for them entirely. Most notably, Carr recognized early on that digital technologies, while promising connection and democratization, often trigger "our worst instincts." His analysis helps explain why, despite growing awareness of social media's negative effects, we remain unable to disentangle ourselves from these technologies - a phenomenon he describes as "mis-wanting." Essential stuff, as always, from the great Nick Carr.Nicholas Carr writes about the human consequences of technology. His books, including the Pulitzer Prize finalist The Shallows: What the Internet Is Doing to Our Brains and the forthcoming Superbloom: How Technologies of Connection Tear Us Apart, have been translated into more than twenty-five languages. He has recently been a visiting professor of sociology at Williams College, and earlier in his career he was executive editor of the Harvard Business Review. In 2015, he received the Neil Postman Award for Career Achievement in Public Intellectual Activity from the Media Ecology Association. He writes the Substack newsletter New Cartographies. A New York Times bestseller when it was first published in 2010 and now hailed as “a modern classic,” Carr's The Shallows remains a touchstone for debates on the internet's effects on our thoughts and perceptions. A second edition of The Shallows, updated with a new chapter, was published in 2020. Carr's 2014 book The Glass Cage: Automation and Us, which the New York Review of Books called a “chastening meditation on the human future,” examines the personal and social consequences of our ever growing dependency on computers, robots, and artificial intelligence. His latest book, Utopia Is Creepy, published in 2016, collects his best essays, blog posts, and other writings from the past dozen years. The collection is “by turns wry and revelatory,” wrote Discover. Carr is also the author of two other influential books, The Big Switch: Rewiring the World, from Edison to Google (2008), which the Financial Times called “the best read so far about the significance of the shift to cloud computing,” and Does IT Matter? (2004).Named as one of the "100 most connected men" by GQ magazine, Andrew Keen is amongst the world's best known broadcasters and commentators. In addition to presenting KEEN ON, he is the host of the long-running How To Fix Democracy show. He is also the author of four prescient books about digital technology: CULT OF THE AMATEUR, DIGITAL VERTIGO, THE INTERNET IS NOT THE ANSWER and HOW TO FIX THE FUTURE. Andrew lives in San Francisco, is married to Cassandra Knight, Google's VP of Litigation & Discovery, and has two grown children. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit keenon.substack.com/subscribe

Getting to Know Mia Schachter : Consent Wizardry on Free Will & Gender In this captivating episode, Cameron sits down with Mia Schachter, a dynamic "Consent Wizard" whose work delves deep into the realms of free will, gender, and human connection. They explore thought-provoking themes like tearing down binaries, the intersection of philosophy and neuroscience on free will, and finding purpose through creative work. Mia brings profound insights into cultivating connection in daily life, breaking free from societal norms, and aligning their work with personal values. From redefining consent as deep listening to exploring gender identity and expression, this conversation is rich with personal stories, philosophical reflections, and practical wisdom for embracing authentic, conscious living. Whether you're curious about fate, identity, or the art of meaningful dialogue, this journey with Mia offers a blend of deep reflection and uplifting takeaways. #ConsentWizard #FreeWill #GenderIdentity #Philosophy #DeepListening #Spirituality #BreakingBinaries #HumanConnection #CultivatingConnection #CreativePurpose #SocietalNorms #SomaticAwareness #Mindfulness #PronounsMatter #PhilosophicalDebate #EverydayConnection #HealingJourney #RedefiningConsent #MaxSilver #GenderExpression #FateAndPurpose Chapters 00:00 - Highlight 01:20 - Introduction 03:11 - Who Is Mia Schachter? 07:26 - Free Will & Determinism 12:19 - Difference Between Fate & Destiny 14:00 - Does It Matter? 18:18 - Hypocrisy In Human Behavior 19:00 - Mia's Belief In God 24:49 - What Is Consent? 30:47 - Aligning Work With Personal Values 39:01 - Reflecting On Purpose & Career 42:40 - Who Is Max Silver? 45:31 - Gender Identity & Expression 56:06 - The Impact Of Pronouns On Mia's Life 59:22 - The Pendulum Swing Of "No" 1:09:20 - Question For Audience If you enjoyed this thought-provoking conversation, don't forget to like

Dr. Don and Professor Ben talk about the risks posed by inexperienced home chefs and potlucks. Dr. Don - not risky

This episode came on the heels of a traumatic, eight-interview sprint in NYC. As you'll see, this one was particularly chaotic, but the stars aligned to make it happen. Camera switches, bathroom breaks, health concerns, equipment malfunctions, and even a robbery didn't prevent the conversation from coming together. With this in mind, I hope you'll forgive how crazy and inconsistent the video is; the fact that it even got put together is courtesy of my friend and editor Yu Guo (a philosopher who got his PhD from NYU with past guest Paul Boghossian). Given that there's some new intro music, and you're already getting an abundance of distracting production nuggets, I decided to show the soup being made. My thanks go to Richard, who met with me twice in three days (not to mention his wife, who allowed it), and Michael, who put up with me for over four hours. - Robinson P.S. Toward the end of the episode Michael eats a jerky stick from Maui Nui Venison, which is a company operating out of Hawaii that manages the invasive deer population of Maui that is decimating the landscape. Instead of culling the animals and disposing of their bodies, the meat is butchered and sold. It is the only meat I eat, full-stop, and the ethical reasons are sufficient for this, but it is also the best meat that I have ever had. I reached out to Maui Nui and told them that I support what they are doing and would like to be of any help that I can. They gave me this coupon code—ROBINSON—which you can use for 15% off. I am not being paid for this in any way. I believe in what they are doing and I want this model to succeed. People are going to be eating meat for the foreseeable future and I would be happier if it was not factory-farmed meat. So please check Maui Nui out and give them a try! Richard Wolff is Professor Emeritus of Economics at the University of Massachusetts Amherst and a visiting professor at The New School, where he works on economics in the Marxist tradition. Michael Hudson is Distinguished Research Professor of Economics at the University of Missouri, Kansas City and President of the Institute for the Study of Long-Term Economic Trends. He researches domestic and international finance, the history of economics, and the role of debt in shaping class stratification, among many other topics. OUTLINE 00:00 Introduction 00:51 Michael and Rick's Histories with Marx 16:50 A Marxless Education 29:42 Marxism and the West 35:18 Marx and the Emergence of Capitalism 43:59 Socialism Vs State Capitalism 49:21 The Culmination of Economics in Marx 57:16 The Crucial Features of Marxism 1:12:15 Marx, China, and the BRICS 1:25:57 The Laws of Motion of Finance Capitalism 1:28:58 Why Won't Mainstream Media Interview Michael Hudson and Richard Wolff? 1:42:16 Why is the American Empire Crumbling? 1:54:51 Is the Dollar Destroying the United States? 2:01:38 Marx as the Culmination of Classical Economics 2:10:19 Will Trump's China Tariff Policy Spell Disaster for America? 2:22:43 Is Trump's Policy on Russia Idiotic? 2:27:23 Does It Matter for America Who Wins the Election? 2:37:13 Michael's Rhetorical Abilities 2:43:54 How Can We Use Economics to Forecast the Future? 2:54:48 Does Paul Krugman Know Anything About Economics? 2:57:57 How Michael Got His PhD 3:04:59 What's Wrong With the Nobel Prize in Economics? 3:10:04 The Long and Short of Marx's Kapital 3:17:20 Capitalism and Labor 3:31:51 The Biggest Myth About Karl Marx --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/robinson-erhardt/support

The post Burial or Cremation, Does It Matter? appeared first on University Reformed Church.

What makes normal people do terrible things? Are there really bad apples — or just bad barrels? And how should you deal with a nefarious next-door neighbor? SOURCES:Jonathan Haidt, professor of ethical leadership at New York University's Stern School of Business.Christina Maslach, professor of psychology at the University of California, Berkeley.Stanley Milgram, 20th century professor of psychology at Yale University.Edward R. Murrow, 20th century American broadcast journalist and war correspondent.Alexander Pope, 17-18th century English poet.Adrian Raine, professor of criminology, psychiatry, and psychology at the University of Pennsylvania.Oskar Schindler, 20th century German businessman.Philip Zimbardo, professor emeritus of psychology at Stanford University. RESOURCES:"Mental Illness and Violence: Debunking Myths, Addressing Realities," by Tori DeAngelis (Monitor on Psychology, 2021)."How 'Evil' Became a Conservative Buzzword," by Emma Green (The Atlantic, 2017)."The Double-Edged Sword: Does Biomechanism Increase or Decrease Judges' Sentencing of Psychopaths?" by Lisa G. Aspinwall, Teneille R. Brown, and James Tabery (Science, 2012)."The Psychology of Evil," by Philip Zimbardo (TED Talk, 2008).The Lucifer Effect: Understanding How Good People Turn Evil, by Philip Zimbardo (2007)."When Morality Opposes Justice: Conservatives Have Moral Intuitions that Liberals may not Recognize," by Jonathan Haidt and Jesse Graham (Social Justice Research, 2007)."Abu Ghraib Whistleblower Speaks Out," by Michele Norris (All Things Considered, 2006).Obedience to Authority: An Experimental View, by Stanley Milgram (1974). EXTRAS:"Does Free Will Exist, and Does It Matter?" by No Stupid Questions (2024)."Are You Suffering From Burnout?" by No Stupid Questions (2023).Lolita, by Vladimir Nabokov (1955)."Essay on Man, Epistle II," poem by Alexander Pope (1733).

Are you ready to uncover the habits that might be silently eroding your wealth journey? It's not just about how much money you make; it's about the behaviors, choices, and habits that define your financial future!In today's episode, I dive deep into the alarming financial habits that many of us fall into without even realizing it. From aimless spending to normalizing debt, I break down these detrimental practices and provide actionable solutions to reverse the damage. I walk you through essential steps to get intentional with your money, prioritize investing, track your numbers, and much more, so you can claim the financial freedom that is your birthright.Want to take control of your financial destiny and pave your way to wealth? Tune in to the full episode now!IN TODAY'S EPISODE, I DISCUSS: The importance of intentional spending and setting financial goals The impact of financial literacy on your money journey Prioritizing investing over lifestyle spendingRECOMMENDED EPISODES FOR YOU If you liked this episode, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning Process to Achieve Your GoalsHow to Get the Right CPA & Why It MattersDemystifying Your Credit Score & Does It MatterWhat to Do Today to Pay Less Tax and Keep More Money   RECOMMENDED VIDEOS FOR YOU If you liked this video, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning  Process to Achieve Your Goals: https://youtu.be/Ip7kLKXNj2Y How to Get the Right CPA & Why It Matters: https://youtu.be/zj26Wwqe0bk Demystifying Your Credit Score & Does It Matter: https://youtu.be/emgKYPy6Quw What to Do Today to Pay Less Tax and Keep More Money: https://youtu.be/tZHKIgr_TIM PRE-ORDER MY NEW BOOK:Building Your Money Machine: How to Get Your Money to Work Harder For You Than You Did For It! The key to building the life you desire and deserve is to build your Money Machine—a powerful system designed to generate income that's no longer tied to your work or efforts. This step-by-step guide goes beyond the general idea of personal finance and wealth creation and reveals the holistic approach to transforming your relationship with money to allow you to enjoy financial freedom and peace of mind.Part money philosophy, part money mindset, part strategy, and part tactical action, these powerful frameworks will show you how to build your money machine.TAKE THE FINANCIAL FREEDOM QUIZ:Take this free quiz to see where you are on the path to financial freedom and what your next steps are to move you to a new financial destiny at http://www.YourFinancialFreedomQuiz.com  

Ready to change your financial future with your first $10K? It's not just a small step—it's the start of something monumental!In today's episode, I delve into why saving your first $10K can be a game-changer in your financial journey. I share the inspiring story of Sylvia Bloom—a legal secretary who amassed over $9 million by focusing on key wealth drivers. You'll learn why it's not about how much you make but what you do with your money that matters. We break down the four crucial wealth drivers that will propel your financial journey and discuss how building this initial $10K infuses you with skills, habits, and a mindset destined for wealth.Want to transform your financial future and master the money game? Tune in to the full episode now!IN TODAY'S EPISODE, I DISCUSS: The importance of the first $10K in your financial journey Sylvia Bloom's inspiring journey from modest salary to millionaire The four critical wealth drivers: income, savings rate, returns, and time RECOMMENDED EPISODES FOR YOU If you liked this episode, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning Process to Achieve Your GoalsHow to Get the Right CPA & Why It MattersDemystifying Your Credit Score & Does It MatterWhat to Do Today to Pay Less Tax and Keep More Money    RECOMMENDED VIDEOS FOR YOU If you liked this video, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning  Process to Achieve Your Goals: https://youtu.be/Ip7kLKXNj2Y How to Get the Right CPA & Why It Matters: https://youtu.be/zj26Wwqe0bk Demystifying Your Credit Score & Does It Matter: https://youtu.be/emgKYPy6Quw What to Do Today to Pay Less Tax and Keep More Money: https://youtu.be/tZHKIgr_TIM PRE-ORDER MY NEW BOOK:Building Your Money Machine: How to Get Your Money to Work Harder For You Than You Did For It! The key to building the life you desire and deserve is to build your Money Machine—a powerful system designed to generate income that's no longer tied to your work or efforts. This step-by-step guide goes beyond the general idea of personal finance and wealth creation and reveals the holistic approach to transforming your relationship with money to allow you to enjoy financial freedom and peace of mind.Part money philosophy, part money mindset, part strategy, and part tactical action, these powerful frameworks will show you how to build your money machine.TAKE THE FINANCIAL FREEDOM QUIZ:Take this free quiz to see where you are on the path to financial freedom and what your next steps are to move you to a new financial destiny at http://www.YourFinancialFreedomQuiz.com  

You've just finished writing an awesome blog post and you're ready to hit the publish button. Or ARE you? What's the next move here? Should you publish your post now or schedule it to go live at some optimal time? Let's talk about it.Episode Highlights:Does It Matter to Website Visitors?Does It Matter to Google?Does It Matter to Pinterest?Resources Mentioned:Episode 2: Is Blogging Dead?https://instagram.com/stephanieroyersolutionsIf you enjoyed this episode, please leave a review on Apple Podcasts so we can help as many teacher business owners as possible:Looking for more organic traffic resources?Dive into my signature course: Bring Your Own Traffic!Check out my favorite places to look for fresh blog post ideas!Or if you're ready to hire support for blogging and Pinterest, check out my services.(affiliate link) My favorite place to keep my blogging and Pinterest assets organized.Let's connect on InstagramMentioned in this episode:It's time to bring your own traffic--> Does this episode have you dreaming about having a blog that sends you TPT traffic on autopilot? My self-paced course, Bring Your Own Traffic, has streamlined video lessons that are designed with you in mind. You don't have to spend hours sorting through fluff in order to find the nuggets that apply to your business. BYOT outlines the exact strategy that I use to get my clients - teacher business owners just like you - ranking at the top of Google search results. I'd love to help you get your amazing resources in front of more teachers through blogging! Head to stephanieroyer.podia.com to take a closer look.

Ever wonder what sets the financially free apart from the rest of us? It's all about leveraging the right assets.In today's episode, I dive deep into the nine assets that are making people rich and allowing them to live lives of choice and freedom. From cash for liquidity and opportunities to the power of index funds and real estate, I cover it all. Plus, I'll share the story of how a six-year-old highlighted the importance of breaking free from the earnings-efforts treadmill.If you're ready to start building your money machine and want to understand how to invest in assets that separate your earnings from the effort to earn them, this episode is for you!IN TODAY'S EPISODE, I DISCUSS: The significance of having cash reserves for emergencies and opportunitiesThe benefits and risks of bonds and stocksWhy mutual funds and ETF's are safer picks for beginners RECOMMENDED EPISODES FOR YOU If you liked this episode, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning Process to Achieve Your GoalsHow to Get the Right CPA & Why It MattersDemystifying Your Credit Score & Does It MatterWhat to Do Today to Pay Less Tax and Keep More Money   RECOMMENDED VIDEOS FOR YOU If you liked this video, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning  Process to Achieve Your Goals: https://youtu.be/Ip7kLKXNj2Y How to Get the Right CPA & Why It Matters: https://youtu.be/zj26Wwqe0bk Demystifying Your Credit Score & Does It Matter: https://youtu.be/emgKYPy6Quw What to Do Today to Pay Less Tax and Keep More Money: https://youtu.be/tZHKIgr_TIM PRE-ORDER MY NEW BOOK:Building Your Money Machine: How to Get Your Money to Work Harder For You Than You Did For It! The key to building the life you desire and deserve is to build your Money Machine—a powerful system designed to generate income that's no longer tied to your work or efforts. This step-by-step guide goes beyond the general idea of personal finance and wealth creation and reveals the holistic approach to transforming your relationship with money to allow you to enjoy financial freedom and peace of mind.Part money philosophy, part money mindset, part strategy, and part tactical action, these powerful frameworks will show you how to build your money machine.TAKE THE FINANCIAL FREEDOM QUIZ:Take this free quiz to see where you are on the path to financial freedom and what your next steps are to move you to a new financial destiny at http://www.YourFinancialFreedomQuiz.com  

Understanding how to smartly handle debt can drastically change your financial well-being and reduce stress in your life.In today's episode, I tackle some of the worst financial decisions you can make and how to avoid them. From the pitfalls of over-leveraging in real estate to neglecting your investment portfolio, I break down what you should steer clear of to maintain financial health. I share personal stories, including a costly investment mistake I made, to highlight the importance of every decision in your financial journey.Want to achieve financial freedom and avoid common money mistakes? Tune in to the full episode now!IN TODAY'S EPISODE, I DISCUSS: Smart use of debt and the perils of over-leveraging The necessity of regularly reviewing and rebalancing your investment portfolioWhy diversification is crucial for mitigating financial riskRECOMMENDED EPISODES FOR YOU If you liked this episode, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning Process to Achieve Your GoalsHow to Get the Right CPA & Why It MattersDemystifying Your Credit Score & Does It MatterWhat to Do Today to Pay Less Tax and Keep More Money   RECOMMENDED VIDEOS FOR YOU If you liked this video, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning  Process to Achieve Your Goals: https://youtu.be/Ip7kLKXNj2Y How to Get the Right CPA & Why It Matters: https://youtu.be/zj26Wwqe0bk Demystifying Your Credit Score & Does It Matter: https://youtu.be/emgKYPy6Quw What to Do Today to Pay Less Tax and Keep More Money: https://youtu.be/tZHKIgr_TIM PRE-ORDER MY NEW BOOK:Building Your Money Machine: How to Get Your Money to Work Harder For You Than You Did For It! The key to building the life you desire and deserve is to build your Money Machine—a powerful system designed to generate income that's no longer tied to your work or efforts. This step-by-step guide goes beyond the general idea of personal finance and wealth creation and reveals the holistic approach to transforming your relationship with money to allow you to enjoy financial freedom and peace of mind.Part money philosophy, part money mindset, part strategy, and part tactical action, these powerful frameworks will show you how to build your money machine.TAKE THE FINANCIAL FREEDOM QUIZ:Take this free quiz to see where you are on the path to financial freedom and what your next steps are to move you to a new financial destiny at http://www.YourFinancialFreedomQuiz.com  

Are you ready to take control of your retirement savings and ensure you're on the right path to financial freedom?In today's episode, I dive into the crucial topic of how much you should save in your 401K by age, drawing insights from a comprehensive 23-year Vanguard study involving 5 million participants. Whether you're just starting your career or planning your retirement, you'll find valuable information on setting realistic financial goals, maximizing those employer matches, and the astonishing impact of early contributions.You'll learn why saving and investing rates trump high incomes, and how tiny steps now can lead to sizable wealth in the future. It's not just about hitting those numbers; it's about aligning your financial strategy with your life goals and building a life of choice and freedom.Looking to master your financial journey and make informed decisions about your retirement savings? Tune in to the full episode now!IN TODAY'S EPISODE, I DISCUSS: The importance of small, consistent contributions to your 401KAverage and median 401K balances by age groupThe impact of early contributions and maximizing employer matchesRECOMMENDED EPISODES FOR YOU If you liked this episode, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning Process to Achieve Your GoalsHow to Get the Right CPA & Why It MattersDemystifying Your Credit Score & Does It MatterWhat to Do Today to Pay Less Tax and Keep More Money   RECOMMENDED VIDEOS FOR YOU If you liked this video, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning  Process to Achieve Your Goals: https://youtu.be/Ip7kLKXNj2Y How to Get the Right CPA & Why It Matters: https://youtu.be/zj26Wwqe0bk Demystifying Your Credit Score & Does It Matter: https://youtu.be/emgKYPy6Quw What to Do Today to Pay Less Tax and Keep More Money: https://youtu.be/tZHKIgr_TIM PRE-ORDER MY NEW BOOK:Building Your Money Machine: How to Get Your Money to Work Harder For You Than You Did For It! The key to building the life you desire and deserve is to build your Money Machine—a powerful system designed to generate income that's no longer tied to your work or efforts. This step-by-step guide goes beyond the general idea of personal finance and wealth creation and reveals the holistic approach to transforming your relationship with money to allow you to enjoy financial freedom and peace of mind.Part money philosophy, part money mindset, part strategy, and part tactical action, these powerful frameworks will show you how to build your money machine.TAKE THE FINANCIAL FREEDOM QUIZ:Take this free quiz to see where you are on the path to financial freedom and what your next steps are to move you to a new financial destiny at http://www.YourFinancialFreedomQuiz.com 

Andrew Brill is joined by Chris Casey, Founder of WindRock Wealth, to discuss the 2024 U.S. presidential election's impact on markets and the economy—from cryptocurrency and cannabis regulation to real estate investing strategies and Federal Reserve policy. Learn Chris's valuable insights on how Trump and Harris could shape the economy, influencing spending, taxes, tariffs, and thus, your investments! Investment Concerns? Get a free portfolio review with Wealthion's endorsed financial advisors at https://www.wealthion.com Timestamps: 01:07 - Thoughts on the Latest CPI Numbers and Fed Rate Policy 01:52 - 2024 U.S. Presidential Election Overview 04:09 - Trump vs. Harris: Energy Policies, Tariffs, and Trade Wars 11:48 - Trump vs. Harris: Real Estate, Federal Debt, and Deficit Spending 18:58 - Trump vs. Harris: Crypto Regulation and Tax Plans 26:46 - Trump vs. Harris: Cannabis, Gun Control, and Defense Spending 30:27 - Does It Matter to the Markets Who Is President? 31:53 - The Fed Creates Recessions? Who Controls the Fed? Connect with us online: Website: https://www.wealthion.com X: https://x.com/wealthion Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/wealthionofficial/ LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/company/wealthion/ #Election2024 #stockmarket #MarketAnalysis #EconomicOutlook #FederalReserve #Crypto #RealEstate #Tariffs #Cannabis #USElections #InvestmentStrategies #Wealthion #Wealth #Finance #Money #Harris #Trump

Send us a Text Message.Today's podcast is about a topic that, well, about a phrase, a question as it were, that one of my good friends asked me.  DOES IT MATTER? 

Ready to see the power of investing just $10 a day? You won't believe how it can add up over time!In today's episode, I take you through the math to show you what happens when you invest a small amount consistently over 5, 20, 25 and even 30 years. I compare investing in VOO (an S&P 500 index fund) vs VTI (a total stock market fund) to demonstrate the growth potential. The numbers will blow your mind!I also emphasize why getting in the wealth-building game is so important, no matter how much you can start with. Your investing behavior matters more than the amount of money. It's not about having a lot to invest, it's about putting your money to work for you.Want to see how you can turn $10 a day into nearly $1 million over time? Check out the full episode now!IN TODAY'S EPISODE, I DISCUSS: How investing just $10 a day in an index fund over 30 years can grow to $847,000Why your wealth-building behavior and getting started is more important than the amount you investHistorical backtested returns of investing in VOO vs VTI index funds over 5 yearsRECOMMENDED EPISODES FOR YOU If you liked this episode, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning Process to Achieve Your GoalsHow to Get the Right CPA & Why It MattersDemystifying Your Credit Score & Does It MatterWhat to Do Today to Pay Less Tax and Keep More Money    RECOMMENDED VIDEOS FOR YOU If you liked this video, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning  Process to Achieve Your Goals: https://youtu.be/Ip7kLKXNj2Y How to Get the Right CPA & Why It Matters: https://youtu.be/zj26Wwqe0bk Demystifying Your Credit Score & Does It Matter: https://youtu.be/emgKYPy6Quw What to Do Today to Pay Less Tax and Keep More Money: https://youtu.be/tZHKIgr_TIM ORDER MY NEW BOOK:Building Your Money Machine: How to Get Your Money to Work Harder For You Than You Did For It! The key to building the life you desire and deserve is to build your Money Machine—a powerful system designed to generate income that's no longer tied to your work or efforts. This step-by-step guide goes beyond the general idea of personal finance and wealth creation and reveals the holistic approach to transforming your relationship with money to allow you to enjoy financial freedom and peace of mind.Part money philosophy, part money mindset, part strategy, and part tactical action, these powerful frameworks will show you how to build your money machine.TAKE THE FINANCIAL FREEDOM QUIZ:Take this free quiz to see where you are on the path to financial freedom and what your next steps are to move you to a new financial destiny at http://www.YourFinancialFreedomQuiz.com  

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JOLENE. [Happy Accidents Remix] (Extended) Beyoncé ft. Happy Accidents IN CASE YOU MISSED IT: previously on LEGENDS {Enter The Multiverse} “Two Hats” Now I had two hats— and loved both of them dearly—or rather, bonded with them—as much as anyone could love a material thing, however, given my circumstances material things where all there were left to love, and though I distained to admit it, there I was, in my empty apartment, which I turned into an office, a mattress on the floor to deviate from it ever truly becoming a bedroom, not that I ever really ‘slept' well in the place—which was a blessing, and the very least mine, with all the gratitude I could show the world for finally letting me be human again, after five years of homelessness. I still hadn't quite yet recovered, actually—I had taken my minimalistic qualities and invested all of my “income” with office supplies and musical endeavors, had already released an album, and had nothing less than a heap of backlogged work to sort through—I could be busy for years, just by myself, and the worst of it—or perhaps, best of it was, I was still writing every day. Sometimes a lot. Too much, really. But, it was a gift, of all the gifts I had received, and they were coming in variously, by way of inspiration, little laughs, and waves of a careful, constructive energy which I knew to be beyond nprnsllyborituctive, even for a creative, and though in my heyday I had written more in volume, the quality of my work was beginnings to show—and my potential for professionalism within the field increased, if I could ever see past my brown skin into white world, where I feared the blue and green eyes damsels of the new entertainment world would Beyoncé me in their outrageous and delusional Taylor Swiftness— unless I was so black that I could not stand as a threat to their dominance and obvious world power —which I wasn't, especially by New York's standards. I was soft spoken, well behaved, and most comfortable (at least when well dressed and maintained), amongst the elite. The first hat jad come well before the other, thankfully—as I had needed something besides a handkerchief tied around my head to protect it; it was during fast that I had learned of the danger of keeping one's head exposed, and finally succumbed to the fact that though it could be deeply hidden and lost somewhere in time and my genetics, no matter how bad at it I was, I was somewhere at least a little Jewish, at least by Whoopi Goldberg standards, who supposedly wasn't Jewish at all—but I had also learned in fast, that many dead Jews were now black women, recycled again only to be exterminated by a counterpart which had exceeded itself in hatred, apparently through it all time—my fear was that it was this hatred who welded and whitewashed all the networks I wished to excel in—the dance music industry, the streaming services, and the media in general seemed almost ruined in entirely by racism, nepotism, and well— Karenism, and though I liked Becky a bit more for her labeling of a power-hungry control-freak ultra competitive obsessive, whose racism was blisteringly hidden and intrinsic and yet effected every fibere of my being just in intolerance, austentation, and obnoxious offense, Karen was what the world had seemed to decide her name was— the true drive behind all white power and supremacy—the white woman, for which the average—always painfully average—white man could not function without. “You've got some resentments in here”, said a voice, almost as familiar as my own, but masculine, as I hyperfocused into the Hurley logo on the first hat, a powder blue and white soft-skulled SnapBack which was intended for working out—and of course, for surfing, should I ever be so lucky to surf again somewhere that wasn't New York, and I meant it, that New York was its own certain kind of sickness and toxicity, riddled with old racism and clustered with housing projects which spoke of the dehumanization and belittlement of anything brown— a betrayal of all spirit which was only just now being ratified by the thousands of buildings like mine springing up from bourough to borough—but still present in the vast and drastic divide between the nice areas, and the areas where the colored people lived—almost anywhere but Manhattan, which I had hoped and dreamed for, but settled on Brooklyn, however so close to Queens that I could sometimes still smell, taste, and worst of all, hear it. At least, however, I was gone from Jamaica—a blessing in itself—as it did seem as though it was true that the blacks had been cursed, and just by the looks of it, I was grouped in with them, though I considered myself far from either side of any spectrum, beyond conservative, in that I enjoyed peace, quiet, cleanliness, and modesty of dress— a respect I had for the upper class, especially of the post and business minded women of New York, which seemed to push strollers and go about their daily runs as housewives on weekends in the areas I most favorited—midtown, something native for, but now realizing that because of the new world slave trade, anything lower than at least the 7th floor would be an irritant, a noise-polluted hell scape of poverty-stricken immigrants with no cultural sensibility or decency often for cleanliness, or politeness, which included the silencing and responsible ridership of vehicles that most probably should have been illegal, if it weren't for the demand of jobs in accordance with the work-from-home-I'm-not-going-out-into-that-hell out attitude which I was becoming more understanding of myself—whatever had happened to “people” and had gone with the world or the pre-pandemic was wrong, on so many levels that it was not hard to imagine that the consciousness that collected amongst the wealth elite had gathered that being out in the world had become dangerous, as indeed capitalism had turned every man woman and child below the poverty line into a minion of Satan himself. Jessie surely couldn't live here, without being well kept by some man, who I could only hope by now had groomed her to be better than how I had left her, or rather, how she left me, in the same stewing hatred and delusion of intrinsic racism which seemed to be ruining my chances at ever truly succeeding, particularly in dance music. I dont know what resentments could come from a hat, which I had bough on clearance to begin with, if only just to be able to have a durable waterproof head covering to strap into my head and sweat in—but I could think of all the ways that might make me resent something, perhaps, if the owners of Hurley were racists—not far fetched, as most the surfing communities, especially out west were all bronzed Johnnies of some sort — closeted racists and wealthy elites, or at least well enough to do to live within a stone's throw of some beach, which, even as poor as one might think himself, is never truly poor—especially, out West. If you grew up surfing, you lived on or near a beach, which implies money beyond most people's wildest dreams—besides Mexico, of course, a special and economically, sociopolitically controlled Hellhole of its own, to which it's problematic governance had overpoured yet another problem impacting one's ability to collect and maintain money, or any wealth or status—illegal immigrants coming in droves, hatching their spawn, and collecting government aide, if only to dwell within multi-family homes, gain wealth and income rapidly, and of course, keep the black population at the greatest disadvantage—as the blacks had been ruined by all of America's time as a slave-driving captalist country, always most hospitable to anything less brown than black, not that I was opposed to the idea that New York needed some variety in its gene pool. I dare not to think the owners of Hurley, a surf brand I had loved and trusted since I was a young fanatic first introduced to the joys of riding the wave, could be run by the most henious of evils, the pedophikes, who all seemed to protect one another in some way—and also seemed to control all of the industry at hand—and though now, especially since Tyla's apparent “win” at the Grammy's, which the more closely I observed in a whole seemed to be entirely fake— another Illuminati pupped groomed and chosen to make some kind of media agenda stand through, the billboards were plastered with blackish and brown women of seemingly African decent, however—the problem was that they weren't women at all—but children; and though the male advertisements were still dominated by the white man, to no complaint by admittance that at least in one way, I too, was a supremacist, in that the father of my future children would or should be white by any means nessesary, and that for years now, I just hadn't been attracted to anything else—which, upon reflection, I realized I probably almost never was actually attracted to black men, beyond growing up in a nearly all-white environment, in which case, I was “supposed” to—I.e., the blacks with the blacks, the fats with the fats and so on, which I despised; and I had never settled on anyone overweight at all until I had to, which in retrospect, had almost ruined my life. Almost, but not. I had escaped the fat bastard's wifebeating clutches, both physically and spiritually, finally having gained the espteric knowledge, had had given light and illumination to what I had been told; but never truly believe until I had confirmed— This man had tried to kill me, many more ways than one, and I had survived. Well, naturally—kind of survived. I was now a DJ among DJs, my aging machine outdated and the layer of haging skin around my delicately contoured extra small waist making it impossible for me to gain attention in the way anyone was these days, by bearing less than what would be considered ‘dress code' for any club back in my day, and my day was surely fading into something like a day ahead, or a day behind—either way, as I had actually done enough fasting and praying by now to ‘bend time', and I should only be so lucky to emulate such a feat within my Ableton, which begged for my attention, and yet, there was something missing from me that wasn't yet satisfied with my being so much so that I could just let go, and record my innermost potent words and songs—actually, it seemed as if my apartment had been rigged with some kind of recorder, as when i began to record, or sing at all—the energy would immediately change, almost halting my voice, then again, there was a Karen to my left, and a Karen to my right, the latter of which, my studio was facing and she seemed to act strange and demonic when my music played, slamming doors and creating some kind of uproar, and so I almost never used my studio monitors to play my own music—opting rather for the safety of deadmau5, or some other cheap house music which I could practically mute in my own mind, but at the very least the vibrations of such would not disrupt what might have been peace, if not for the army of terrorists literally in the parking lot to which my window overlooked, the terrorists operating the “auto body” shop adjacent to my apartment, and what appeared to be, after numerous noise violation complaints to the useless 311 service at NYPD, the terrorists alongside the Brooklyn-Queens border, which I refused at all with aborent denial that I even was situated near. Then, as the building began to fill with more blacks, which I hated seeing, loitering about in the lobby in the general and uncomfortable blankness which I was also doomed by the white and others to be perceived as part of—but with diligence had thrust me into a wave of brainstorms—in how to escape this, and although not entirely racist—I didn't like anyone too far on either spectrum which presented an imminent danger or overbearing presence on my person—black men—white women—and others so culturally inept that a sense of looming control had crept and wandered into my heart and my mind, as to why and how I could find, a way out of The Blackness, and into a quiet, not particularly white neighborhood, but at the very least, a clean and quiet one—which in New York, basically meant A white neighborhood, besides the speckling of rich asians, wealthy blacks, and other foregners who valued the things I had, however, albeit, without the distinction of the vanity of a mother who glamorized and normalized prostitution, to which I might have succumbed more valuably, had I not been stretched to ugly capacity by Doritos, emotional trauma, and whatever other strangeness of my youth presented me with this, what was now a beautiful and perfect body—with an unsightly and imperfect scar, the leftovers which without surgery, would classify me as useless to any man I might have admitted—talented, high vibrational, spirited, successful— And of course Pale. Eye color aside, It truly had been a remarkably long time since I had been moved at all by anyone of my own “type” and for this, I strived to succeed in white world, even if only to fall to the dominating control of the white woman, who often I loved just in her ironic blondeness, her shattering and devastating features—sparkling eyes and speckles of freckles— But who often could never love back, out of some hatred that grew from so deep within, even she herself could not see or understand—it was just a ‘feeling' The “I just don't like that girl” The “she just makes me uncomfortable” Or worse, The kind who would pretend to befriend me, so that she would stand out as the eye of beauty between us, to any man or peer within our shared realms— a dominating force of “I'm more important” and “I'm more worthy”—the trait that alone made my name hidden, my own true name, words I could never pronounce, in knowing that she would come to abuse it, to call my name like a dog— Dogs, which I realized, most whites held above the value of any human as brown as i, or damned blacker, which some would find themselves proud of, but to which I distained; I was not ‘proud' to be black, I just was—and pride was ugly, anyway, especially when acting as a representative of the losing team of a centuries long war. The new age of models were bronzer and browner, some all the way black and most just mauve, or blackish enough so that it would not hurt or scare the fragile counterpart of the white women—who always seemed to be scared, put off, or offended by blackness in just its presence, to which I could relate, but not emulate, as the scoffing and huffing of many a tantrum had drawn me to the conclusion that they just weren't happy with our existence entirely, being of veluptuous nature or whatever it was, however—it was the cruelty of the industry at hand that showed a greater monster—that all the men seemed to be well grown, and yet all the women were not women at all, But children on display, in the vulnerability of the sexual nation of normalizing blackness, at the sacrifice of allowing grown men to think it was allowable to fawn after such; what would be considered adolescent bodies—a crucially disproportionate factor that would make or break my career as a writer, musician, DJ, or otherwise, being a woman, who had visible scars of the ability to bear children, which I had not sacrificed, but placed far from my mind— I would not tolerate or settle on another lazy husband, or perhaps even a husband at all. I could tolerate many things about mankind that were obnoxious—cigarette smoke and infedelity, gaslighting and bondage by body or some other lack of God, however, what I could not tolerate was the laziness—the toxic, inability to do without being told to do so— the bearing of another child from outside, that went well beyond the responsibility of one that would come from within. I had spent the early morning taking heed of the accuracy of the advice Joan from Mad Men had given us, in the nostalgic whit of the 1960's that still seemed to prove true today, in fact, more truer than it ever did the first time around— that ‘boys will be boys' and ‘men will be men', and in all honestly, one has not to come far from another into adulthood, so much as a woman should, for it had been neerly a decade since I had last laid eyes on the Piloted Don Draper— and it had been a decade with, with the least to say, had made the show itself more relevant, probably with each passing day. Most men are looking for something between a mother and a— But my memory had muffled the rest, by now, buried in the entourage of my own drawing, from which inspiration had sparked from the entire pot of coffee and song selection that it had taken to sort through my divorce paperwork— a task that had actually taken weeks altogether to assemble, and which I had run into too many obstacles during, having quite forcibly to use my occult knowledge to bend backwards and bind myself with protection, as something truly evil and sinister had surrounded this task— Broken printers, misplaced documents, and of course, all the suffering it took to sift and sort through the words that were truer than any I had ever spoken, and although some run-on paragraphs and broken record retelling of what had actually happened, the effects of what had gone beyond that, what I could accurately put into paper without sounding like a total psychopath, the fact that he and more than likely his father had intended to seal my fate into a Hell beyond words , a death beyond escape, with black magic—using my dead son's hair as a tool for ritual and bondage, to which my own guides in Heaven had overseen and reported through numerous visions, alongside the years of research, my introduction into the occult not out of interest at all, though however born a naturally ‘gifted' person, but out of desperation for protection from the homeless, dirty hellacapes which I had been forced to inhabit since my departure— and without looking back, I had come to the conclusion that though I had nearly lost my son in the process, I had at least survived to preserve myself for him, come such a day he could ever want me. And on that day, I would be the best that I could be for him—I was somewhere between 130 and 140, but wanted to be closer to 110, so that the men that I admired and was attracted to would actually want me, a hard task, especially keeping my assets in tact, but—however—speaking of assets and tact; this chapter was running long, and I still hadn't decided which hat I would wear to the post office to send off the arsenal of paperwork across the country, hopefully to be freed and riddled of the awful reminders of him, many of which had set me off with enough audacity that I had lost it in my apartment not once, but twice—and it seemed that the more accurate my foretelling of this abuse—both physical and emotional, but above all satanic and ritualistic, which had now been overturned and reflected in my own knowledge and illumination, now an admiration for the occult, as the protective rituals which I had become prone to from his damage seemed to shield and protect—the more some satanic force tried to end me, before I could ever return to a normal state—- or ascend into a realm which the evil could not penetrate, with remnices of punching bag faces, spit on the walls, the smell of vomit, and the other atrocities I could only hope had not been passed down to my offspring, who by now didn't know me, but probably was becoming of me enough that I could not be erased from him, to which the anger of his captor I could feel in the onslaught of disgusting bodies which seemed to flock to me to emulate him in some way, though to me he was no God enough to have done so, but rather just a replicate of Satan himself, which had bonded in his betrayal of this, his wish to end and kill me— and had sent demons in his own name to satiate this desire—however—by now I had realized that this darkness could only control the weaker of sorts, the weak in spirit, the dirty humans, the ones who had chosen to rid themselves of soul, in the name of money or otherwise— and though the cover to my “debut” album spoke not of true Chaos Magic, but of another pinnacle of the occult, the name itself was more practical of the music that it contained—the chapter of blackness which had halted my humanity, living in the shackles of the tragic aftermath of all that had happened. I still hadn't decided on a hat, but the obvious answer was that I should, before the day returned back into the night, and though I hated long subway rides, there was a comfortable avenue with everything I needed to come back to my mind, one single paper which needed still to be notarized, which I had missed in the frenzy of what seemed like an endless nightmare, to get away from this man, his damage, and all of the things and people which acted like him—dumb, broken, and twisted enough to instill pain, intrude my sanctity, and stalk so much so that my usual calm, peaceful demeanor became a violent rage, however, almost respectfully always contained to the privacy of my “home” surrounded by strangers who hated me, for I in this black skin could not ever be worthy of equality, an audacious comparison in the very least, that I should have what they always have. Just keep working. The hole had yet to swallow me, but I had two more albums coming immediately, right out the gate, their deadlines approaching so rapidly that I could feel the onslaught of always wokenness coming in the collision and confusion of wondering how, if I ever, I would make enough money to actually get ahead, for once— and become unstuck from the lovelessness that was so underserving that nobody I could seek to love, could love me—perhaps it was true that poverty was some kind of invisibility to the wealthy elite, and though I despised the though of golddigging, I despised more the thought of being the breadwinner somewhere between lower middle class and poverty, always sick from always working, never working out; and of course— Always arguing over nothing, Which seemed to be the dynamic between men and women, anyway. I realized that Don Draper was in a silent and secret war with Betty, whose anxiety had piled up inside her, most even probably as a result of her hUsband's “secret” infidelity— And that seriously, I might be some kind of writer or something, If all I could think about was how cringey it was to watch Jon Hamm kiss Tina Fey, in that one movie by John Slattery, And how I really didn't want anything more Than to look like Miss January Jones, Who had always been so perfectly beautiful to me, That it hurt me. ‘The DJ Hat, I think. ‘ I was nervous, and it was raining, But it couldn't wait another day The final breaking of this curse Would be sending in the paperwork That described word for word With brutal honesty and accuracy Everything that should never happen When you get married— At least Happily. -Happy Accidents. I GOT YOU NOW, MOTHERFUCKER. Oh my God! It's Pat Kirkpatrick! Oh great, so he's some sort of Diety, I guess. Lesson 1: Continuity. Lesson 2: Continuity, Lesson 3: Continuity —isn't that all just— Continuity. yessssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss—- I'm a DJ, BITCH. YO, LESSON ONE: You're not the professor. I'm the GURU. This the dojo! Uh. No. You're not. I AM. Where's Jimmy Fallon? Yo, FUCK JIMMY FALLON, alright. He's possessed— What?! Oh NO. Who possessed him?! My ex husband. I'M THE SENSEI NOW. SENRAO fuck. Where the fuck is this kid? Dead. DEAD? Mm. Presumably. Mmhmm. wtf, who are you? Woke up with Dillon Francis in my head— “I'm my only friend” I don't even like that song, it just gets stuck in my head. Apparently Emma Watson wants to know what to do in the festival project. I still don't know. My ex went to Golden Corral to cheat on me, then got sick from pizza; I got some kind of job at a weird party place for kids; the dude was weird and only hired non bianary people and dudes; I left to help my friends who were getting married with car trouble. Lol Emma Watson though, was like— “Okay, what do I do?” I was like, I don't know. Then I woke up. EMMA WATSON Okay, what do I do? I was starting to develop scabs in my ears from alternating between headphones and earplugs, which couldn't have been good—I needed to work, and was disasterously fat, however, toned, and I assumed that the extra weight had come from muscle. My legs were smooth, and all of the clothes I had picked up along my walk fit—all extra smalls and smalls, which included even a tiny bralette I was certain would fit when picking it up, and it did—I only wondered what the world might be like after a panniculectomy—though my thighs seemed massive and I was certainly bloated, opting for less running and more lifting until my energy recovered, I was still anywhere between a size 4 and 5, sometimes a 6–which did kind of rather shamed me in all of the ways that it could—6 was much greater than 2–and those praised as the ‘world's most beautiful women' were anywhere between 00 and 2; I wasn't sure where I was going to move my thighs or my arse to, but I was determined to be celebrity skinny—even without the added bonus of actually being a celebrity, and however oddly enough with the star studded dreams I had been having, there seemed somehow still some kind of hope, though even if in the next life, that I would become into a world of my dreams. It was the anniversary of my son's death—he would have now been 9, and I often was drawn to remember him walking about New York—seeing beautiful children about with long hair, and beautiful brown skin, with eyes like mine, moon shaped and dark…I began to softly weep as I remembered how beautiful he was, and that I had no pictures of him at all. It was better that way, really—the hurt that had come from holding on was too great—and yet, subtle reminders, in the way that sometimes, however music would just come to me, there was my boy; he loved my guitar, and the sound of my voice as I would sing, and had even once, just before his death, tried to sing along, as I clamored about the house, singing Seven + Mary—which he seemed to like enough that he found the need to make his way over to the table to get my attention, and sing with me. Back in my current reality, the overall bored of the shower running and my demon neighbors slamming things around angrily as if something was wrong, shaking the building brought me back to the monotonous world, morning coffee over the toilet quite remincent of Lyndon B. Johnson, the morning sifting through my Google documents for Emma Watson and John Slattery part of my morning report— and though I was due in the gym, there was nothing I wanted less than to go anybody or see anything at all—everything was just a reminder of my apparent “living hand to mouth”, and the more I kept on dreaming and writing of these people, the more grandiose and and delusional I felt—I had just been blindsided in court by my ex's attempt to discredit my ask for a protective order against him by using my mental health in the wake of his physical violence and our sons death, against me in such a way that the victory, the judge's granting of my protection against him, was still pyrrhic in such a way that I didn't feel so much protected, as he had lodged his way into my dreams once more just to cheat on me—though however had been twarted in doing so, by some particularly sour Golden Corral pizza, and the young girl accompanying him quite receptive to the speech I had given her on karmic justice. Strangely enough, the dream almost appeared as in my favor, that things were changing, and yet—I still didn't like to see him or think of him at all, and luckily enough, it was Emma Watson who had intercepted this sort of nightmare with the conjecture that I should keep writing, however with an American accent, which only forced me to wonder, if perhaps, too she had become some sort of Cosmic Avenger—or even so, as written, was JK Rowling in disguise as the actress playing her own character, some kind of magician's practitioner —who had herself been for some time one of my living spirit guides since childhood—finding as I grew older for us to be more alike than not, especially as a writer. I stepped into the shower, still writing, and without the amount of coffee I really needed to move more quickly, but still in some sort of stupor— ‘I should probably get out of here.' Another day trapped indoors would simply be unhealthy, however I hadn't the slightest idea where I might go. Wherever it was, I would take my guitar—and at the very least—I knew which direction Manhattan was, anyway. ‘Fuck, I gotta find that episode with the earthquake…' BEFORE: ugh , where to begin? Let's just start with– LADY GAGA aka GAGA has been tasked with strategically marking the grid with Various entrance and exit points; a job which she has tak quite seriously, and honorably. Okay, moving forward . You're not going to expand on that? No, next thing. HARRY POTTER, HERMIONE GRANGER Wait– What. Wouldn't it be HERMIONE WEASELEY Did they not get a divorce? I heard that. That just sounds dumb, I'm not writing that. That is dumb.. Anyway. HARRY POTTER, HERMI– Fuck it. HARRY, HERMIONE, AND RON have accidentally shifted dimensions and into the bodies of their real-life counterpart, DANIEL RADCLIFFE, EMMA WATSON, AND RUPERT GRINT Oh damn. I finally found something cool for Emma Watson to do. That is cool. SUPACREE I need you to read all these, and watch all this. SUPACREE leaves the three magicless, frietenghned, and shocked– –flabbergasted– what . They're English, they should be flabbergasted. [They are Flabbergassted] Wait, go back? I can't. I Have a hard time writing action scenes why ? Cause i'm not getting any. Lol : (Holy shit, that is probably why tho.) Erase. WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT? It wasn't good. HOW DO YOU KNOW?! *shrugs* !?!- ::||pause. ok . So that dude from Drake and Josh is in all these episodes, but we only get one Harry Potter Episode? …He seems less busy. –Don't forget Jimmy Fallon. Yeah, I still don't get that. Neither do I? Why is he even in this? [Watching Saturday Night Live} JIMMY FALLON! Why Is he even in This? ? ? AAAAANNNDRD—WE'RE BACK. Fuck it, next thing. gaga Yeus. What are you doing? Hm. Mm…working on something. If I stand quietly at the door, and await you; Will you come to me, And and open it, to let me in To see the gate you keep Let's read between the lines; You weep for me and deep into my dreams Then see me in the streets, and think “It cannot be the she for me; Maybe, if she were pretty.” Don't look into my eyes (I despise you! I delicately delight you Despite the never having time to Now I'm desperate just to find you In a life I left behind And drew a line though RATATA & TATTATA I wrote this story years ago. Are you going to listen to the album? I already did that. YOU GOTTA LISTEN TO THE NO. And I don't expect Skrillex to listen to this, either. It's over. It's over It's over It's over. I LOOOOOOVE HER TIMMY TURNERS NEW BALANCE TENNIS SHOES TAP SWIFTLY ACROSS THE PAVEMENT AS HE RUNS FOR HIS LIFE Well, that is a good place to start—thanks Emma Watson. Captain. Oh shit, what's SHE like? I don't know, isn't she like, irl an American diplomat? Uhhh—aren't you? No. Now hurry, we gotta do this before Jimmy Fallon shows up and [JIMMY FALLON SHOWS UP] Ugh. Why is he even in this? What is this? I don't know. It's “Poetry” An album. A couple of movies. Some TV shows. Will this suffice? I don't know… Enter that one scene here with John Slattery? Which scene with John Slattery? You're right. I have been writing for John Slattery a lot. Bipolar disprder and other multidimensional preceptory functions could more likely be reclassified from a disease to a hypersensitivity to energy which one does not identify as belonging to oneself, which therefore counteracts within the mind's ability to alter or project and/or maintain balance in one's mood, as certain energies may be ‘absorbed' empathically or observed as a negative or draining energy; An elevated sense or shift due to the overstimulation of energy which the subject may receive as ‘“positive”, or shifting the mood undesirably by the overstimulation of negative sources, sounds, or persons within the subject's realm foreign, undesirable, or unwanted within one's field of energy—a heightened sense of awareness or vibrational field which inhibits or limits the ability to contain or transmute such energies. It is, within its own sense, a sort of elevated mechanism for survival, ie a superpower, given the subjects placement within the proper environment, within the functional vibration of the subjects natural mood or state, whereas, lows may be the subjects own sensitivity to numerous outer sources of negative or prone to certain toxicities to his or her natural state, and highs whereas certain higher vibrational energies result in the conglomerate evolution of such energies as a newer form So, bipolar, you think? I think I don't know what I am, and nobody does—so nothing you give me will ever really fix me, because I was never really broken, or Or? Or I was broken rightfully so in that I should have been treated as a trauma victim, and not the subject of some cruel experimentation as an attempt to assasinate whatever force of nature is actually keeping me alive in the only survival mechanism it's been naturally given to battle the psychopathic standards and expectations of today's society. Fine, very well then. Why is this J. slatts again Cause, I've got a beautiful vocality for narration. Fine, I'll work on that character next, I guess. What?! John Slattery is in this! YES. I guess I have to watch it, then. Collect the actors, again! AGENTS. Ufffghh. MANAGERS Fucking Christ. JOHN SLATTERY (as himself) “I'll do it, “, I said, “but there better be money attached to this project” [Jimmy Fallon enters] JOHN SLATTERY There he is! The man of the hour. JIMMY FALLON This is—probably going to take longer than an hour, I'm betting. JOHN SLATTERY Come, sit. [He sits at the had of a long table] JIHN SLATTERY (CONT'D) I don't know what you did, you fucking idiot, but you did it. JIMMY FALLON Tell me what I did again. CUT TO: [unseen, on the opposite side of the room] Oh shit, that's him; Are you sure? No, that's Patrick. WhT's the difference?! [Like, an entire generational gap of innuendos and pop culture reference.] JOHN SLATTERY Your presence is appreciated. This meeting is now officially in session. {Enter The Multiverse: LEGENDS} [the festival project What is this? Is this Scotch? No! It's apple cider vinegar! Does the trick. I heard you were a Method-ist. No, apparently I'm “the medicine man” It's nearly team But feels like night Nearly forgot what this was like Too many sunny days, no friends Wasted yesterday latent, Impatient creative Heavy workload But you know the rules Overcast clouds say stay, It's a workday Every day is a work day But it ll seems worthless Almost, Amazon, Ten dollars Cold, corrupt and almost Out of water I should be smarter than to call the code I should be smarter then to call him over Going nowhere but up Calling a number, four Number four The hypnotists wish lists What happens at number ten Calling a number up Four days of water left I should have left him as The protagonists, of supporting roles Now number one is number four And number four is often gone The storyline and plot is Two, three— too heavy. Three-two-three Walk away 310, cam the number Hollywood is calling, New York has hospitality, though One, two— Walk away Three, four catch the code Hollywood, turn around New York's got hospitality, though How's Tokyo sound when November rolls around How's Paris now, that were Marlboros on parliament How it all come down Then it all comes down To the three two one Four's nowhere, now I had woken up with an overall feeling that something was wrong—I had overshot my 3 AM target time by 6 hours, realizing of course that I was a day ahead, and that the construction—more drilling and hammering, was out on hold thanks to an apparent oncoming rain, which hadn't come yet— my wavering mental state was apparent in the mess I had left in my room, clothes strewn across the floor and atop the bed, but at least otherwise clean—I had slept dressed, or at least half dressed, a protection stone lodged in my bra, as the necklace I had worn for my son had become somewhat damaged in some way—it was no longer protective, but had somehow defected; probably in the way that his father bearing over him, allowed the stone some sort of portal to be able to invade my dreams with nightmarish hauntings, and I instead opted to keep the necklace aafelu tucked away, until I would be able to give it to him as I had planned. But still, it seemed that the intention of his father was to ruin my life, and see to it so that I may never do well enough to visit my son, and it seemed no matter how hard I tried I would not miss the band. (A magician's hands) I've been watching TV i doubled back, low battery In battery park, I could watch the sun rising I'm so full of worry Of money I wonder What for, is my worth Kelly Clarkson was the cutest thing ever—and sung so freely like a bird like I wished that I could—I remember breaking down in my car after just missing the cut off for entering her show, back in LA—more than likely over the fact that I would be missing a paycheck, rather than missing the show anyway— and I had almost thought to cancel my tickets for the View, had I not been lured by the blue hues of both their outfits—and though I hadn't meant particularly to be associated with the color blue at all, most people associated my name with the color anyway, as I hadn't intended. Nothing was really intended, it had just happened. Whoopie Goldberg's fabulous denim cape forced me to wonder what I might wear the next day, had I decided to actually go—the colors of my closet mostly black and quite drab, and the denim dress I had acquired as a cleaning person the year before becoming a tired go-to when I needed to look nice. I almost wanted to wear my new Michael Kors stilettos, but was saving them for an actual party, an interview somewhere classy, or worse—my first date—as the anniversary of my cellibacy drew closer by the minute, and my need to continue my reproduction however with someone more fitting began to be the most harrowing thing on my mind, beside possibly returning to a homeless shelter, which I would not allow to happen. My exit strategy was simple, actually—in that if given an eviction notice for whatever reason—my neighbors seemed particularly afflicted as my former boss and lovers, roommates, and others I had become close to in this strange and seemingly cursed world with that thing I could only call a demon, since I didn't know what it was, and I was afraid they'd continue to report smoke coming from my apartment, although now I had been forced to switch to a diffuser with essential oils, taking a chunk out of what I considered my severance pay from The House of Illumination, which had indeed lived up to its namesake—the lesson had been quick, in that working for such a man, whoever he was or at least pretending to be, had taken me off my path, and had begun to dishevel my personal energy so much so that I had actually dropped my wallet—it had been so long since making such a mistake that I knew indeed that something was wrong, however, but needed the money so badly that it didn't matter—and besides, nothing could be so horrible as was my mother sometimes, growing up—and I had given Natural all that he needed to hurt me in telling the story of my own weight loss journey. Telling, and in return, Natrual was showing that I had given the world the perfect excuse to continue trying to kill me—that perhaps, my time had passed anyway. Kelly Clarkson looked incredible—the last I had seen, she was pleasantly plump, but never bad looking—now, she was. Incredibly veluptumous, and as she stated that she stood at merely 5'3, I was suprised once again that all of the TV people looked either taller or shorter on camera, and wondered what I might look like— I was almost stuck thin about 4 days into a water fast, but appeared and felt large otherwise, and most recently had been more tired and fatigued that ever, outraged that I had been dismissed from my only income in months over nothing, and that the income from anything else I was doing would simply not come at all if I could never wrap my mind around even trying to have it be seen by the right minds, with the right eyes, at the right time—and yet there was another force of evil, seeming always to stop me from the essence of true creation—this thing which had taken away my musical expression almost entirely by now, my sensibility wavering and all of my slayed projects, stagnant. I was craving oats, and had even pre-prepared some, blending them in my magic bullet so that they would be easier to digest—and since Natural had made the suggestion that my BMI was to blame for my lack of focus and attention to detail, it had more been the combination of losing my wallet, having to deal with the public transit, constantly being reminded that Tula, a light skinned African was the music industry's new it-girl, and of course, that my son, now 7, was morbidly obese, probably somewhere discarded like junk under a cloud of cigarette smoke, head deep in a video game and surrounded by idiots—and that no matter how hard I tried to make the money to see him, something awful would happen so that I couldn't, and it became clear that his father's story—whereas I had simply and for no reason “lost my mind” and had abandoned my child, was the story he had told to all those around him, who believed him—that I was the villain in his story, and my son the tool he used to create a sympathetic picture of a loving and struggling father, though now he might have actually been trying, the damage was done; he had sent my son away unable to care for him to my mother, and in the time he was given alone, of course, created another child—all of which of course I wanted, in hopes that the one he had chosen for his new family would have some sort of love an appreciation for my own son, enough to have created a step mother, but alas, was some underwhelming someone with nothing to offer but her own struggle—and I wanted nothing to do but to be gone from this drama, however my own blood had been caught up in it enough so that I could feel it, knowing that at just 7, my son was as sick as I once was, depressed and miserable as the child of a narcicist becomes once the damage is done. I was only eating blended foods, and had become obsessed with being stick thin—celebrity fit, which is how I had found the video at all, my love of Whoopi Goldberg and Kelly Clarkson creating a quick draw, a star studded combination I could not resist, though I wasn't resisting much—I had drifted back into the realms of television and film, my first loves—or rather, my first conscious endeavor, as I had been attracted to the piano from a toddler and learned to play around three, therein my is being my first love, however with a mother like mine and a life like ours, there truly never was one thing I could ever just ‘do', as anything I loved would soon be subjected to be taken away for some reason or another, whether it was a messy room, or just a mood swing—whether or not I wanted to watch lifetime and be best friends, even after a day of being yelled at and scolded for one reason or another—as my mother often seemed to forget ever being cruel after being so, often saying “I would never…” to whatever she had done, a narcissist's mark, in denying actions and words that had only ever been witnessed between the other party and God. I had blended the ancient seed oat bend into a porridge with agave and sautéed apples and pears with cinnamon, and though I felt awful eating more than once, was struggling enough with this bout of depression which working at Temple of Illumination so briefly had caused that it didn't matter at all—coffee was simply not enough, and my Amazon package which would deliver my vitamin supplements and whatever else I had ordered—things I had gotten into the habit of pocketing at the Whole Foods market during my homelessness, but in trying to recover from the spiritually twisted and evil place the homeless system had put me through, I had, with all my might, been insistent on purchasing everything I had needed—and even though it was indeed wrong of the white supremacists movement to have been true health and nutrition almost unattainable to the common workforce, my food stamps never enough to actually supplement a full month of food—whole food veganism which would allow me to train for at least an hour a day to sustain clean energy, and of course, water in order to stay hydrated in doing so — I was getting better at keeping what I needed in stock, but almost always needed to run to a food bank at least once a week, hoping that I would collect there things I actually could eat, rather than processed junk my body no longer saw as food at all. I peeled a mandarin into the watered down oats mixture and was worried that the dried cranberries I would pour over the top would be too much sugar, but I almost didn't care; I was on the verge of tears, and some evil, penetrating force had been altering my sleep patterns, my heartbeat, and my dreams—there was some group of motorcyclists who for months had been circling at any given time, and though some might have been able to ignore the roaring and awful vibrations of such, I could not—these motorists seemed to rip through my heart and up my spine like a serrated knife, a gesture that indeed noted that it was some evil or devilish, demonic force, as when in relax and meditation I often pondered with his, these striking forces would come, often creating a wave of fear, anxiety, and worry—terrorism, by definition, and disturbance of the peace, it was—but nobody seemed to care that it was pain for me, in fact, the more I began to wonder what or why it was, the more it became clear that this was intention to hurt or kill me, whether by an organization of some sort, or simply the force of evil itself against the divine I had become, not with intention at all, but in seeking my own freedom from such a world as cruel and unjust as I had come. My neighbors had lodged an impressive amount of complaints against me for smudging—and it was 36 complaints before I had even been made aware that my neighbors were trying to get rid of me; not once had a note been left on my door, or had I been approached by them In the hallway to ask that I not use smudge—then again, sometimes as whites were, they were more concerned about themselves and their dogs than whatever might have been the cause of such heavy saging occurring—the motorcycles at all hours tearing through my heart, the slamming doors, the sound of their televisions or voices penetrating through my walls— the unwelcoming energy which at all times I was surrounded by, and though I loved New York, 3 stories above the ground floor and on the border of queens was simply not far enough away from the Godlessness of the cursed and usually dark others, whom could not understand the conciousness I had drawn from the long fasts, prayers, and summonings I had done in order to free myself from the force that had done away with me to begin with—my deep love for the man with whom I had fathered my sons, and a daughter, the two of the three were gone, though I had seen so that if I had not lost my daughter and my son, I would probably still be with their father, in attempting to give them a family—another poor, single, black woman and mother, I was now willing to be to my son, but was not; I had forgiven his father, however, it seemed some sort of curse he had done in my departure was still in effect, the demons he had called onto me not called off—and even in the reflection of my own self and flaws upon entetering such a relationship—the other things had been inherited from him; the homelessness, the toxicity and mismanagement of energy—however, my lack of control over time, I realized early on, had been inherited from my mother, who was more like my ex husband and her own abusive father than I ever was. I wanted bread, but could not dare; J[r was 6 ft tall, and for some reason, that bothered me more than anything else I had learned about him, for some bizzarre reason almost suddenly obsessed with the public figure, though at first the dollar project had been more of a game than the actual idea, and the festival project itself was at all but a halt, as I wanted and needed desperately to comb through my documents at once, but could never seem to— the metaphors of Natural's Basement drawing upon me as I realized that perhaps, I was too emotional about its contents to properly sort through them—atop this concern, was the concern that my body, though fitting quite nicely into an extra extra small pair of racer lined jockey style workout leggings, was still too large to be though of as ideal—ideal, which for a man 6 feet apparently was, according to Ali and the others, and though I had pretty much always hated Fallon from early on, always breaking fourth wall and blowing my mind coming from such a strong theatre background that someone like that could have ever been awarded a coveted spot on such a legendary show, it had been gathered somewhere that his audition was flawless, however—his second audition, according to Tina Fey, who I loved, maybe even more after learning that she had been given such a unique name, and had won almost every award I could possibly think to covet, although however much a writer I was, an actor and comic I was not, in that I had given up my own craft years before being fat or being black was ever in style—and now that it was, I had no reason to believe that at 31, while Tyla was 22, as was Billie Ellish, I had any business in even trying to make it in entertainment— I began preparing to die almost as readily as ever, deciding upon eviction, rather than fighting it and returning to the intake shelter in the Bronx to start the process again, I would simply jump either off my own building, hoping 12 stories would be enough to actually cause death, rather than just parilization, or find my way to the end of the platform at which the train moved most quickly in preparation to stop at the station, which I had nicknamed “the Jumping Point”—also the name of a pop up dance music club I had summoned up once, actually thinking that something, something at all would bring me close enough to success to actually become the dance music tycoon and entrepreneur that I wanted, however—as my hair again grew into a shoveled mess atop my skull, only hidden by a hit which the view wouldn't allow as an audience member, the only thing which might have kept me from going at all, besides my lack of knowing what to wear or just the daunting crises of having no money at all almost a shameful mark across my face— my nails for nearly a year undone, and of course— everything I knew that needed to be done, almost stuck and unable to move forward, my divorce papers included, another mark of the devil, as I had already done the paperwork 3 times, spending atrocious amounts of money in the process, of course, for all of them to be sent back, for some reason or another, and the case to still be opened without being shut—and at least it was opened… As tears began to well up into my eyeballs, in thinking perhaps I truly was cursed, that the law was for whatever reason on all of my abuser's sides, and that I was doomed to become lost in this endless cycle of loss and pain for some reason or another, that became the task at hand—to, for what was either the third or fourth actual time, file for divorce, and to be rid of my abuser for good, the fate of my son at the crossroads of my wealth, or even better yet, at the very least securing a job, where I was no longer haunted by the massive work I had done on the festival project, or by, as I had once been, followed by some Jimmy Fallon doppleganger— an experience I had nearly forgotten. However, as I reflected upon all of the jobs I had in the years I was homeless, they all had one thing in common—horrible bosses, doppelgängers of people I loved or had written about—and toxic working conditions, in addition to extremely low wages and unconscious coworkers, with the exception of few, whom I kept in my heart and still loved—did I love Jimmy Fallon? As a fan, or an admirer of his portfolio, his presence to me simply only existing in clips and montages from the confines of my memory of all that I could draw from him—an impossible suitor, I found myself to be more in admiration and awe of his work as a comic, a host, his apparent professionalism and stage presence, all of which none surrounding him could doubted and which had given birth to my own re-entry into screenwriting anything besides enter the multiverse/and yet I wondered//what for, besides as to stand as a perfect example of what would and could draw the masses and stand as an acceptable and inexplicable mark for perfection—a television personality, all of which stood to be hidden in such, a person, none whom could ever know behind the likes of such, a camera, an audience, and the propagation of the ideas and words of the media would want to portray in such programming as to remain in control in one way or another, of the audience's minds, and therefore, the viewers hearts, and souls—commanding a presence within the collective consciousness, dependent of course on said viewer's own ability to draw from those things, what was actually being said and done. That, in itself, was The Illuminati in its process. Alright, so—a Jimmy Fallon is an extremely powerful magician, right? Obviously. So he must have talismans, somewhere, then—right? Yeah, I guess, but— I certainly wasn't willing to look. Look, I already know what he likes. Geez, how long have you had his eyes? Long time. I'm gonna get in so much trouble. You are trouble. What is the point of this redaction ? It's just acting! It's just acting! Look, whatever I just did with Fallon, just put him in The Winner's Circle, okay? I'll never see that dude again. Thank God it's over. Synesthesia Attack! AHHHHHHHHH. Well, sorry Jimmy— Thank your parents; They're geniuses. Stay away from me, your crazy bitch! Okay. ‍♀️ FUCK! There it is again! What?! Too deep, too deep! This is deep, boss— I don't know what I just read. Medicine man Would you give me a hand with this I need some medicine quick (Cause I can't with this) Medicine man Need a can of some laugher I heard that's the medicine Medicine man Medicine man could you give me a Hand with this man It's just damages I need some aspirin But imm I'm better off dead Than over the counter It's just damages Something like that Rip Minnie ripperton I knew you were gone But not that gone Not gone like that I just had to know, Now I'm 9 years old But I can't do the math Not at all, Not at all I'm so over it, actually My goals are abandoned I can't trust the man in the television I haven't remembered an image this Disasterous since It was my family picture Without me in it! Damn! Fuck, Now I gotta finish this whole maya rudolph timeline this shit just keeps getting deeper and deeper. Hey. You. What the fuck, man. Come here. No! Yes, Maya! Yes! Mm. Vanilla ice cream is sounding Like The best. Just plain, regular— Just “vanilla” Just vanilla bean—ice cream. Uh. Uh. Woah Where the fuck are we Where the hell are we Where are we GOING Woah, What does the man with the van do Domino sugar Kellogg When you get off the All the good days are gone And I've sent you on right back But I will still love you I was just thinking of that thing You never said But I will still love you When you get off the ground level Just for a minute and Find yourself a revolving door Only to find That the world revolves around you And if all the world's a stage, Then all the world is full of actors And all the trains are out of order And all the walk is out of water You're just another Meant to suffer So you did again And you did this again And you did it On camera Cause if you asked, Then they would have said no anyway And if it was a hall pass I wouldn't have been as flattered To have Never Even left the apartment I asked for something new And what do you know How does God do, On the day of the dead Cause That's where I went Every chair costs and thing, You know Every couch costs a fortune And you would have been On the couch, still Cause you can't get a job With the punches he dealt you Who designed 111 Murray? I see what you're on about All out of automotive Misery and mystical mistresses Misdirection, misrepresentations and. —mister you're into some sinister shit, But I pictured it different Consider it rhythm your interest is simmering in Glistening instances dancing as angels in my headaches Dressed as construction workers Any difference it makes it's latent, Simple Listen into signals intercepting into intermission Admissions of omissions and redactions Oh to be your forever The Masterful mystic is at it again Fly Peter Pan, Fly! Go Jimmy-O, Go! Get Carson, Get! Alright, this dude has the coolest job in the world. Nice. He must have died. (With a lisp) He's on ice cream. What. Yep. Yesth. Watch out It's the bad touch With the good guy And a late night On a long couch Try the dad jokes And the slap stick That's a good job And a big dick Oops What a career, For a carrier pigeon [You can't be serious with this, esh] This cant be infinite, is it? But it is Forget to explain it all Over the ante, that Oh God, For the sake of the art Dear God, Nancy— You're the luckiest lady alive The guy The dimples The eyes The life The style The slide Can I die, yet? Can I just lay down and cry yet? I might, It's way after midnight I like the sound of a bullet touch A stolen cheek The subtle rush of a Sudden fling The market price Of a custom ring, The song I wrote Or the poems you sing So please don't leave the TV On You're sleeping with a blonde I've got my mind on dying mine bright as The title 1985 to idol eyes On American idol Calm the cold down Stalk the mirror Here and here Both clear and near Is here and Bearr, But everywhere else is just— Suicidal. (I don't want your dick, I just want your job.) Now, Call Carson up Says The curse in reverse Is Osmosis Joneing To watch this show Not to know you Go home Or go figure Go gold If the goal was just Taylor Then I'll see you later Amen Don't forget to pray away the day You've just created Hand to mouth Here's a heavenly house And the mouse just shaking Take down the stairs It's starting to scare me The dare On the heron, heroin Heroine mare for the Mayor Okay, here's the player The game is This disfigured imbicile, Ignorant Indians Indifferent indegenous Genius, without a friend Or penis, Without a name of Species to befriend In pieces Once again, I said I loved him So it makes sense if it is A glimpse at the pictures A get together with friends A spectacular special, And get this Creative intelligence Intellect, individual inception Attention deficit and Genetic attraction Damn, That's a handsome man Now, how can I have that? The Title— The title of show As if That demographic Would laugh At a black man I must be Cause trust me My pants don't come in Half sizes It must be a sign from the heavens I've just had my time done with and over It's done Suddenly, I was angry… Don't eat in bed. Don't tell me what to do. (I really don't like eating in bed…) Fuck it, it's too late. Not at myself, not at Jimmy Fallon— but angry. The astonishing part about it was, I didn't even know why. Well, first of all, I just sat through an hour and a half special, and I have realized that I am not a fan of this guy. No? No. I like his face. Huh. He's the right body type. Wait. Good hair. Uh huh. Long, weird nostrils. What. That is a nice nose. Yeah. It's aviary. I get that. And— Wait. What is it? Was I just— I was a very sad, very fat very broken 18-year-old girl. Oh great, this again. Always this. A married man. How could you? I couldn't! Didn't I made that clear! What. He seems happy. Yeah, on TV. He looks fine That's his job. —and goddammit, he's good at it? —and goddammit, he's good at it! 14 Faces, Lewis Del Mar Okay, it's pretty safe to say that is not just one guy. -Su. Come on, Jim. Why?! What?! I can't! My parents! These are not your parents! What?! What do you mean?! I'll explain later— —what?! Look! That's my mom— And that's my dad! That is not correct. Oh, I get it— What. What happened. So he's like— An old soul, right? Kind of. Yes. Not that old. Old, though. Suddenly, the anger turned to sadness, and tears welled up in my eyes— No, don't you dare shed a tear over that man. What are you? Once, an obedient lap dog, Now poised and poached over me, A gargoyle, though picturesque and statuesque As if drawn from an angel, The guardian of the night, Who watches over my heart, Calms the raging rivers of my wishes, Set boats to my dreams, Blows wind to my sail, A bassinet of hope Really dog, Jimmy Fallon? I don't know. I don't know. It was too late, I was already in love— But at a safe enough distance that it had become, in its own way, a guardianship of sorts—and it had run deep enough cut, but not scar, and even perhaps bumped up enough against my heart to bruise, but not be broken; I would have to let it run its course, and as it would, I would for show go everywhere I could within that realm; I simply could not be trusted, in my own mind, not to bond with such that had found me in the dreamworld. In the spiritual realms of such remained only as hidden as they each had been, out of sight, but ne'er out of touch, or out of mind. A strange but hearty love, a burden, as were the others—and so I knew it was good, but mine alone, left to wilt, withered and weathered as the time drew on. A quilted touch, a wandering whisper To glassy eyes and hunted hearts A crossbow, arrows sigh and wonder The target marked, a sign of stone Bewildered, the beast of burden Fury, upon the alter Aware, agape, agahst Above you, Wallowing in holy grave and matrimony Sermon psalm, clary sage Simple words, Semper, the sound I su

JOLENE. [Happy Accidents Remix] (Extended) Beyoncé ft. Happy Accidents IN CASE YOU MISSED IT: previously on LEGENDS {Enter The Multiverse} “Two Hats” Now I had two hats— and loved both of them dearly—or rather, bonded with them—as much as anyone could love a material thing, however, given my circumstances material things where all there were left to love, and though I distained to admit it, there I was, in my empty apartment, which I turned into an office, a mattress on the floor to deviate from it ever truly becoming a bedroom, not that I ever really ‘slept' well in the place—which was a blessing, and the very least mine, with all the gratitude I could show the world for finally letting me be human again, after five years of homelessness. I still hadn't quite yet recovered, actually—I had taken my minimalistic qualities and invested all of my “income” with office supplies and musical endeavors, had already released an album, and had nothing less than a heap of backlogged work to sort through—I could be busy for years, just by myself, and the worst of it—or perhaps, best of it was, I was still writing every day. Sometimes a lot. Too much, really. But, it was a gift, of all the gifts I had received, and they were coming in variously, by way of inspiration, little laughs, and waves of a careful, constructive energy which I knew to be beyond nprnsllyborituctive, even for a creative, and though in my heyday I had written more in volume, the quality of my work was beginnings to show—and my potential for professionalism within the field increased, if I could ever see past my brown skin into white world, where I feared the blue and green eyes damsels of the new entertainment world would Beyoncé me in their outrageous and delusional Taylor Swiftness— unless I was so black that I could not stand as a threat to their dominance and obvious world power —which I wasn't, especially by New York's standards. I was soft spoken, well behaved, and most comfortable (at least when well dressed and maintained), amongst the elite. The first hat jad come well before the other, thankfully—as I had needed something besides a handkerchief tied around my head to protect it; it was during fast that I had learned of the danger of keeping one's head exposed, and finally succumbed to the fact that though it could be deeply hidden and lost somewhere in time and my genetics, no matter how bad at it I was, I was somewhere at least a little Jewish, at least by Whoopi Goldberg standards, who supposedly wasn't Jewish at all—but I had also learned in fast, that many dead Jews were now black women, recycled again only to be exterminated by a counterpart which had exceeded itself in hatred, apparently through it all time—my fear was that it was this hatred who welded and whitewashed all the networks I wished to excel in—the dance music industry, the streaming services, and the media in general seemed almost ruined in entirely by racism, nepotism, and well— Karenism, and though I liked Becky a bit more for her labeling of a power-hungry control-freak ultra competitive obsessive, whose racism was blisteringly hidden and intrinsic and yet effected every fibere of my being just in intolerance, austentation, and obnoxious offense, Karen was what the world had seemed to decide her name was— the true drive behind all white power and supremacy—the white woman, for which the average—always painfully average—white man could not function without. “You've got some resentments in here”, said a voice, almost as familiar as my own, but masculine, as I hyperfocused into the Hurley logo on the first hat, a powder blue and white soft-skulled SnapBack which was intended for working out—and of course, for surfing, should I ever be so lucky to surf again somewhere that wasn't New York, and I meant it, that New York was its own certain kind of sickness and toxicity, riddled with old racism and clustered with housing projects which spoke of the dehumanization and belittlement of anything brown— a betrayal of all spirit which was only just now being ratified by the thousands of buildings like mine springing up from bourough to borough—but still present in the vast and drastic divide between the nice areas, and the areas where the colored people lived—almost anywhere but Manhattan, which I had hoped and dreamed for, but settled on Brooklyn, however so close to Queens that I could sometimes still smell, taste, and worst of all, hear it. At least, however, I was gone from Jamaica—a blessing in itself—as it did seem as though it was true that the blacks had been cursed, and just by the looks of it, I was grouped in with them, though I considered myself far from either side of any spectrum, beyond conservative, in that I enjoyed peace, quiet, cleanliness, and modesty of dress— a respect I had for the upper class, especially of the post and business minded women of New York, which seemed to push strollers and go about their daily runs as housewives on weekends in the areas I most favorited—midtown, something native for, but now realizing that because of the new world slave trade, anything lower than at least the 7th floor would be an irritant, a noise-polluted hell scape of poverty-stricken immigrants with no cultural sensibility or decency often for cleanliness, or politeness, which included the silencing and responsible ridership of vehicles that most probably should have been illegal, if it weren't for the demand of jobs in accordance with the work-from-home-I'm-not-going-out-into-that-hell out attitude which I was becoming more understanding of myself—whatever had happened to “people” and had gone with the world or the pre-pandemic was wrong, on so many levels that it was not hard to imagine that the consciousness that collected amongst the wealth elite had gathered that being out in the world had become dangerous, as indeed capitalism had turned every man woman and child below the poverty line into a minion of Satan himself. Jessie surely couldn't live here, without being well kept by some man, who I could only hope by now had groomed her to be better than how I had left her, or rather, how she left me, in the same stewing hatred and delusion of intrinsic racism which seemed to be ruining my chances at ever truly succeeding, particularly in dance music. I dont know what resentments could come from a hat, which I had bough on clearance to begin with, if only just to be able to have a durable waterproof head covering to strap into my head and sweat in—but I could think of all the ways that might make me resent something, perhaps, if the owners of Hurley were racists—not far fetched, as most the surfing communities, especially out west were all bronzed Johnnies of some sort — closeted racists and wealthy elites, or at least well enough to do to live within a stone's throw of some beach, which, even as poor as one might think himself, is never truly poor—especially, out West. If you grew up surfing, you lived on or near a beach, which implies money beyond most people's wildest dreams—besides Mexico, of course, a special and economically, sociopolitically controlled Hellhole of its own, to which it's problematic governance had overpoured yet another problem impacting one's ability to collect and maintain money, or any wealth or status—illegal immigrants coming in droves, hatching their spawn, and collecting government aide, if only to dwell within multi-family homes, gain wealth and income rapidly, and of course, keep the black population at the greatest disadvantage—as the blacks had been ruined by all of America's time as a slave-driving captalist country, always most hospitable to anything less brown than black, not that I was opposed to the idea that New York needed some variety in its gene pool. I dare not to think the owners of Hurley, a surf brand I had loved and trusted since I was a young fanatic first introduced to the joys of riding the wave, could be run by the most henious of evils, the pedophikes, who all seemed to protect one another in some way—and also seemed to control all of the industry at hand—and though now, especially since Tyla's apparent “win” at the Grammy's, which the more closely I observed in a whole seemed to be entirely fake— another Illuminati pupped groomed and chosen to make some kind of media agenda stand through, the billboards were plastered with blackish and brown women of seemingly African decent, however—the problem was that they weren't women at all—but children; and though the male advertisements were still dominated by the white man, to no complaint by admittance that at least in one way, I too, was a supremacist, in that the father of my future children would or should be white by any means nessesary, and that for years now, I just hadn't been attracted to anything else—which, upon reflection, I realized I probably almost never was actually attracted to black men, beyond growing up in a nearly all-white environment, in which case, I was “supposed” to—I.e., the blacks with the blacks, the fats with the fats and so on, which I despised; and I had never settled on anyone overweight at all until I had to, which in retrospect, had almost ruined my life. Almost, but not. I had escaped the fat bastard's wifebeating clutches, both physically and spiritually, finally having gained the espteric knowledge, had had given light and illumination to what I had been told; but never truly believe until I had confirmed— This man had tried to kill me, many more ways than one, and I had survived. Well, naturally—kind of survived. I was now a DJ among DJs, my aging machine outdated and the layer of haging skin around my delicately contoured extra small waist making it impossible for me to gain attention in the way anyone was these days, by bearing less than what would be considered ‘dress code' for any club back in my day, and my day was surely fading into something like a day ahead, or a day behind—either way, as I had actually done enough fasting and praying by now to ‘bend time', and I should only be so lucky to emulate such a feat within my Ableton, which begged for my attention, and yet, there was something missing from me that wasn't yet satisfied with my being so much so that I could just let go, and record my innermost potent words and songs—actually, it seemed as if my apartment had been rigged with some kind of recorder, as when i began to record, or sing at all—the energy would immediately change, almost halting my voice, then again, there was a Karen to my left, and a Karen to my right, the latter of which, my studio was facing and she seemed to act strange and demonic when my music played, slamming doors and creating some kind of uproar, and so I almost never used my studio monitors to play my own music—opting rather for the safety of deadmau5, or some other cheap house music which I could practically mute in my own mind, but at the very least the vibrations of such would not disrupt what might have been peace, if not for the army of terrorists literally in the parking lot to which my window overlooked, the terrorists operating the “auto body” shop adjacent to my apartment, and what appeared to be, after numerous noise violation complaints to the useless 311 service at NYPD, the terrorists alongside the Brooklyn-Queens border, which I refused at all with aborent denial that I even was situated near. Then, as the building began to fill with more blacks, which I hated seeing, loitering about in the lobby in the general and uncomfortable blankness which I was also doomed by the white and others to be perceived as part of—but with diligence had thrust me into a wave of brainstorms—in how to escape this, and although not entirely racist—I didn't like anyone too far on either spectrum which presented an imminent danger or overbearing presence on my person—black men—white women—and others so culturally inept that a sense of looming control had crept and wandered into my heart and my mind, as to why and how I could find, a way out of The Blackness, and into a quiet, not particularly white neighborhood, but at the very least, a clean and quiet one—which in New York, basically meant A white neighborhood, besides the speckling of rich asians, wealthy blacks, and other foregners who valued the things I had, however, albeit, without the distinction of the vanity of a mother who glamorized and normalized prostitution, to which I might have succumbed more valuably, had I not been stretched to ugly capacity by Doritos, emotional trauma, and whatever other strangeness of my youth presented me with this, what was now a beautiful and perfect body—with an unsightly and imperfect scar, the leftovers which without surgery, would classify me as useless to any man I might have admitted—talented, high vibrational, spirited, successful— And of course Pale. Eye color aside, It truly had been a remarkably long time since I had been moved at all by anyone of my own “type” and for this, I strived to succeed in white world, even if only to fall to the dominating control of the white woman, who often I loved just in her ironic blondeness, her shattering and devastating features—sparkling eyes and speckles of freckles— But who often could never love back, out of some hatred that grew from so deep within, even she herself could not see or understand—it was just a ‘feeling' The “I just don't like that girl” The “she just makes me uncomfortable” Or worse, The kind who would pretend to befriend me, so that she would stand out as the eye of beauty between us, to any man or peer within our shared realms— a dominating force of “I'm more important” and “I'm more worthy”—the trait that alone made my name hidden, my own true name, words I could never pronounce, in knowing that she would come to abuse it, to call my name like a dog— Dogs, which I realized, most whites held above the value of any human as brown as i, or damned blacker, which some would find themselves proud of, but to which I distained; I was not ‘proud' to be black, I just was—and pride was ugly, anyway, especially when acting as a representative of the losing team of a centuries long war. The new age of models were bronzer and browner, some all the way black and most just mauve, or blackish enough so that it would not hurt or scare the fragile counterpart of the white women—who always seemed to be scared, put off, or offended by blackness in just its presence, to which I could relate, but not emulate, as the scoffing and huffing of many a tantrum had drawn me to the conclusion that they just weren't happy with our existence entirely, being of veluptuous nature or whatever it was, however—it was the cruelty of the industry at hand that showed a greater monster—that all the men seemed to be well grown, and yet all the women were not women at all, But children on display, in the vulnerability of the sexual nation of normalizing blackness, at the sacrifice of allowing grown men to think it was allowable to fawn after such; what would be considered adolescent bodies—a crucially disproportionate factor that would make or break my career as a writer, musician, DJ, or otherwise, being a woman, who had visible scars of the ability to bear children, which I had not sacrificed, but placed far from my mind— I would not tolerate or settle on another lazy husband, or perhaps even a husband at all. I could tolerate many things about mankind that were obnoxious—cigarette smoke and infedelity, gaslighting and bondage by body or some other lack of God, however, what I could not tolerate was the laziness—the toxic, inability to do without being told to do so— the bearing of another child from outside, that went well beyond the responsibility of one that would come from within. I had spent the early morning taking heed of the accuracy of the advice Joan from Mad Men had given us, in the nostalgic whit of the 1960's that still seemed to prove true today, in fact, more truer than it ever did the first time around— that ‘boys will be boys' and ‘men will be men', and in all honestly, one has not to come far from another into adulthood, so much as a woman should, for it had been neerly a decade since I had last laid eyes on the Piloted Don Draper— and it had been a decade with, with the least to say, had made the show itself more relevant, probably with each passing day. Most men are looking for something between a mother and a— But my memory had muffled the rest, by now, buried in the entourage of my own drawing, from which inspiration had sparked from the entire pot of coffee and song selection that it had taken to sort through my divorce paperwork— a task that had actually taken weeks altogether to assemble, and which I had run into too many obstacles during, having quite forcibly to use my occult knowledge to bend backwards and bind myself with protection, as something truly evil and sinister had surrounded this task— Broken printers, misplaced documents, and of course, all the suffering it took to sift and sort through the words that were truer than any I had ever spoken, and although some run-on paragraphs and broken record retelling of what had actually happened, the effects of what had gone beyond that, what I could accurately put into paper without sounding like a total psychopath, the fact that he and more than likely his father had intended to seal my fate into a Hell beyond words , a death beyond escape, with black magic—using my dead son's hair as a tool for ritual and bondage, to which my own guides in Heaven had overseen and reported through numerous visions, alongside the years of research, my introduction into the occult not out of interest at all, though however born a naturally ‘gifted' person, but out of desperation for protection from the homeless, dirty hellacapes which I had been forced to inhabit since my departure— and without looking back, I had come to the conclusion that though I had nearly lost my son in the process, I had at least survived to preserve myself for him, come such a day he could ever want me. And on that day, I would be the best that I could be for him—I was somewhere between 130 and 140, but wanted to be closer to 110, so that the men that I admired and was attracted to would actually want me, a hard task, especially keeping my assets in tact, but—however—speaking of assets and tact; this chapter was running long, and I still hadn't decided which hat I would wear to the post office to send off the arsenal of paperwork across the country, hopefully to be freed and riddled of the awful reminders of him, many of which had set me off with enough audacity that I had lost it in my apartment not once, but twice—and it seemed that the more accurate my foretelling of this abuse—both physical and emotional, but above all satanic and ritualistic, which had now been overturned and reflected in my own knowledge and illumination, now an admiration for the occult, as the protective rituals which I had become prone to from his damage seemed to shield and protect—the more some satanic force tried to end me, before I could ever return to a normal state—- or ascend into a realm which the evil could not penetrate, with remnices of punching bag faces, spit on the walls, the smell of vomit, and the other atrocities I could only hope had not been passed down to my offspring, who by now didn't know me, but probably was becoming of me enough that I could not be erased from him, to which the anger of his captor I could feel in the onslaught of disgusting bodies which seemed to flock to me to emulate him in some way, though to me he was no God enough to have done so, but rather just a replicate of Satan himself, which had bonded in his betrayal of this, his wish to end and kill me— and had sent demons in his own name to satiate this desire—however—by now I had realized that this darkness could only control the weaker of sorts, the weak in spirit, the dirty humans, the ones who had chosen to rid themselves of soul, in the name of money or otherwise— and though the cover to my “debut” album spoke not of true Chaos Magic, but of another pinnacle of the occult, the name itself was more practical of the music that it contained—the chapter of blackness which had halted my humanity, living in the shackles of the tragic aftermath of all that had happened. I still hadn't decided on a hat, but the obvious answer was that I should, before the day returned back into the night, and though I hated long subway rides, there was a comfortable avenue with everything I needed to come back to my mind, one single paper which needed still to be notarized, which I had missed in the frenzy of what seemed like an endless nightmare, to get away from this man, his damage, and all of the things and people which acted like him—dumb, broken, and twisted enough to instill pain, intrude my sanctity, and stalk so much so that my usual calm, peaceful demeanor became a violent rage, however, almost respectfully always contained to the privacy of my “home” surrounded by strangers who hated me, for I in this black skin could not ever be worthy of equality, an audacious comparison in the very least, that I should have what they always have. Just keep working. The hole had yet to swallow me, but I had two more albums coming immediately, right out the gate, their deadlines approaching so rapidly that I could feel the onslaught of always wokenness coming in the collision and confusion of wondering how, if I ever, I would make enough money to actually get ahead, for once— and become unstuck from the lovelessness that was so underserving that nobody I could seek to love, could love me—perhaps it was true that poverty was some kind of invisibility to the wealthy elite, and though I despised the though of golddigging, I despised more the thought of being the breadwinner somewhere between lower middle class and poverty, always sick from always working, never working out; and of course— Always arguing over nothing, Which seemed to be the dynamic between men and women, anyway. I realized that Don Draper was in a silent and secret war with Betty, whose anxiety had piled up inside her, most even probably as a result of her hUsband's “secret” infidelity— And that seriously, I might be some kind of writer or something, If all I could think about was how cringey it was to watch Jon Hamm kiss Tina Fey, in that one movie by John Slattery, And how I really didn't want anything more Than to look like Miss January Jones, Who had always been so perfectly beautiful to me, That it hurt me. ‘The DJ Hat, I think. ‘ I was nervous, and it was raining, But it couldn't wait another day The final breaking of this curse Would be sending in the paperwork That described word for word With brutal honesty and accuracy Everything that should never happen When you get married— At least Happily. -Happy Accidents. I GOT YOU NOW, MOTHERFUCKER. Oh my God! It's Pat Kirkpatrick! Oh great, so he's some sort of Diety, I guess. Lesson 1: Continuity. Lesson 2: Continuity, Lesson 3: Continuity —isn't that all just— Continuity. yessssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss—- I'm a DJ, BITCH. YO, LESSON ONE: You're not the professor. I'm the GURU. This the dojo! Uh. No. You're not. I AM. Where's Jimmy Fallon? Yo, FUCK JIMMY FALLON, alright. He's possessed— What?! Oh NO. Who possessed him?! My ex husband. I'M THE SENSEI NOW. SENRAO fuck. Where the fuck is this kid? Dead. DEAD? Mm. Presumably. Mmhmm. wtf, who are you? Woke up with Dillon Francis in my head— “I'm my only friend” I don't even like that song, it just gets stuck in my head. Apparently Emma Watson wants to know what to do in the festival project. I still don't know. My ex went to Golden Corral to cheat on me, then got sick from pizza; I got some kind of job at a weird party place for kids; the dude was weird and only hired non bianary people and dudes; I left to help my friends who were getting married with car trouble. Lol Emma Watson though, was like— “Okay, what do I do?” I was like, I don't know. Then I woke up. EMMA WATSON Okay, what do I do? I was starting to develop scabs in my ears from alternating between headphones and earplugs, which couldn't have been good—I needed to work, and was disasterously fat, however, toned, and I assumed that the extra weight had come from muscle. My legs were smooth, and all of the clothes I had picked up along my walk fit—all extra smalls and smalls, which included even a tiny bralette I was certain would fit when picking it up, and it did—I only wondered what the world might be like after a panniculectomy—though my thighs seemed massive and I was certainly bloated, opting for less running and more lifting until my energy recovered, I was still anywhere between a size 4 and 5, sometimes a 6–which did kind of rather shamed me in all of the ways that it could—6 was much greater than 2–and those praised as the ‘world's most beautiful women' were anywhere between 00 and 2; I wasn't sure where I was going to move my thighs or my arse to, but I was determined to be celebrity skinny—even without the added bonus of actually being a celebrity, and however oddly enough with the star studded dreams I had been having, there seemed somehow still some kind of hope, though even if in the next life, that I would become into a world of my dreams. It was the anniversary of my son's death—he would have now been 9, and I often was drawn to remember him walking about New York—seeing beautiful children about with long hair, and beautiful brown skin, with eyes like mine, moon shaped and dark…I began to softly weep as I remembered how beautiful he was, and that I had no pictures of him at all. It was better that way, really—the hurt that had come from holding on was too great—and yet, subtle reminders, in the way that sometimes, however music would just come to me, there was my boy; he loved my guitar, and the sound of my voice as I would sing, and had even once, just before his death, tried to sing along, as I clamored about the house, singing Seven + Mary—which he seemed to like enough that he found the need to make his way over to the table to get my attention, and sing with me. Back in my current reality, the overall bored of the shower running and my demon neighbors slamming things around angrily as if something was wrong, shaking the building brought me back to the monotonous world, morning coffee over the toilet quite remincent of Lyndon B. Johnson, the morning sifting through my Google documents for Emma Watson and John Slattery part of my morning report— and though I was due in the gym, there was nothing I wanted less than to go anybody or see anything at all—everything was just a reminder of my apparent “living hand to mouth”, and the more I kept on dreaming and writing of these people, the more grandiose and and delusional I felt—I had just been blindsided in court by my ex's attempt to discredit my ask for a protective order against him by using my mental health in the wake of his physical violence and our sons death, against me in such a way that the victory, the judge's granting of my protection against him, was still pyrrhic in such a way that I didn't feel so much protected, as he had lodged his way into my dreams once more just to cheat on me—though however had been twarted in doing so, by some particularly sour Golden Corral pizza, and the young girl accompanying him quite receptive to the speech I had given her on karmic justice. Strangely enough, the dream almost appeared as in my favor, that things were changing, and yet—I still didn't like to see him or think of him at all, and luckily enough, it was Emma Watson who had intercepted this sort of nightmare with the conjecture that I should keep writing, however with an American accent, which only forced me to wonder, if perhaps, too she had become some sort of Cosmic Avenger—or even so, as written, was JK Rowling in disguise as the actress playing her own character, some kind of magician's practitioner —who had herself been for some time one of my living spirit guides since childhood—finding as I grew older for us to be more alike than not, especially as a writer. I stepped into the shower, still writing, and without the amount of coffee I really needed to move more quickly, but still in some sort of stupor— ‘I should probably get out of here.' Another day trapped indoors would simply be unhealthy, however I hadn't the slightest idea where I might go. Wherever it was, I would take my guitar—and at the very least—I knew which direction Manhattan was, anyway. ‘Fuck, I gotta find that episode with the earthquake…' BEFORE: ugh , where to begin? Let's just start with– LADY GAGA aka GAGA has been tasked with strategically marking the grid with Various entrance and exit points; a job which she has tak quite seriously, and honorably. Okay, moving forward . You're not going to expand on that? No, next thing. HARRY POTTER, HERMIONE GRANGER Wait– What. Wouldn't it be HERMIONE WEASELEY Did they not get a divorce? I heard that. That just sounds dumb, I'm not writing that. That is dumb.. Anyway. HARRY POTTER, HERMI– Fuck it. HARRY, HERMIONE, AND RON have accidentally shifted dimensions and into the bodies of their real-life counterpart, DANIEL RADCLIFFE, EMMA WATSON, AND RUPERT GRINT Oh damn. I finally found something cool for Emma Watson to do. That is cool. SUPACREE I need you to read all these, and watch all this. SUPACREE leaves the three magicless, frietenghned, and shocked– –flabbergasted– what . They're English, they should be flabbergasted. [They are Flabbergassted] Wait, go back? I can't. I Have a hard time writing action scenes why ? Cause i'm not getting any. Lol : (Holy shit, that is probably why tho.) Erase. WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT? It wasn't good. HOW DO YOU KNOW?! *shrugs* !?!- ::||pause. ok . So that dude from Drake and Josh is in all these episodes, but we only get one Harry Potter Episode? …He seems less busy. –Don't forget Jimmy Fallon. Yeah, I still don't get that. Neither do I? Why is he even in this? [Watching Saturday Night Live} JIMMY FALLON! Why Is he even in This? ? ? AAAAANNNDRD—WE'RE BACK. Fuck it, next thing. gaga Yeus. What are you doing? Hm. Mm…working on something. If I stand quietly at the door, and await you; Will you come to me, And and open it, to let me in To see the gate you keep Let's read between the lines; You weep for me and deep into my dreams Then see me in the streets, and think “It cannot be the she for me; Maybe, if she were pretty.” Don't look into my eyes (I despise you! I delicately delight you Despite the never having time to Now I'm desperate just to find you In a life I left behind And drew a line though RATATA & TATTATA I wrote this story years ago. Are you going to listen to the album? I already did that. YOU GOTTA LISTEN TO THE NO. And I don't expect Skrillex to listen to this, either. It's over. It's over It's over It's over. I LOOOOOOVE HER TIMMY TURNERS NEW BALANCE TENNIS SHOES TAP SWIFTLY ACROSS THE PAVEMENT AS HE RUNS FOR HIS LIFE Well, that is a good place to start—thanks Emma Watson. Captain. Oh shit, what's SHE like? I don't know, isn't she like, irl an American diplomat? Uhhh—aren't you? No. Now hurry, we gotta do this before Jimmy Fallon shows up and [JIMMY FALLON SHOWS UP] Ugh. Why is he even in this? What is this? I don't know. It's “Poetry” An album. A couple of movies. Some TV shows. Will this suffice? I don't know… Enter that one scene here with John Slattery? Which scene with John Slattery? You're right. I have been writing for John Slattery a lot. Bipolar disprder and other multidimensional preceptory functions could more likely be reclassified from a disease to a hypersensitivity to energy which one does not identify as belonging to oneself, which therefore counteracts within the mind's ability to alter or project and/or maintain balance in one's mood, as certain energies may be ‘absorbed' empathically or observed as a negative or draining energy; An elevated sense or shift due to the overstimulation of energy which the subject may receive as ‘“positive”, or shifting the mood undesirably by the overstimulation of negative sources, sounds, or persons within the subject's realm foreign, undesirable, or unwanted within one's field of energy—a heightened sense of awareness or vibrational field which inhibits or limits the ability to contain or transmute such energies. It is, within its own sense, a sort of elevated mechanism for survival, ie a superpower, given the subjects placement within the proper environment, within the functional vibration of the subjects natural mood or state, whereas, lows may be the subjects own sensitivity to numerous outer sources of negative or prone to certain toxicities to his or her natural state, and highs whereas certain higher vibrational energies result in the conglomerate evolution of such energies as a newer form So, bipolar, you think? I think I don't know what I am, and nobody does—so nothing you give me will ever really fix me, because I was never really broken, or Or? Or I was broken rightfully so in that I should have been treated as a trauma victim, and not the subject of some cruel experimentation as an attempt to assasinate whatever force of nature is actually keeping me alive in the only survival mechanism it's been naturally given to battle the psychopathic standards and expectations of today's society. Fine, very well then. Why is this J. slatts again Cause, I've got a beautiful vocality for narration. Fine, I'll work on that character next, I guess. What?! John Slattery is in this! YES. I guess I have to watch it, then. Collect the actors, again! AGENTS. Ufffghh. MANAGERS Fucking Christ. JOHN SLATTERY (as himself) “I'll do it, “, I said, “but there better be money attached to this project” [Jimmy Fallon enters] JOHN SLATTERY There he is! The man of the hour. JIMMY FALLON This is—probably going to take longer than an hour, I'm betting. JOHN SLATTERY Come, sit. [He sits at the had of a long table] JIHN SLATTERY (CONT'D) I don't know what you did, you fucking idiot, but you did it. JIMMY FALLON Tell me what I did again. CUT TO: [unseen, on the opposite side of the room] Oh shit, that's him; Are you sure? No, that's Patrick. WhT's the difference?! [Like, an entire generational gap of innuendos and pop culture reference.] JOHN SLATTERY Your presence is appreciated. This meeting is now officially in session. {Enter The Multiverse: LEGENDS} [the festival project What is this? Is this Scotch? No! It's apple cider vinegar! Does the trick. I heard you were a Method-ist. No, apparently I'm “the medicine man” It's nearly team But feels like night Nearly forgot what this was like Too many sunny days, no friends Wasted yesterday latent, Impatient creative Heavy workload But you know the rules Overcast clouds say stay, It's a workday Every day is a work day But it ll seems worthless Almost, Amazon, Ten dollars Cold, corrupt and almost Out of water I should be smarter than to call the code I should be smarter then to call him over Going nowhere but up Calling a number, four Number four The hypnotists wish lists What happens at number ten Calling a number up Four days of water left I should have left him as The protagonists, of supporting roles Now number one is number four And number four is often gone The storyline and plot is Two, three— too heavy. Three-two-three Walk away 310, cam the number Hollywood is calling, New York has hospitality, though One, two— Walk away Three, four catch the code Hollywood, turn around New York's got hospitality, though How's Tokyo sound when November rolls around How's Paris now, that were Marlboros on parliament How it all come down Then it all comes down To the three two one Four's nowhere, now I had woken up with an overall feeling that something was wrong—I had overshot my 3 AM target time by 6 hours, realizing of course that I was a day ahead, and that the construction—more drilling and hammering, was out on hold thanks to an apparent oncoming rain, which hadn't come yet— my wavering mental state was apparent in the mess I had left in my room, clothes strewn across the floor and atop the bed, but at least otherwise clean—I had slept dressed, or at least half dressed, a protection stone lodged in my bra, as the necklace I had worn for my son had become somewhat damaged in some way—it was no longer protective, but had somehow defected; probably in the way that his father bearing over him, allowed the stone some sort of portal to be able to invade my dreams with nightmarish hauntings, and I instead opted to keep the necklace aafelu tucked away, until I would be able to give it to him as I had planned. But still, it seemed that the intention of his father was to ruin my life, and see to it so that I may never do well enough to visit my son, and it seemed no matter how hard I tried I would not miss the band. (A magician's hands) I've been watching TV i doubled back, low battery In battery park, I could watch the sun rising I'm so full of worry Of money I wonder What for, is my worth Kelly Clarkson was the cutest thing ever—and sung so freely like a bird like I wished that I could—I remember breaking down in my car after just missing the cut off for entering her show, back in LA—more than likely over the fact that I would be missing a paycheck, rather than missing the show anyway— and I had almost thought to cancel my tickets for the View, had I not been lured by the blue hues of both their outfits—and though I hadn't meant particularly to be associated with the color blue at all, most people associated my name with the color anyway, as I hadn't intended. Nothing was really intended, it had just happened. Whoopie Goldberg's fabulous denim cape forced me to wonder what I might wear the next day, had I decided to actually go—the colors of my closet mostly black and quite drab, and the denim dress I had acquired as a cleaning person the year before becoming a tired go-to when I needed to look nice. I almost wanted to wear my new Michael Kors stilettos, but was saving them for an actual party, an interview somewhere classy, or worse—my first date—as the anniversary of my cellibacy drew closer by the minute, and my need to continue my reproduction however with someone more fitting began to be the most harrowing thing on my mind, beside possibly returning to a homeless shelter, which I would not allow to happen. My exit strategy was simple, actually—in that if given an eviction notice for whatever reason—my neighbors seemed particularly afflicted as my former boss and lovers, roommates, and others I had become close to in this strange and seemingly cursed world with that thing I could only call a demon, since I didn't know what it was, and I was afraid they'd continue to report smoke coming from my apartment, although now I had been forced to switch to a diffuser with essential oils, taking a chunk out of what I considered my severance pay from The House of Illumination, which had indeed lived up to its namesake—the lesson had been quick, in that working for such a man, whoever he was or at least pretending to be, had taken me off my path, and had begun to dishevel my personal energy so much so that I had actually dropped my wallet—it had been so long since making such a mistake that I knew indeed that something was wrong, however, but needed the money so badly that it didn't matter—and besides, nothing could be so horrible as was my mother sometimes, growing up—and I had given Natural all that he needed to hurt me in telling the story of my own weight loss journey. Telling, and in return, Natrual was showing that I had given the world the perfect excuse to continue trying to kill me—that perhaps, my time had passed anyway. Kelly Clarkson looked incredible—the last I had seen, she was pleasantly plump, but never bad looking—now, she was. Incredibly veluptumous, and as she stated that she stood at merely 5'3, I was suprised once again that all of the TV people looked either taller or shorter on camera, and wondered what I might look like— I was almost stuck thin about 4 days into a water fast, but appeared and felt large otherwise, and most recently had been more tired and fatigued that ever, outraged that I had been dismissed from my only income in months over nothing, and that the income from anything else I was doing would simply not come at all if I could never wrap my mind around even trying to have it be seen by the right minds, with the right eyes, at the right time—and yet there was another force of evil, seeming always to stop me from the essence of true creation—this thing which had taken away my musical expression almost entirely by now, my sensibility wavering and all of my slayed projects, stagnant. I was craving oats, and had even pre-prepared some, blending them in my magic bullet so that they would be easier to digest—and since Natural had made the suggestion that my BMI was to blame for my lack of focus and attention to detail, it had more been the combination of losing my wallet, having to deal with the public transit, constantly being reminded that Tula, a light skinned African was the music industry's new it-girl, and of course, that my son, now 7, was morbidly obese, probably somewhere discarded like junk under a cloud of cigarette smoke, head deep in a video game and surrounded by idiots—and that no matter how hard I tried to make the money to see him, something awful would happen so that I couldn't, and it became clear that his father's story—whereas I had simply and for no reason “lost my mind” and had abandoned my child, was the story he had told to all those around him, who believed him—that I was the villain in his story, and my son the tool he used to create a sympathetic picture of a loving and struggling father, though now he might have actually been trying, the damage was done; he had sent my son away unable to care for him to my mother, and in the time he was given alone, of course, created another child—all of which of course I wanted, in hopes that the one he had chosen for his new family would have some sort of love an appreciation for my own son, enough to have created a step mother, but alas, was some underwhelming someone with nothing to offer but her own struggle—and I wanted nothing to do but to be gone from this drama, however my own blood had been caught up in it enough so that I could feel it, knowing that at just 7, my son was as sick as I once was, depressed and miserable as the child of a narcicist becomes once the damage is done. I was only eating blended foods, and had become obsessed with being stick thin—celebrity fit, which is how I had found the video at all, my love of Whoopi Goldberg and Kelly Clarkson creating a quick draw, a star studded combination I could not resist, though I wasn't resisting much—I had drifted back into the realms of television and film, my first loves—or rather, my first conscious endeavor, as I had been attracted to the piano from a toddler and learned to play around three, therein my is being my first love, however with a mother like mine and a life like ours, there truly never was one thing I could ever just ‘do', as anything I loved would soon be subjected to be taken away for some reason or another, whether it was a messy room, or just a mood swing—whether or not I wanted to watch lifetime and be best friends, even after a day of being yelled at and scolded for one reason or another—as my mother often seemed to forget ever being cruel after being so, often saying “I would never…” to whatever she had done, a narcissist's mark, in denying actions and words that had only ever been witnessed between the other party and God. I had blended the ancient seed oat bend into a porridge with agave and sautéed apples and pears with cinnamon, and though I felt awful eating more than once, was struggling enough with this bout of depression which working at Temple of Illumination so briefly had caused that it didn't matter at all—coffee was simply not enough, and my Amazon package which would deliver my vitamin supplements and whatever else I had ordered—things I had gotten into the habit of pocketing at the Whole Foods market during my homelessness, but in trying to recover from the spiritually twisted and evil place the homeless system had put me through, I had, with all my might, been insistent on purchasing everything I had needed—and even though it was indeed wrong of the white supremacists movement to have been true health and nutrition almost unattainable to the common workforce, my food stamps never enough to actually supplement a full month of food—whole food veganism which would allow me to train for at least an hour a day to sustain clean energy, and of course, water in order to stay hydrated in doing so — I was getting better at keeping what I needed in stock, but almost always needed to run to a food bank at least once a week, hoping that I would collect there things I actually could eat, rather than processed junk my body no longer saw as food at all. I peeled a mandarin into the watered down oats mixture and was worried that the dried cranberries I would pour over the top would be too much sugar, but I almost didn't care; I was on the verge of tears, and some evil, penetrating force had been altering my sleep patterns, my heartbeat, and my dreams—there was some group of motorcyclists who for months had been circling at any given time, and though some might have been able to ignore the roaring and awful vibrations of such, I could not—these motorists seemed to rip through my heart and up my spine like a serrated knife, a gesture that indeed noted that it was some evil or devilish, demonic force, as when in relax and meditation I often pondered with his, these striking forces would come, often creating a wave of fear, anxiety, and worry—terrorism, by definition, and disturbance of the peace, it was—but nobody seemed to care that it was pain for me, in fact, the more I began to wonder what or why it was, the more it became clear that this was intention to hurt or kill me, whether by an organization of some sort, or simply the force of evil itself against the divine I had become, not with intention at all, but in seeking my own freedom from such a world as cruel and unjust as I had come. My neighbors had lodged an impressive amount of complaints against me for smudging—and it was 36 complaints before I had even been made aware that my neighbors were trying to get rid of me; not once had a note been left on my door, or had I been approached by them In the hallway to ask that I not use smudge—then again, sometimes as whites were, they were more concerned about themselves and their dogs than whatever might have been the cause of such heavy saging occurring—the motorcycles at all hours tearing through my heart, the slamming doors, the sound of their televisions or voices penetrating through my walls— the unwelcoming energy which at all times I was surrounded by, and though I loved New York, 3 stories above the ground floor and on the border of queens was simply not far enough away from the Godlessness of the cursed and usually dark others, whom could not understand the conciousness I had drawn from the long fasts, prayers, and summonings I had done in order to free myself from the force that had done away with me to begin with—my deep love for the man with whom I had fathered my sons, and a daughter, the two of the three were gone, though I had seen so that if I had not lost my daughter and my son, I would probably still be with their father, in attempting to give them a family—another poor, single, black woman and mother, I was now willing to be to my son, but was not; I had forgiven his father, however, it seemed some sort of curse he had done in my departure was still in effect, the demons he had called onto me not called off—and even in the reflection of my own self and flaws upon entetering such a relationship—the other things had been inherited from him; the homelessness, the toxicity and mismanagement of energy—however, my lack of control over time, I realized early on, had been inherited from my mother, who was more like my ex husband and her own abusive father than I ever was. I wanted bread, but could not dare; J[r was 6 ft tall, and for some reason, that bothered me more than anything else I had learned about him, for some bizzarre reason almost suddenly obsessed with the public figure, though at first the dollar project had been more of a game than the actual idea, and the festival project itself was at all but a halt, as I wanted and needed desperately to comb through my documents at once, but could never seem to— the metaphors of Natural's Basement drawing upon me as I realized that perhaps, I was too emotional about its contents to properly sort through them—atop this concern, was the concern that my body, though fitting quite nicely into an extra extra small pair of racer lined jockey style workout leggings, was still too large to be though of as ideal—ideal, which for a man 6 feet apparently was, according to Ali and the others, and though I had pretty much always hated Fallon from early on, always breaking fourth wall and blowing my mind coming from such a strong theatre background that someone like that could have ever been awarded a coveted spot on such a legendary show, it had been gathered somewhere that his audition was flawless, however—his second audition, according to Tina Fey, who I loved, maybe even more after learning that she had been given such a unique name, and had won almost every award I could possibly think to covet, although however much a writer I was, an actor and comic I was not, in that I had given up my own craft years before being fat or being black was ever in style—and now that it was, I had no reason to believe that at 31, while Tyla was 22, as was Billie Ellish, I had any business in even trying to make it in entertainment— I began preparing to die almost as readily as ever, deciding upon eviction, rather than fighting it and returning to the intake shelter in the Bronx to start the process again, I would simply jump either off my own building, hoping 12 stories would be enough to actually cause death, rather than just parilization, or find my way to the end of the platform at which the train moved most quickly in preparation to stop at the station, which I had nicknamed “the Jumping Point”—also the name of a pop up dance music club I had summoned up once, actually thinking that something, something at all would bring me close enough to success to actually become the dance music tycoon and entrepreneur that I wanted, however—as my hair again grew into a shoveled mess atop my skull, only hidden by a hit which the view wouldn't allow as an audience member, the only thing which might have kept me from going at all, besides my lack of knowing what to wear or just the daunting crises of having no money at all almost a shameful mark across my face— my nails for nearly a year undone, and of course— everything I knew that needed to be done, almost stuck and unable to move forward, my divorce papers included, another mark of the devil, as I had already done the paperwork 3 times, spending atrocious amounts of money in the process, of course, for all of them to be sent back, for some reason or another, and the case to still be opened without being shut—and at least it was opened… As tears began to well up into my eyeballs, in thinking perhaps I truly was cursed, that the law was for whatever reason on all of my abuser's sides, and that I was doomed to become lost in this endless cycle of loss and pain for some reason or another, that became the task at hand—to, for what was either the third or fourth actual time, file for divorce, and to be rid of my abuser for good, the fate of my son at the crossroads of my wealth, or even better yet, at the very least securing a job, where I was no longer haunted by the massive work I had done on the festival project, or by, as I had once been, followed by some Jimmy Fallon doppleganger— an experience I had nearly forgotten. However, as I reflected upon all of the jobs I had in the years I was homeless, they all had one thing in common—horrible bosses, doppelgängers of people I loved or had written about—and toxic working conditions, in addition to extremely low wages and unconscious coworkers, with the exception of few, whom I kept in my heart and still loved—did I love Jimmy Fallon? As a fan, or an admirer of his portfolio, his presence to me simply only existing in clips and montages from the confines of my memory of all that I could draw from him—an impossible suitor, I found myself to be more in admiration and awe of his work as a comic, a host, his apparent professionalism and stage presence, all of which none surrounding him could doubted and which had given birth to my own re-entry into screenwriting anything besides enter the multiverse/and yet I wondered//what for, besides as to stand as a perfect example of what would and could draw the masses and stand as an acceptable and inexplicable mark for perfection—a television personality, all of which stood to be hidden in such, a person, none whom could ever know behind the likes of such, a camera, an audience, and the propagation of the ideas and words of the media would want to portray in such programming as to remain in control in one way or another, of the audience's minds, and therefore, the viewers hearts, and souls—commanding a presence within the collective consciousness, dependent of course on said viewer's own ability to draw from those things, what was actually being said and done. That, in itself, was The Illuminati in its process. Alright, so—a Jimmy Fallon is an extremely powerful magician, right? Obviously. So he must have talismans, somewhere, then—right? Yeah, I guess, but— I certainly wasn't willing to look. Look, I already know what he likes. Geez, how long have you had his eyes? Long time. I'm gonna get in so much trouble. You are trouble. What is the point of this redaction ? It's just acting! It's just acting! Look, whatever I just did with Fallon, just put him in The Winner's Circle, okay? I'll never see that dude again. Thank God it's over. Synesthesia Attack! AHHHHHHHHH. Well, sorry Jimmy— Thank your parents; They're geniuses. Stay away from me, your crazy bitch! Okay. ‍♀️ FUCK! There it is again! What?! Too deep, too deep! This is deep, boss— I don't know what I just read. Medicine man Would you give me a hand with this I need some medicine quick (Cause I can't with this) Medicine man Need a can of some laugher I heard that's the medicine Medicine man Medicine man could you give me a Hand with this man It's just damages I need some aspirin But imm I'm better off dead Than over the counter It's just damages Something like that Rip Minnie ripperton I knew you were gone But not that gone Not gone like that I just had to know, Now I'm 9 years old But I can't do the math Not at all, Not at all I'm so over it, actually My goals are abandoned I can't trust the man in the television I haven't remembered an image this Disasterous since It was my family picture Without me in it! Damn! Fuck, Now I gotta finish this whole maya rudolph timeline this shit just keeps getting deeper and deeper. Hey. You. What the fuck, man. Come here. No! Yes, Maya! Yes! Mm. Vanilla ice cream is sounding Like The best. Just plain, regular— Just “vanilla” Just vanilla bean—ice cream. Uh. Uh. Woah Where the fuck are we Where the hell are we Where are we GOING Woah, What does the man with the van do Domino sugar Kellogg When you get off the All the good days are gone And I've sent you on right back But I will still love you I was just thinking of that thing You never said But I will still love you When you get off the ground level Just for a minute and Find yourself a revolving door Only to find That the world revolves around you And if all the world's a stage, Then all the world is full of actors And all the trains are out of order And all the walk is out of water You're just another Meant to suffer So you did again And you did this again And you did it On camera Cause if you asked, Then they would have said no anyway And if it was a hall pass I wouldn't have been as flattered To have Never Even left the apartment I asked for something new And what do you know How does God do, On the day of the dead Cause That's where I went Every chair costs and thing, You know Every couch costs a fortune And you would have been On the couch, still Cause you can't get a job With the punches he dealt you Who designed 111 Murray? I see what you're on about All out of automotive Misery and mystical mistresses Misdirection, misrepresentations and. —mister you're into some sinister shit, But I pictured it different Consider it rhythm your interest is simmering in Glistening instances dancing as angels in my headaches Dressed as construction workers Any difference it makes it's latent, Simple Listen into signals intercepting into intermission Admissions of omissions and redactions Oh to be your forever The Masterful mystic is at it again Fly Peter Pan, Fly! Go Jimmy-O, Go! Get Carson, Get! Alright, this dude has the coolest job in the world. Nice. He must have died. (With a lisp) He's on ice cream. What. Yep. Yesth. Watch out It's the bad touch With the good guy And a late night On a long couch Try the dad jokes And the slap stick That's a good job And a big dick Oops What a career, For a carrier pigeon [You can't be serious with this, esh] This cant be infinite, is it? But it is Forget to explain it all Over the ante, that Oh God, For the sake of the art Dear God, Nancy— You're the luckiest lady alive The guy The dimples The eyes The life The style The slide Can I die, yet? Can I just lay down and cry yet? I might, It's way after midnight I like the sound of a bullet touch A stolen cheek The subtle rush of a Sudden fling The market price Of a custom ring, The song I wrote Or the poems you sing So please don't leave the TV On You're sleeping with a blonde I've got my mind on dying mine bright as The title 1985 to idol eyes On American idol Calm the cold down Stalk the mirror Here and here Both clear and near Is here and Bearr, But everywhere else is just— Suicidal. (I don't want your dick, I just want your job.) Now, Call Carson up Says The curse in reverse Is Osmosis Joneing To watch this show Not to know you Go home Or go figure Go gold If the goal was just Taylor Then I'll see you later Amen Don't forget to pray away the day You've just created Hand to mouth Here's a heavenly house And the mouse just shaking Take down the stairs It's starting to scare me The dare On the heron, heroin Heroine mare for the Mayor Okay, here's the player The game is This disfigured imbicile, Ignorant Indians Indifferent indegenous Genius, without a friend Or penis, Without a name of Species to befriend In pieces Once again, I said I loved him So it makes sense if it is A glimpse at the pictures A get together with friends A spectacular special, And get this Creative intelligence Intellect, individual inception Attention deficit and Genetic attraction Damn, That's a handsome man Now, how can I have that? The Title— The title of show As if That demographic Would laugh At a black man I must be Cause trust me My pants don't come in Half sizes It must be a sign from the heavens I've just had my time done with and over It's done Suddenly, I was angry… Don't eat in bed. Don't tell me what to do. (I really don't like eating in bed…) Fuck it, it's too late. Not at myself, not at Jimmy Fallon— but angry. The astonishing part about it was, I didn't even know why. Well, first of all, I just sat through an hour and a half special, and I have realized that I am not a fan of this guy. No? No. I like his face. Huh. He's the right body type. Wait. Good hair. Uh huh. Long, weird nostrils. What. That is a nice nose. Yeah. It's aviary. I get that. And— Wait. What is it? Was I just— I was a very sad, very fat very broken 18-year-old girl. Oh great, this again. Always this. A married man. How could you? I couldn't! Didn't I made that clear! What. He seems happy. Yeah, on TV. He looks fine That's his job. —and goddammit, he's good at it? —and goddammit, he's good at it! 14 Faces, Lewis Del Mar Okay, it's pretty safe to say that is not just one guy. -Su. Come on, Jim. Why?! What?! I can't! My parents! These are not your parents! What?! What do you mean?! I'll explain later— —what?! Look! That's my mom— And that's my dad! That is not correct. Oh, I get it— What. What happened. So he's like— An old soul, right? Kind of. Yes. Not that old. Old, though. Suddenly, the anger turned to sadness, and tears welled up in my eyes— No, don't you dare shed a tear over that man. What are you? Once, an obedient lap dog, Now poised and poached over me, A gargoyle, though picturesque and statuesque As if drawn from an angel, The guardian of the night, Who watches over my heart, Calms the raging rivers of my wishes, Set boats to my dreams, Blows wind to my sail, A bassinet of hope Really dog, Jimmy Fallon? I don't know. I don't know. It was too late, I was already in love— But at a safe enough distance that it had become, in its own way, a guardianship of sorts—and it had run deep enough cut, but not scar, and even perhaps bumped up enough against my heart to bruise, but not be broken; I would have to let it run its course, and as it would, I would for show go everywhere I could within that realm; I simply could not be trusted, in my own mind, not to bond with such that had found me in the dreamworld. In the spiritual realms of such remained only as hidden as they each had been, out of sight, but ne'er out of touch, or out of mind. A strange but hearty love, a burden, as were the others—and so I knew it was good, but mine alone, left to wilt, withered and weathered as the time drew on. A quilted touch, a wandering whisper To glassy eyes and hunted hearts A crossbow, arrows sigh and wonder The target marked, a sign of stone Bewildered, the beast of burden Fury, upon the alter Aware, agape, agahst Above you, Wallowing in holy grave and matrimony Sermon psalm, clary sage Simple words, Semper, the sound I su

JOLENE. [Happy Accidents Remix] (Extended) Beyoncé ft. Happy Accidents IN CASE YOU MISSED IT: previously on LEGENDS {Enter The Multiverse} “Two Hats” Now I had two hats— and loved both of them dearly—or rather, bonded with them—as much as anyone could love a material thing, however, given my circumstances material things where all there were left to love, and though I distained to admit it, there I was, in my empty apartment, which I turned into an office, a mattress on the floor to deviate from it ever truly becoming a bedroom, not that I ever really ‘slept' well in the place—which was a blessing, and the very least mine, with all the gratitude I could show the world for finally letting me be human again, after five years of homelessness. I still hadn't quite yet recovered, actually—I had taken my minimalistic qualities and invested all of my “income” with office supplies and musical endeavors, had already released an album, and had nothing less than a heap of backlogged work to sort through—I could be busy for years, just by myself, and the worst of it—or perhaps, best of it was, I was still writing every day. Sometimes a lot. Too much, really. But, it was a gift, of all the gifts I had received, and they were coming in variously, by way of inspiration, little laughs, and waves of a careful, constructive energy which I knew to be beyond nprnsllyborituctive, even for a creative, and though in my heyday I had written more in volume, the quality of my work was beginnings to show—and my potential for professionalism within the field increased, if I could ever see past my brown skin into white world, where I feared the blue and green eyes damsels of the new entertainment world would Beyoncé me in their outrageous and delusional Taylor Swiftness— unless I was so black that I could not stand as a threat to their dominance and obvious world power —which I wasn't, especially by New York's standards. I was soft spoken, well behaved, and most comfortable (at least when well dressed and maintained), amongst the elite. The first hat jad come well before the other, thankfully—as I had needed something besides a handkerchief tied around my head to protect it; it was during fast that I had learned of the danger of keeping one's head exposed, and finally succumbed to the fact that though it could be deeply hidden and lost somewhere in time and my genetics, no matter how bad at it I was, I was somewhere at least a little Jewish, at least by Whoopi Goldberg standards, who supposedly wasn't Jewish at all—but I had also learned in fast, that many dead Jews were now black women, recycled again only to be exterminated by a counterpart which had exceeded itself in hatred, apparently through it all time—my fear was that it was this hatred who welded and whitewashed all the networks I wished to excel in—the dance music industry, the streaming services, and the media in general seemed almost ruined in entirely by racism, nepotism, and well— Karenism, and though I liked Becky a bit more for her labeling of a power-hungry control-freak ultra competitive obsessive, whose racism was blisteringly hidden and intrinsic and yet effected every fibere of my being just in intolerance, austentation, and obnoxious offense, Karen was what the world had seemed to decide her name was— the true drive behind all white power and supremacy—the white woman, for which the average—always painfully average—white man could not function without. “You've got some resentments in here”, said a voice, almost as familiar as my own, but masculine, as I hyperfocused into the Hurley logo on the first hat, a powder blue and white soft-skulled SnapBack which was intended for working out—and of course, for surfing, should I ever be so lucky to surf again somewhere that wasn't New York, and I meant it, that New York was its own certain kind of sickness and toxicity, riddled with old racism and clustered with housing projects which spoke of the dehumanization and belittlement of anything brown— a betrayal of all spirit which was only just now being ratified by the thousands of buildings like mine springing up from bourough to borough—but still present in the vast and drastic divide between the nice areas, and the areas where the colored people lived—almost anywhere but Manhattan, which I had hoped and dreamed for, but settled on Brooklyn, however so close to Queens that I could sometimes still smell, taste, and worst of all, hear it. At least, however, I was gone from Jamaica—a blessing in itself—as it did seem as though it was true that the blacks had been cursed, and just by the looks of it, I was grouped in with them, though I considered myself far from either side of any spectrum, beyond conservative, in that I enjoyed peace, quiet, cleanliness, and modesty of dress— a respect I had for the upper class, especially of the post and business minded women of New York, which seemed to push strollers and go about their daily runs as housewives on weekends in the areas I most favorited—midtown, something native for, but now realizing that because of the new world slave trade, anything lower than at least the 7th floor would be an irritant, a noise-polluted hell scape of poverty-stricken immigrants with no cultural sensibility or decency often for cleanliness, or politeness, which included the silencing and responsible ridership of vehicles that most probably should have been illegal, if it weren't for the demand of jobs in accordance with the work-from-home-I'm-not-going-out-into-that-hell out attitude which I was becoming more understanding of myself—whatever had happened to “people” and had gone with the world or the pre-pandemic was wrong, on so many levels that it was not hard to imagine that the consciousness that collected amongst the wealth elite had gathered that being out in the world had become dangerous, as indeed capitalism had turned every man woman and child below the poverty line into a minion of Satan himself. Jessie surely couldn't live here, without being well kept by some man, who I could only hope by now had groomed her to be better than how I had left her, or rather, how she left me, in the same stewing hatred and delusion of intrinsic racism which seemed to be ruining my chances at ever truly succeeding, particularly in dance music. I dont know what resentments could come from a hat, which I had bough on clearance to begin with, if only just to be able to have a durable waterproof head covering to strap into my head and sweat in—but I could think of all the ways that might make me resent something, perhaps, if the owners of Hurley were racists—not far fetched, as most the surfing communities, especially out west were all bronzed Johnnies of some sort — closeted racists and wealthy elites, or at least well enough to do to live within a stone's throw of some beach, which, even as poor as one might think himself, is never truly poor—especially, out West. If you grew up surfing, you lived on or near a beach, which implies money beyond most people's wildest dreams—besides Mexico, of course, a special and economically, sociopolitically controlled Hellhole of its own, to which it's problematic governance had overpoured yet another problem impacting one's ability to collect and maintain money, or any wealth or status—illegal immigrants coming in droves, hatching their spawn, and collecting government aide, if only to dwell within multi-family homes, gain wealth and income rapidly, and of course, keep the black population at the greatest disadvantage—as the blacks had been ruined by all of America's time as a slave-driving captalist country, always most hospitable to anything less brown than black, not that I was opposed to the idea that New York needed some variety in its gene pool. I dare not to think the owners of Hurley, a surf brand I had loved and trusted since I was a young fanatic first introduced to the joys of riding the wave, could be run by the most henious of evils, the pedophikes, who all seemed to protect one another in some way—and also seemed to control all of the industry at hand—and though now, especially since Tyla's apparent “win” at the Grammy's, which the more closely I observed in a whole seemed to be entirely fake— another Illuminati pupped groomed and chosen to make some kind of media agenda stand through, the billboards were plastered with blackish and brown women of seemingly African decent, however—the problem was that they weren't women at all—but children; and though the male advertisements were still dominated by the white man, to no complaint by admittance that at least in one way, I too, was a supremacist, in that the father of my future children would or should be white by any means nessesary, and that for years now, I just hadn't been attracted to anything else—which, upon reflection, I realized I probably almost never was actually attracted to black men, beyond growing up in a nearly all-white environment, in which case, I was “supposed” to—I.e., the blacks with the blacks, the fats with the fats and so on, which I despised; and I had never settled on anyone overweight at all until I had to, which in retrospect, had almost ruined my life. Almost, but not. I had escaped the fat bastard's wifebeating clutches, both physically and spiritually, finally having gained the espteric knowledge, had had given light and illumination to what I had been told; but never truly believe until I had confirmed— This man had tried to kill me, many more ways than one, and I had survived. Well, naturally—kind of survived. I was now a DJ among DJs, my aging machine outdated and the layer of haging skin around my delicately contoured extra small waist making it impossible for me to gain attention in the way anyone was these days, by bearing less than what would be considered ‘dress code' for any club back in my day, and my day was surely fading into something like a day ahead, or a day behind—either way, as I had actually done enough fasting and praying by now to ‘bend time', and I should only be so lucky to emulate such a feat within my Ableton, which begged for my attention, and yet, there was something missing from me that wasn't yet satisfied with my being so much so that I could just let go, and record my innermost potent words and songs—actually, it seemed as if my apartment had been rigged with some kind of recorder, as when i began to record, or sing at all—the energy would immediately change, almost halting my voice, then again, there was a Karen to my left, and a Karen to my right, the latter of which, my studio was facing and she seemed to act strange and demonic when my music played, slamming doors and creating some kind of uproar, and so I almost never used my studio monitors to play my own music—opting rather for the safety of deadmau5, or some other cheap house music which I could practically mute in my own mind, but at the very least the vibrations of such would not disrupt what might have been peace, if not for the army of terrorists literally in the parking lot to which my window overlooked, the terrorists operating the “auto body” shop adjacent to my apartment, and what appeared to be, after numerous noise violation complaints to the useless 311 service at NYPD, the terrorists alongside the Brooklyn-Queens border, which I refused at all with aborent denial that I even was situated near. Then, as the building began to fill with more blacks, which I hated seeing, loitering about in the lobby in the general and uncomfortable blankness which I was also doomed by the white and others to be perceived as part of—but with diligence had thrust me into a wave of brainstorms—in how to escape this, and although not entirely racist—I didn't like anyone too far on either spectrum which presented an imminent danger or overbearing presence on my person—black men—white women—and others so culturally inept that a sense of looming control had crept and wandered into my heart and my mind, as to why and how I could find, a way out of The Blackness, and into a quiet, not particularly white neighborhood, but at the very least, a clean and quiet one—which in New York, basically meant A white neighborhood, besides the speckling of rich asians, wealthy blacks, and other foregners who valued the things I had, however, albeit, without the distinction of the vanity of a mother who glamorized and normalized prostitution, to which I might have succumbed more valuably, had I not been stretched to ugly capacity by Doritos, emotional trauma, and whatever other strangeness of my youth presented me with this, what was now a beautiful and perfect body—with an unsightly and imperfect scar, the leftovers which without surgery, would classify me as useless to any man I might have admitted—talented, high vibrational, spirited, successful— And of course Pale. Eye color aside, It truly had been a remarkably long time since I had been moved at all by anyone of my own “type” and for this, I strived to succeed in white world, even if only to fall to the dominating control of the white woman, who often I loved just in her ironic blondeness, her shattering and devastating features—sparkling eyes and speckles of freckles— But who often could never love back, out of some hatred that grew from so deep within, even she herself could not see or understand—it was just a ‘feeling' The “I just don't like that girl” The “she just makes me uncomfortable” Or worse, The kind who would pretend to befriend me, so that she would stand out as the eye of beauty between us, to any man or peer within our shared realms— a dominating force of “I'm more important” and “I'm more worthy”—the trait that alone made my name hidden, my own true name, words I could never pronounce, in knowing that she would come to abuse it, to call my name like a dog— Dogs, which I realized, most whites held above the value of any human as brown as i, or damned blacker, which some would find themselves proud of, but to which I distained; I was not ‘proud' to be black, I just was—and pride was ugly, anyway, especially when acting as a representative of the losing team of a centuries long war. The new age of models were bronzer and browner, some all the way black and most just mauve, or blackish enough so that it would not hurt or scare the fragile counterpart of the white women—who always seemed to be scared, put off, or offended by blackness in just its presence, to which I could relate, but not emulate, as the scoffing and huffing of many a tantrum had drawn me to the conclusion that they just weren't happy with our existence entirely, being of veluptuous nature or whatever it was, however—it was the cruelty of the industry at hand that showed a greater monster—that all the men seemed to be well grown, and yet all the women were not women at all, But children on display, in the vulnerability of the sexual nation of normalizing blackness, at the sacrifice of allowing grown men to think it was allowable to fawn after such; what would be considered adolescent bodies—a crucially disproportionate factor that would make or break my career as a writer, musician, DJ, or otherwise, being a woman, who had visible scars of the ability to bear children, which I had not sacrificed, but placed far from my mind— I would not tolerate or settle on another lazy husband, or perhaps even a husband at all. I could tolerate many things about mankind that were obnoxious—cigarette smoke and infedelity, gaslighting and bondage by body or some other lack of God, however, what I could not tolerate was the laziness—the toxic, inability to do without being told to do so— the bearing of another child from outside, that went well beyond the responsibility of one that would come from within. I had spent the early morning taking heed of the accuracy of the advice Joan from Mad Men had given us, in the nostalgic whit of the 1960's that still seemed to prove true today, in fact, more truer than it ever did the first time around— that ‘boys will be boys' and ‘men will be men', and in all honestly, one has not to come far from another into adulthood, so much as a woman should, for it had been neerly a decade since I had last laid eyes on the Piloted Don Draper— and it had been a decade with, with the least to say, had made the show itself more relevant, probably with each passing day. Most men are looking for something between a mother and a— But my memory had muffled the rest, by now, buried in the entourage of my own drawing, from which inspiration had sparked from the entire pot of coffee and song selection that it had taken to sort through my divorce paperwork— a task that had actually taken weeks altogether to assemble, and which I had run into too many obstacles during, having quite forcibly to use my occult knowledge to bend backwards and bind myself with protection, as something truly evil and sinister had surrounded this task— Broken printers, misplaced documents, and of course, all the suffering it took to sift and sort through the words that were truer than any I had ever spoken, and although some run-on paragraphs and broken record retelling of what had actually happened, the effects of what had gone beyond that, what I could accurately put into paper without sounding like a total psychopath, the fact that he and more than likely his father had intended to seal my fate into a Hell beyond words , a death beyond escape, with black magic—using my dead son's hair as a tool for ritual and bondage, to which my own guides in Heaven had overseen and reported through numerous visions, alongside the years of research, my introduction into the occult not out of interest at all, though however born a naturally ‘gifted' person, but out of desperation for protection from the homeless, dirty hellacapes which I had been forced to inhabit since my departure— and without looking back, I had come to the conclusion that though I had nearly lost my son in the process, I had at least survived to preserve myself for him, come such a day he could ever want me. And on that day, I would be the best that I could be for him—I was somewhere between 130 and 140, but wanted to be closer to 110, so that the men that I admired and was attracted to would actually want me, a hard task, especially keeping my assets in tact, but—however—speaking of assets and tact; this chapter was running long, and I still hadn't decided which hat I would wear to the post office to send off the arsenal of paperwork across the country, hopefully to be freed and riddled of the awful reminders of him, many of which had set me off with enough audacity that I had lost it in my apartment not once, but twice—and it seemed that the more accurate my foretelling of this abuse—both physical and emotional, but above all satanic and ritualistic, which had now been overturned and reflected in my own knowledge and illumination, now an admiration for the occult, as the protective rituals which I had become prone to from his damage seemed to shield and protect—the more some satanic force tried to end me, before I could ever return to a normal state—- or ascend into a realm which the evil could not penetrate, with remnices of punching bag faces, spit on the walls, the smell of vomit, and the other atrocities I could only hope had not been passed down to my offspring, who by now didn't know me, but probably was becoming of me enough that I could not be erased from him, to which the anger of his captor I could feel in the onslaught of disgusting bodies which seemed to flock to me to emulate him in some way, though to me he was no God enough to have done so, but rather just a replicate of Satan himself, which had bonded in his betrayal of this, his wish to end and kill me— and had sent demons in his own name to satiate this desire—however—by now I had realized that this darkness could only control the weaker of sorts, the weak in spirit, the dirty humans, the ones who had chosen to rid themselves of soul, in the name of money or otherwise— and though the cover to my “debut” album spoke not of true Chaos Magic, but of another pinnacle of the occult, the name itself was more practical of the music that it contained—the chapter of blackness which had halted my humanity, living in the shackles of the tragic aftermath of all that had happened. I still hadn't decided on a hat, but the obvious answer was that I should, before the day returned back into the night, and though I hated long subway rides, there was a comfortable avenue with everything I needed to come back to my mind, one single paper which needed still to be notarized, which I had missed in the frenzy of what seemed like an endless nightmare, to get away from this man, his damage, and all of the things and people which acted like him—dumb, broken, and twisted enough to instill pain, intrude my sanctity, and stalk so much so that my usual calm, peaceful demeanor became a violent rage, however, almost respectfully always contained to the privacy of my “home” surrounded by strangers who hated me, for I in this black skin could not ever be worthy of equality, an audacious comparison in the very least, that I should have what they always have. Just keep working. The hole had yet to swallow me, but I had two more albums coming immediately, right out the gate, their deadlines approaching so rapidly that I could feel the onslaught of always wokenness coming in the collision and confusion of wondering how, if I ever, I would make enough money to actually get ahead, for once— and become unstuck from the lovelessness that was so underserving that nobody I could seek to love, could love me—perhaps it was true that poverty was some kind of invisibility to the wealthy elite, and though I despised the though of golddigging, I despised more the thought of being the breadwinner somewhere between lower middle class and poverty, always sick from always working, never working out; and of course— Always arguing over nothing, Which seemed to be the dynamic between men and women, anyway. I realized that Don Draper was in a silent and secret war with Betty, whose anxiety had piled up inside her, most even probably as a result of her hUsband's “secret” infidelity— And that seriously, I might be some kind of writer or something, If all I could think about was how cringey it was to watch Jon Hamm kiss Tina Fey, in that one movie by John Slattery, And how I really didn't want anything more Than to look like Miss January Jones, Who had always been so perfectly beautiful to me, That it hurt me. ‘The DJ Hat, I think. ‘ I was nervous, and it was raining, But it couldn't wait another day The final breaking of this curse Would be sending in the paperwork That described word for word With brutal honesty and accuracy Everything that should never happen When you get married— At least Happily. -Happy Accidents. I GOT YOU NOW, MOTHERFUCKER. Oh my God! It's Pat Kirkpatrick! Oh great, so he's some sort of Diety, I guess. Lesson 1: Continuity. Lesson 2: Continuity, Lesson 3: Continuity —isn't that all just— Continuity. yessssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss—- I'm a DJ, BITCH. YO, LESSON ONE: You're not the professor. I'm the GURU. This the dojo! Uh. No. You're not. I AM. Where's Jimmy Fallon? Yo, FUCK JIMMY FALLON, alright. He's possessed— What?! Oh NO. Who possessed him?! My ex husband. I'M THE SENSEI NOW. SENRAO fuck. Where the fuck is this kid? Dead. DEAD? Mm. Presumably. Mmhmm. wtf, who are you? Woke up with Dillon Francis in my head— “I'm my only friend” I don't even like that song, it just gets stuck in my head. Apparently Emma Watson wants to know what to do in the festival project. I still don't know. My ex went to Golden Corral to cheat on me, then got sick from pizza; I got some kind of job at a weird party place for kids; the dude was weird and only hired non bianary people and dudes; I left to help my friends who were getting married with car trouble. Lol Emma Watson though, was like— “Okay, what do I do?” I was like, I don't know. Then I woke up. EMMA WATSON Okay, what do I do? I was starting to develop scabs in my ears from alternating between headphones and earplugs, which couldn't have been good—I needed to work, and was disasterously fat, however, toned, and I assumed that the extra weight had come from muscle. My legs were smooth, and all of the clothes I had picked up along my walk fit—all extra smalls and smalls, which included even a tiny bralette I was certain would fit when picking it up, and it did—I only wondered what the world might be like after a panniculectomy—though my thighs seemed massive and I was certainly bloated, opting for less running and more lifting until my energy recovered, I was still anywhere between a size 4 and 5, sometimes a 6–which did kind of rather shamed me in all of the ways that it could—6 was much greater than 2–and those praised as the ‘world's most beautiful women' were anywhere between 00 and 2; I wasn't sure where I was going to move my thighs or my arse to, but I was determined to be celebrity skinny—even without the added bonus of actually being a celebrity, and however oddly enough with the star studded dreams I had been having, there seemed somehow still some kind of hope, though even if in the next life, that I would become into a world of my dreams. It was the anniversary of my son's death—he would have now been 9, and I often was drawn to remember him walking about New York—seeing beautiful children about with long hair, and beautiful brown skin, with eyes like mine, moon shaped and dark…I began to softly weep as I remembered how beautiful he was, and that I had no pictures of him at all. It was better that way, really—the hurt that had come from holding on was too great—and yet, subtle reminders, in the way that sometimes, however music would just come to me, there was my boy; he loved my guitar, and the sound of my voice as I would sing, and had even once, just before his death, tried to sing along, as I clamored about the house, singing Seven + Mary—which he seemed to like enough that he found the need to make his way over to the table to get my attention, and sing with me. Back in my current reality, the overall bored of the shower running and my demon neighbors slamming things around angrily as if something was wrong, shaking the building brought me back to the monotonous world, morning coffee over the toilet quite remincent of Lyndon B. Johnson, the morning sifting through my Google documents for Emma Watson and John Slattery part of my morning report— and though I was due in the gym, there was nothing I wanted less than to go anybody or see anything at all—everything was just a reminder of my apparent “living hand to mouth”, and the more I kept on dreaming and writing of these people, the more grandiose and and delusional I felt—I had just been blindsided in court by my ex's attempt to discredit my ask for a protective order against him by using my mental health in the wake of his physical violence and our sons death, against me in such a way that the victory, the judge's granting of my protection against him, was still pyrrhic in such a way that I didn't feel so much protected, as he had lodged his way into my dreams once more just to cheat on me—though however had been twarted in doing so, by some particularly sour Golden Corral pizza, and the young girl accompanying him quite receptive to the speech I had given her on karmic justice. Strangely enough, the dream almost appeared as in my favor, that things were changing, and yet—I still didn't like to see him or think of him at all, and luckily enough, it was Emma Watson who had intercepted this sort of nightmare with the conjecture that I should keep writing, however with an American accent, which only forced me to wonder, if perhaps, too she had become some sort of Cosmic Avenger—or even so, as written, was JK Rowling in disguise as the actress playing her own character, some kind of magician's practitioner —who had herself been for some time one of my living spirit guides since childhood—finding as I grew older for us to be more alike than not, especially as a writer. I stepped into the shower, still writing, and without the amount of coffee I really needed to move more quickly, but still in some sort of stupor— ‘I should probably get out of here.' Another day trapped indoors would simply be unhealthy, however I hadn't the slightest idea where I might go. Wherever it was, I would take my guitar—and at the very least—I knew which direction Manhattan was, anyway. ‘Fuck, I gotta find that episode with the earthquake…' BEFORE: ugh , where to begin? Let's just start with– LADY GAGA aka GAGA has been tasked with strategically marking the grid with Various entrance and exit points; a job which she has tak quite seriously, and honorably. Okay, moving forward . You're not going to expand on that? No, next thing. HARRY POTTER, HERMIONE GRANGER Wait– What. Wouldn't it be HERMIONE WEASELEY Did they not get a divorce? I heard that. That just sounds dumb, I'm not writing that. That is dumb.. Anyway. HARRY POTTER, HERMI– Fuck it. HARRY, HERMIONE, AND RON have accidentally shifted dimensions and into the bodies of their real-life counterpart, DANIEL RADCLIFFE, EMMA WATSON, AND RUPERT GRINT Oh damn. I finally found something cool for Emma Watson to do. That is cool. SUPACREE I need you to read all these, and watch all this. SUPACREE leaves the three magicless, frietenghned, and shocked– –flabbergasted– what . They're English, they should be flabbergasted. [They are Flabbergassted] Wait, go back? I can't. I Have a hard time writing action scenes why ? Cause i'm not getting any. Lol : (Holy shit, that is probably why tho.) Erase. WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT? It wasn't good. HOW DO YOU KNOW?! *shrugs* !?!- ::||pause. ok . So that dude from Drake and Josh is in all these episodes, but we only get one Harry Potter Episode? …He seems less busy. –Don't forget Jimmy Fallon. Yeah, I still don't get that. Neither do I? Why is he even in this? [Watching Saturday Night Live} JIMMY FALLON! Why Is he even in This? ? ? AAAAANNNDRD—WE'RE BACK. Fuck it, next thing. gaga Yeus. What are you doing? Hm. Mm…working on something. If I stand quietly at the door, and await you; Will you come to me, And and open it, to let me in To see the gate you keep Let's read between the lines; You weep for me and deep into my dreams Then see me in the streets, and think “It cannot be the she for me; Maybe, if she were pretty.” Don't look into my eyes (I despise you! I delicately delight you Despite the never having time to Now I'm desperate just to find you In a life I left behind And drew a line though RATATA & TATTATA I wrote this story years ago. Are you going to listen to the album? I already did that. YOU GOTTA LISTEN TO THE NO. And I don't expect Skrillex to listen to this, either. It's over. It's over It's over It's over. I LOOOOOOVE HER TIMMY TURNERS NEW BALANCE TENNIS SHOES TAP SWIFTLY ACROSS THE PAVEMENT AS HE RUNS FOR HIS LIFE Well, that is a good place to start—thanks Emma Watson. Captain. Oh shit, what's SHE like? I don't know, isn't she like, irl an American diplomat? Uhhh—aren't you? No. Now hurry, we gotta do this before Jimmy Fallon shows up and [JIMMY FALLON SHOWS UP] Ugh. Why is he even in this? What is this? I don't know. It's “Poetry” An album. A couple of movies. Some TV shows. Will this suffice? I don't know… Enter that one scene here with John Slattery? Which scene with John Slattery? You're right. I have been writing for John Slattery a lot. Bipolar disprder and other multidimensional preceptory functions could more likely be reclassified from a disease to a hypersensitivity to energy which one does not identify as belonging to oneself, which therefore counteracts within the mind's ability to alter or project and/or maintain balance in one's mood, as certain energies may be ‘absorbed' empathically or observed as a negative or draining energy; An elevated sense or shift due to the overstimulation of energy which the subject may receive as ‘“positive”, or shifting the mood undesirably by the overstimulation of negative sources, sounds, or persons within the subject's realm foreign, undesirable, or unwanted within one's field of energy—a heightened sense of awareness or vibrational field which inhibits or limits the ability to contain or transmute such energies. It is, within its own sense, a sort of elevated mechanism for survival, ie a superpower, given the subjects placement within the proper environment, within the functional vibration of the subjects natural mood or state, whereas, lows may be the subjects own sensitivity to numerous outer sources of negative or prone to certain toxicities to his or her natural state, and highs whereas certain higher vibrational energies result in the conglomerate evolution of such energies as a newer form So, bipolar, you think? I think I don't know what I am, and nobody does—so nothing you give me will ever really fix me, because I was never really broken, or Or? Or I was broken rightfully so in that I should have been treated as a trauma victim, and not the subject of some cruel experimentation as an attempt to assasinate whatever force of nature is actually keeping me alive in the only survival mechanism it's been naturally given to battle the psychopathic standards and expectations of today's society. Fine, very well then. Why is this J. slatts again Cause, I've got a beautiful vocality for narration. Fine, I'll work on that character next, I guess. What?! John Slattery is in this! YES. I guess I have to watch it, then. Collect the actors, again! AGENTS. Ufffghh. MANAGERS Fucking Christ. JOHN SLATTERY (as himself) “I'll do it, “, I said, “but there better be money attached to this project” [Jimmy Fallon enters] JOHN SLATTERY There he is! The man of the hour. JIMMY FALLON This is—probably going to take longer than an hour, I'm betting. JOHN SLATTERY Come, sit. [He sits at the had of a long table] JIHN SLATTERY (CONT'D) I don't know what you did, you fucking idiot, but you did it. JIMMY FALLON Tell me what I did again. CUT TO: [unseen, on the opposite side of the room] Oh shit, that's him; Are you sure? No, that's Patrick. WhT's the difference?! [Like, an entire generational gap of innuendos and pop culture reference.] JOHN SLATTERY Your presence is appreciated. This meeting is now officially in session. {Enter The Multiverse: LEGENDS} [the festival project What is this? Is this Scotch? No! It's apple cider vinegar! Does the trick. I heard you were a Method-ist. No, apparently I'm “the medicine man” It's nearly team But feels like night Nearly forgot what this was like Too many sunny days, no friends Wasted yesterday latent, Impatient creative Heavy workload But you know the rules Overcast clouds say stay, It's a workday Every day is a work day But it ll seems worthless Almost, Amazon, Ten dollars Cold, corrupt and almost Out of water I should be smarter than to call the code I should be smarter then to call him over Going nowhere but up Calling a number, four Number four The hypnotists wish lists What happens at number ten Calling a number up Four days of water left I should have left him as The protagonists, of supporting roles Now number one is number four And number four is often gone The storyline and plot is Two, three— too heavy. Three-two-three Walk away 310, cam the number Hollywood is calling, New York has hospitality, though One, two— Walk away Three, four catch the code Hollywood, turn around New York's got hospitality, though How's Tokyo sound when November rolls around How's Paris now, that were Marlboros on parliament How it all come down Then it all comes down To the three two one Four's nowhere, now I had woken up with an overall feeling that something was wrong—I had overshot my 3 AM target time by 6 hours, realizing of course that I was a day ahead, and that the construction—more drilling and hammering, was out on hold thanks to an apparent oncoming rain, which hadn't come yet— my wavering mental state was apparent in the mess I had left in my room, clothes strewn across the floor and atop the bed, but at least otherwise clean—I had slept dressed, or at least half dressed, a protection stone lodged in my bra, as the necklace I had worn for my son had become somewhat damaged in some way—it was no longer protective, but had somehow defected; probably in the way that his father bearing over him, allowed the stone some sort of portal to be able to invade my dreams with nightmarish hauntings, and I instead opted to keep the necklace aafelu tucked away, until I would be able to give it to him as I had planned. But still, it seemed that the intention of his father was to ruin my life, and see to it so that I may never do well enough to visit my son, and it seemed no matter how hard I tried I would not miss the band. (A magician's hands) I've been watching TV i doubled back, low battery In battery park, I could watch the sun rising I'm so full of worry Of money I wonder What for, is my worth Kelly Clarkson was the cutest thing ever—and sung so freely like a bird like I wished that I could—I remember breaking down in my car after just missing the cut off for entering her show, back in LA—more than likely over the fact that I would be missing a paycheck, rather than missing the show anyway— and I had almost thought to cancel my tickets for the View, had I not been lured by the blue hues of both their outfits—and though I hadn't meant particularly to be associated with the color blue at all, most people associated my name with the color anyway, as I hadn't intended. Nothing was really intended, it had just happened. Whoopie Goldberg's fabulous denim cape forced me to wonder what I might wear the next day, had I decided to actually go—the colors of my closet mostly black and quite drab, and the denim dress I had acquired as a cleaning person the year before becoming a tired go-to when I needed to look nice. I almost wanted to wear my new Michael Kors stilettos, but was saving them for an actual party, an interview somewhere classy, or worse—my first date—as the anniversary of my cellibacy drew closer by the minute, and my need to continue my reproduction however with someone more fitting began to be the most harrowing thing on my mind, beside possibly returning to a homeless shelter, which I would not allow to happen. My exit strategy was simple, actually—in that if given an eviction notice for whatever reason—my neighbors seemed particularly afflicted as my former boss and lovers, roommates, and others I had become close to in this strange and seemingly cursed world with that thing I could only call a demon, since I didn't know what it was, and I was afraid they'd continue to report smoke coming from my apartment, although now I had been forced to switch to a diffuser with essential oils, taking a chunk out of what I considered my severance pay from The House of Illumination, which had indeed lived up to its namesake—the lesson had been quick, in that working for such a man, whoever he was or at least pretending to be, had taken me off my path, and had begun to dishevel my personal energy so much so that I had actually dropped my wallet—it had been so long since making such a mistake that I knew indeed that something was wrong, however, but needed the money so badly that it didn't matter—and besides, nothing could be so horrible as was my mother sometimes, growing up—and I had given Natural all that he needed to hurt me in telling the story of my own weight loss journey. Telling, and in return, Natrual was showing that I had given the world the perfect excuse to continue trying to kill me—that perhaps, my time had passed anyway. Kelly Clarkson looked incredible—the last I had seen, she was pleasantly plump, but never bad looking—now, she was. Incredibly veluptumous, and as she stated that she stood at merely 5'3, I was suprised once again that all of the TV people looked either taller or shorter on camera, and wondered what I might look like— I was almost stuck thin about 4 days into a water fast, but appeared and felt large otherwise, and most recently had been more tired and fatigued that ever, outraged that I had been dismissed from my only income in months over nothing, and that the income from anything else I was doing would simply not come at all if I could never wrap my mind around even trying to have it be seen by the right minds, with the right eyes, at the right time—and yet there was another force of evil, seeming always to stop me from the essence of true creation—this thing which had taken away my musical expression almost entirely by now, my sensibility wavering and all of my slayed projects, stagnant. I was craving oats, and had even pre-prepared some, blending them in my magic bullet so that they would be easier to digest—and since Natural had made the suggestion that my BMI was to blame for my lack of focus and attention to detail, it had more been the combination of losing my wallet, having to deal with the public transit, constantly being reminded that Tula, a light skinned African was the music industry's new it-girl, and of course, that my son, now 7, was morbidly obese, probably somewhere discarded like junk under a cloud of cigarette smoke, head deep in a video game and surrounded by idiots—and that no matter how hard I tried to make the money to see him, something awful would happen so that I couldn't, and it became clear that his father's story—whereas I had simply and for no reason “lost my mind” and had abandoned my child, was the story he had told to all those around him, who believed him—that I was the villain in his story, and my son the tool he used to create a sympathetic picture of a loving and struggling father, though now he might have actually been trying, the damage was done; he had sent my son away unable to care for him to my mother, and in the time he was given alone, of course, created another child—all of which of course I wanted, in hopes that the one he had chosen for his new family would have some sort of love an appreciation for my own son, enough to have created a step mother, but alas, was some underwhelming someone with nothing to offer but her own struggle—and I wanted nothing to do but to be gone from this drama, however my own blood had been caught up in it enough so that I could feel it, knowing that at just 7, my son was as sick as I once was, depressed and miserable as the child of a narcicist becomes once the damage is done. I was only eating blended foods, and had become obsessed with being stick thin—celebrity fit, which is how I had found the video at all, my love of Whoopi Goldberg and Kelly Clarkson creating a quick draw, a star studded combination I could not resist, though I wasn't resisting much—I had drifted back into the realms of television and film, my first loves—or rather, my first conscious endeavor, as I had been attracted to the piano from a toddler and learned to play around three, therein my is being my first love, however with a mother like mine and a life like ours, there truly never was one thing I could ever just ‘do', as anything I loved would soon be subjected to be taken away for some reason or another, whether it was a messy room, or just a mood swing—whether or not I wanted to watch lifetime and be best friends, even after a day of being yelled at and scolded for one reason or another—as my mother often seemed to forget ever being cruel after being so, often saying “I would never…” to whatever she had done, a narcissist's mark, in denying actions and words that had only ever been witnessed between the other party and God. I had blended the ancient seed oat bend into a porridge with agave and sautéed apples and pears with cinnamon, and though I felt awful eating more than once, was struggling enough with this bout of depression which working at Temple of Illumination so briefly had caused that it didn't matter at all—coffee was simply not enough, and my Amazon package which would deliver my vitamin supplements and whatever else I had ordered—things I had gotten into the habit of pocketing at the Whole Foods market during my homelessness, but in trying to recover from the spiritually twisted and evil place the homeless system had put me through, I had, with all my might, been insistent on purchasing everything I had needed—and even though it was indeed wrong of the white supremacists movement to have been true health and nutrition almost unattainable to the common workforce, my food stamps never enough to actually supplement a full month of food—whole food veganism which would allow me to train for at least an hour a day to sustain clean energy, and of course, water in order to stay hydrated in doing so — I was getting better at keeping what I needed in stock, but almost always needed to run to a food bank at least once a week, hoping that I would collect there things I actually could eat, rather than processed junk my body no longer saw as food at all. I peeled a mandarin into the watered down oats mixture and was worried that the dried cranberries I would pour over the top would be too much sugar, but I almost didn't care; I was on the verge of tears, and some evil, penetrating force had been altering my sleep patterns, my heartbeat, and my dreams—there was some group of motorcyclists who for months had been circling at any given time, and though some might have been able to ignore the roaring and awful vibrations of such, I could not—these motorists seemed to rip through my heart and up my spine like a serrated knife, a gesture that indeed noted that it was some evil or devilish, demonic force, as when in relax and meditation I often pondered with his, these striking forces would come, often creating a wave of fear, anxiety, and worry—terrorism, by definition, and disturbance of the peace, it was—but nobody seemed to care that it was pain for me, in fact, the more I began to wonder what or why it was, the more it became clear that this was intention to hurt or kill me, whether by an organization of some sort, or simply the force of evil itself against the divine I had become, not with intention at all, but in seeking my own freedom from such a world as cruel and unjust as I had come. My neighbors had lodged an impressive amount of complaints against me for smudging—and it was 36 complaints before I had even been made aware that my neighbors were trying to get rid of me; not once had a note been left on my door, or had I been approached by them In the hallway to ask that I not use smudge—then again, sometimes as whites were, they were more concerned about themselves and their dogs than whatever might have been the cause of such heavy saging occurring—the motorcycles at all hours tearing through my heart, the slamming doors, the sound of their televisions or voices penetrating through my walls— the unwelcoming energy which at all times I was surrounded by, and though I loved New York, 3 stories above the ground floor and on the border of queens was simply not far enough away from the Godlessness of the cursed and usually dark others, whom could not understand the conciousness I had drawn from the long fasts, prayers, and summonings I had done in order to free myself from the force that had done away with me to begin with—my deep love for the man with whom I had fathered my sons, and a daughter, the two of the three were gone, though I had seen so that if I had not lost my daughter and my son, I would probably still be with their father, in attempting to give them a family—another poor, single, black woman and mother, I was now willing to be to my son, but was not; I had forgiven his father, however, it seemed some sort of curse he had done in my departure was still in effect, the demons he had called onto me not called off—and even in the reflection of my own self and flaws upon entetering such a relationship—the other things had been inherited from him; the homelessness, the toxicity and mismanagement of energy—however, my lack of control over time, I realized early on, had been inherited from my mother, who was more like my ex husband and her own abusive father than I ever was. I wanted bread, but could not dare; J[r was 6 ft tall, and for some reason, that bothered me more than anything else I had learned about him, for some bizzarre reason almost suddenly obsessed with the public figure, though at first the dollar project had been more of a game than the actual idea, and the festival project itself was at all but a halt, as I wanted and needed desperately to comb through my documents at once, but could never seem to— the metaphors of Natural's Basement drawing upon me as I realized that perhaps, I was too emotional about its contents to properly sort through them—atop this concern, was the concern that my body, though fitting quite nicely into an extra extra small pair of racer lined jockey style workout leggings, was still too large to be though of as ideal—ideal, which for a man 6 feet apparently was, according to Ali and the others, and though I had pretty much always hated Fallon from early on, always breaking fourth wall and blowing my mind coming from such a strong theatre background that someone like that could have ever been awarded a coveted spot on such a legendary show, it had been gathered somewhere that his audition was flawless, however—his second audition, according to Tina Fey, who I loved, maybe even more after learning that she had been given such a unique name, and had won almost every award I could possibly think to covet, although however much a writer I was, an actor and comic I was not, in that I had given up my own craft years before being fat or being black was ever in style—and now that it was, I had no reason to believe that at 31, while Tyla was 22, as was Billie Ellish, I had any business in even trying to make it in entertainment— I began preparing to die almost as readily as ever, deciding upon eviction, rather than fighting it and returning to the intake shelter in the Bronx to start the process again, I would simply jump either off my own building, hoping 12 stories would be enough to actually cause death, rather than just parilization, or find my way to the end of the platform at which the train moved most quickly in preparation to stop at the station, which I had nicknamed “the Jumping Point”—also the name of a pop up dance music club I had summoned up once, actually thinking that something, something at all would bring me close enough to success to actually become the dance music tycoon and entrepreneur that I wanted, however—as my hair again grew into a shoveled mess atop my skull, only hidden by a hit which the view wouldn't allow as an audience member, the only thing which might have kept me from going at all, besides my lack of knowing what to wear or just the daunting crises of having no money at all almost a shameful mark across my face— my nails for nearly a year undone, and of course— everything I knew that needed to be done, almost stuck and unable to move forward, my divorce papers included, another mark of the devil, as I had already done the paperwork 3 times, spending atrocious amounts of money in the process, of course, for all of them to be sent back, for some reason or another, and the case to still be opened without being shut—and at least it was opened… As tears began to well up into my eyeballs, in thinking perhaps I truly was cursed, that the law was for whatever reason on all of my abuser's sides, and that I was doomed to become lost in this endless cycle of loss and pain for some reason or another, that became the task at hand—to, for what was either the third or fourth actual time, file for divorce, and to be rid of my abuser for good, the fate of my son at the crossroads of my wealth, or even better yet, at the very least securing a job, where I was no longer haunted by the massive work I had done on the festival project, or by, as I had once been, followed by some Jimmy Fallon doppleganger— an experience I had nearly forgotten. However, as I reflected upon all of the jobs I had in the years I was homeless, they all had one thing in common—horrible bosses, doppelgängers of people I loved or had written about—and toxic working conditions, in addition to extremely low wages and unconscious coworkers, with the exception of few, whom I kept in my heart and still loved—did I love Jimmy Fallon? As a fan, or an admirer of his portfolio, his presence to me simply only existing in clips and montages from the confines of my memory of all that I could draw from him—an impossible suitor, I found myself to be more in admiration and awe of his work as a comic, a host, his apparent professionalism and stage presence, all of which none surrounding him could doubted and which had given birth to my own re-entry into screenwriting anything besides enter the multiverse/and yet I wondered//what for, besides as to stand as a perfect example of what would and could draw the masses and stand as an acceptable and inexplicable mark for perfection—a television personality, all of which stood to be hidden in such, a person, none whom could ever know behind the likes of such, a camera, an audience, and the propagation of the ideas and words of the media would want to portray in such programming as to remain in control in one way or another, of the audience's minds, and therefore, the viewers hearts, and souls—commanding a presence within the collective consciousness, dependent of course on said viewer's own ability to draw from those things, what was actually being said and done. That, in itself, was The Illuminati in its process. Alright, so—a Jimmy Fallon is an extremely powerful magician, right? Obviously. So he must have talismans, somewhere, then—right? Yeah, I guess, but— I certainly wasn't willing to look. Look, I already know what he likes. Geez, how long have you had his eyes? Long time. I'm gonna get in so much trouble. You are trouble. What is the point of this redaction ? It's just acting! It's just acting! Look, whatever I just did with Fallon, just put him in The Winner's Circle, okay? I'll never see that dude again. Thank God it's over. Synesthesia Attack! AHHHHHHHHH. Well, sorry Jimmy— Thank your parents; They're geniuses. Stay away from me, your crazy bitch! Okay. ‍♀️ FUCK! There it is again! What?! Too deep, too deep! This is deep, boss— I don't know what I just read. Medicine man Would you give me a hand with this I need some medicine quick (Cause I can't with this) Medicine man Need a can of some laugher I heard that's the medicine Medicine man Medicine man could you give me a Hand with this man It's just damages I need some aspirin But imm I'm better off dead Than over the counter It's just damages Something like that Rip Minnie ripperton I knew you were gone But not that gone Not gone like that I just had to know, Now I'm 9 years old But I can't do the math Not at all, Not at all I'm so over it, actually My goals are abandoned I can't trust the man in the television I haven't remembered an image this Disasterous since It was my family picture Without me in it! Damn! Fuck, Now I gotta finish this whole maya rudolph timeline this shit just keeps getting deeper and deeper. Hey. You. What the fuck, man. Come here. No! Yes, Maya! Yes! Mm. Vanilla ice cream is sounding Like The best. Just plain, regular— Just “vanilla” Just vanilla bean—ice cream. Uh. Uh. Woah Where the fuck are we Where the hell are we Where are we GOING Woah, What does the man with the van do Domino sugar Kellogg When you get off the All the good days are gone And I've sent you on right back But I will still love you I was just thinking of that thing You never said But I will still love you When you get off the ground level Just for a minute and Find yourself a revolving door Only to find That the world revolves around you And if all the world's a stage, Then all the world is full of actors And all the trains are out of order And all the walk is out of water You're just another Meant to suffer So you did again And you did this again And you did it On camera Cause if you asked, Then they would have said no anyway And if it was a hall pass I wouldn't have been as flattered To have Never Even left the apartment I asked for something new And what do you know How does God do, On the day of the dead Cause That's where I went Every chair costs and thing, You know Every couch costs a fortune And you would have been On the couch, still Cause you can't get a job With the punches he dealt you Who designed 111 Murray? I see what you're on about All out of automotive Misery and mystical mistresses Misdirection, misrepresentations and. —mister you're into some sinister shit, But I pictured it different Consider it rhythm your interest is simmering in Glistening instances dancing as angels in my headaches Dressed as construction workers Any difference it makes it's latent, Simple Listen into signals intercepting into intermission Admissions of omissions and redactions Oh to be your forever The Masterful mystic is at it again Fly Peter Pan, Fly! Go Jimmy-O, Go! Get Carson, Get! Alright, this dude has the coolest job in the world. Nice. He must have died. (With a lisp) He's on ice cream. What. Yep. Yesth. Watch out It's the bad touch With the good guy And a late night On a long couch Try the dad jokes And the slap stick That's a good job And a big dick Oops What a career, For a carrier pigeon [You can't be serious with this, esh] This cant be infinite, is it? But it is Forget to explain it all Over the ante, that Oh God, For the sake of the art Dear God, Nancy— You're the luckiest lady alive The guy The dimples The eyes The life The style The slide Can I die, yet? Can I just lay down and cry yet? I might, It's way after midnight I like the sound of a bullet touch A stolen cheek The subtle rush of a Sudden fling The market price Of a custom ring, The song I wrote Or the poems you sing So please don't leave the TV On You're sleeping with a blonde I've got my mind on dying mine bright as The title 1985 to idol eyes On American idol Calm the cold down Stalk the mirror Here and here Both clear and near Is here and Bearr, But everywhere else is just— Suicidal. (I don't want your dick, I just want your job.) Now, Call Carson up Says The curse in reverse Is Osmosis Joneing To watch this show Not to know you Go home Or go figure Go gold If the goal was just Taylor Then I'll see you later Amen Don't forget to pray away the day You've just created Hand to mouth Here's a heavenly house And the mouse just shaking Take down the stairs It's starting to scare me The dare On the heron, heroin Heroine mare for the Mayor Okay, here's the player The game is This disfigured imbicile, Ignorant Indians Indifferent indegenous Genius, without a friend Or penis, Without a name of Species to befriend In pieces Once again, I said I loved him So it makes sense if it is A glimpse at the pictures A get together with friends A spectacular special, And get this Creative intelligence Intellect, individual inception Attention deficit and Genetic attraction Damn, That's a handsome man Now, how can I have that? The Title— The title of show As if That demographic Would laugh At a black man I must be Cause trust me My pants don't come in Half sizes It must be a sign from the heavens I've just had my time done with and over It's done Suddenly, I was angry… Don't eat in bed. Don't tell me what to do. (I really don't like eating in bed…) Fuck it, it's too late. Not at myself, not at Jimmy Fallon— but angry. The astonishing part about it was, I didn't even know why. Well, first of all, I just sat through an hour and a half special, and I have realized that I am not a fan of this guy. No? No. I like his face. Huh. He's the right body type. Wait. Good hair. Uh huh. Long, weird nostrils. What. That is a nice nose. Yeah. It's aviary. I get that. And— Wait. What is it? Was I just— I was a very sad, very fat very broken 18-year-old girl. Oh great, this again. Always this. A married man. How could you? I couldn't! Didn't I made that clear! What. He seems happy. Yeah, on TV. He looks fine That's his job. —and goddammit, he's good at it? —and goddammit, he's good at it! 14 Faces, Lewis Del Mar Okay, it's pretty safe to say that is not just one guy. -Su. Come on, Jim. Why?! What?! I can't! My parents! These are not your parents! What?! What do you mean?! I'll explain later— —what?! Look! That's my mom— And that's my dad! That is not correct. Oh, I get it— What. What happened. So he's like— An old soul, right? Kind of. Yes. Not that old. Old, though. Suddenly, the anger turned to sadness, and tears welled up in my eyes— No, don't you dare shed a tear over that man. What are you? Once, an obedient lap dog, Now poised and poached over me, A gargoyle, though picturesque and statuesque As if drawn from an angel, The guardian of the night, Who watches over my heart, Calms the raging rivers of my wishes, Set boats to my dreams, Blows wind to my sail, A bassinet of hope Really dog, Jimmy Fallon? I don't know. I don't know. It was too late, I was already in love— But at a safe enough distance that it had become, in its own way, a guardianship of sorts—and it had run deep enough cut, but not scar, and even perhaps bumped up enough against my heart to bruise, but not be broken; I would have to let it run its course, and as it would, I would for show go everywhere I could within that realm; I simply could not be trusted, in my own mind, not to bond with such that had found me in the dreamworld. In the spiritual realms of such remained only as hidden as they each had been, out of sight, but ne'er out of touch, or out of mind. A strange but hearty love, a burden, as were the others—and so I knew it was good, but mine alone, left to wilt, withered and weathered as the time drew on. A quilted touch, a wandering whisper To glassy eyes and hunted hearts A crossbow, arrows sigh and wonder The target marked, a sign of stone Bewildered, the beast of burden Fury, upon the alter Aware, agape, agahst Above you, Wallowing in holy grave and matrimony Sermon psalm, clary sage Simple words, Semper, the sound I su

Are you ready to finally understand how to build multiple streams of income and secure your financial future? Discover the secrets of diversification and leverage!In today's episode, I dive deep into the necessity of having multiple streams of income and how it's more crucial than ever. I break down my five income framework, showing you how to move from active income to leveraging business, asset-based, residual, and portfolio income. Learn from my personal journey and see how creating various income streams can safeguard your financial stability, especially during life's unpredictable moments.Want to create a money machine and achieve true financial freedom? Tune in to the full episode now!IN TODAY'S EPISODE, I DISCUSS: The importance of income diversification and reducing financial riskThe five income framework: Active, Business, Asset-Based, Residual, and Portfolio IncomeStrategies to start with one income stream and build additional streams step by stepRECOMMENDED EPISODES FOR YOU If you liked this episode, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning Process to Achieve Your GoalsHow to Get the Right CPA & Why It MattersDemystifying Your Credit Score & Does It MatterWhat to Do Today to Pay Less Tax and Keep More Money    RECOMMENDED VIDEOS FOR YOU If you liked this video, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning  Process to Achieve Your Goals: https://youtu.be/Ip7kLKXNj2Y How to Get the Right CPA & Why It Matters: https://youtu.be/zj26Wwqe0bk Demystifying Your Credit Score & Does It Matter: https://youtu.be/emgKYPy6Quw What to Do Today to Pay Less Tax and Keep More Money: https://youtu.be/tZHKIgr_TIM PRE-ORDER MY NEW BOOK:Building Your Money Machine: How to Get Your Money to Work Harder For You Than You Did For It! The key to building the life you desire and deserve is to build your Money Machine—a powerful system designed to generate income that's no longer tied to your work or efforts. This step-by-step guide goes beyond the general idea of personal finance and wealth creation and reveals the holistic approach to transforming your relationship with money to allow you to enjoy financial freedom and peace of mind.Part money philosophy, part money mindset, part strategy, and part tactical action, these powerful frameworks will show you how to build your money machine.

“How Patty Met Kandi” A flashback episode,season 1 Veronica Moises is an extremely attractive young starlett, known in entertainment for her sexually aggressive attitude, especially towards men of power–after turning her down, Veronica fires back from being rejected by planting a seed in Katie's mind, suggesting that she ‘the camera man caught us” and urgent her to check the tapes–however, without the audio, as the microphones were off, Catherine mistakes Veronica and Patrick's gestures as infidelity, and after Patrick returns home, Catherine, in a wine-fueled and drunken rage, ejects Patrick from their home, and as he is captured upon the townhome's doorstep, stil scolded by Katherine (Catherine?) *check notes*, Well, he does call her Katie, right? Right. So it must have been Katherina It was actually Katherina, and was changed to Katherine But couldn't Katherine have changed, then, to Catherine? DOES IT MATTER? YES. She's a very important character, we almost actually can sympathize with this person. For WHAT? She's listed as an antagonist in the first season. SECONDARY Antagonist, cause that other lady. Who, Karen? Her name isn't Karen, she's just A Karen… What is her name? Idk. And how does Esha go from receptionist– Secretary. Whatever. How did this bitch go from working at Starbucks to hosting her own Television series. Since when did she work at Starbucks?! I don't know! I haven't written that part, yet! FUCK FUCK. FUCK! I thought for sure Goldberg would pull us out of this. Doctor Goldberg! Doctor Goldberg! WHAT! I'm BUSY. My Proctor… What, Ishii? You must see… Fuck. Fuck. If i write this I'm dead. Take my hand– Fuck that. If I don't write this, i'm dead. FFUCK! Two F's on that. It's a sharp fuck FUCK. Then what's that? That's a hard fuck. What's the difference? FUCK, man! *shrugs* Somethin'. Episode Summary: –Patrick's daughter watches in awe from the bottom window of their townhome, though she is supposed to be sleeping, more than likely the cause of his spiral than actually being thrown out of his home–the eyes of his daughter watching he and Katherine Are we sticking with Katherina, then? Katherine. Whatever, yeah. Alright. Fine. –argue sets him off into his own drunken rampage, as he rents an opulent suite and for the first time in his life, hires a companion to accompany his drug-fueled backhanded google , synonyms for revenge…. Requital or Retribution? I like Requital, but let's see what best suits Patrick's rampage. This dude is a bleeding heart. Or half of one, at best. We like Patrick. No, we love Patrick. Everyone does. Too close for comfort, And too far to talk I fed my soul instead of burning my body for once A luck of the draw, A call of the cards, Is the ace of wands It's Wednesday, But feels like Sunday Run, would you, offhand for someone Not only do I not qualify, but Alright, I have no alibi. I lied. I died that night. Finally, a truce. What would you like, Ivy? Hmm Buy me a motorcycle. A motorcycle, really? Yes, i'd like that. Really? What kind? A fast one! like – A kawasaki. OWW– Shut up, Frank. Alright. WHo the FUCK is FRANK. Yo, I fucked hobo Johnson in a bathroom stall at some festival in my dream once, and that guy was like an adonis. You what. But let's be fair, i've fucked deadmau5 way more times both sleeping and in my waking life, than anybody–and that includes the father of my children. Explain to me this part. Which part. Alright, i'm calling it off. THe engagement? No, the stipulations surrounding the engagement. WHO'S DRIVING THIS? IT'S IN AUTOPILOT. Sir, i've lost control. That's what you think. PATRICK: KATIE, WAIT. KATHERINE: KATHERINA? NO, it'S KATHERINE. PERIOT. BEFORE: WHOOPI GOLDBERG I'm a “mimick” Not with those hands, she isn't! How many talismans is that? Looks like FACTS: That's a magician! Good cover, though. WOAH, WOAH, WOAH. Not yet, Joe. Not yet. “The New YOrkisode” CUT BACK TO: [THE TV PEOPLE] PATRICK: KATIE! WAIT– [KATHERINE slams the door] PATRICK (CONT'D) KATIE! [KATHERINE CONTINUES YELLING FROM THE PARLOR (UPSTAIRS WINDOW)] Lol that is some New York-y shit– Yelling out the window Yeah, if you're in a neighborhood that doesn't have bars on the window Or like– This fancy ass shit, right here Yeah, my luxury apartment with paper thin walls and paper mache exterior made so cost effectively that the traffic alone gives me whatever disgusting trash disease is plaguing the rest of this city's inhabitants. [I haven't made my bed for like 3 days straight and my room is not clean. This is bizarre to me, besides the fact that I'm basically still writing as if I might actually find gainful employment with this– Creativity, is it? I'm pretty sure at this point, it's just divinity, all of which will be [SKYROCKETED TO LITERAL FAME BY MEANS OF A VERY IMAGINARY, METAPHORICAL KITE] Devastating to kill myself without seeing any of this stuff actually published. HOW DO I EMBED MY SUICIDE LETTER ONTO MY WEBPAGE. Excuse me. IS THAT INCLUDED IN MY FREE TRIAL?! ELOHIM Oh, my God. Which Elohim? The singer or– GOD ALMIGHTY AH, MY GOD. Tell the one about the wedding ring. *lols infinitely* KATHERINE: Your kids are sleeping. Try not to wake them up! PATRICK: They're our kids… KATHERINE: That's what you think… Technically, this line doesn't make sense, and Katherine is simply trying to be flippant, however, she does, as often so, get the last words–as Patrick spots his eldest (read: favorite) child, poking her head out from below, where however her mother cannot see her, but Patrick can, and is clearly made ashamed of his presence, locked out and on the doorstep of his own home, leaving afterward in a calm and disgraced rage, as not to further disturb his daughter; this initial occurrence can, at the very least for the audience be seen as Hazel's reason for such obstinate aggression and rebellion towards her mother, especially as the series progresses. Patrick then lashes out against Veronica, ultimately swearing to have her blacklisted from the entertainment industry, to which her egotistic response only allows Patrick's more deviant shadow to become awakened, his response something along the lines of… Wait, what was that conversation? Something like PATRICK You'll never work in this town again. VERONICA Well, lucky for me, I'm more fond of the Hollywood life. PATRICK You think my reach doesn't extend across the country since its on the only arm that hasn't been up your ass? yeah , something like that–but i've got classic deadmau5 on trying to soothe my way into filling out my divorce papers for hopefuly the last time–but we'll see how far I get– and I'll be lucky to be divorced before being stuck in that bullshit causes a forfiture to my own life by suicide–but i'd be damned if everything I'd ever written automatically belonged by half to my only living son's father, and perhaps I had become the devil and the only real villain if it meant being so selfish as such that I would rather leave my son nothing at all in the event of my death, than have anything more I'd created end up in his father's clutches. I would rather die alone than return to the hands by which I died and crumbled. Patrick's an asshole. Yes. But not a wifebeater. Correct. ‘Tis true. Shall we? We shall. “The Oldest Souls In New York” Now, Go: I don't have a heart, I have a fist, and a gun I don't have the dirt, But a shovel and a bird I don't have to look but once, to know Two times, twice, Three times, It's done My soul is older, But I want to know you, Sit on your show Just across from this Donovan, dove or Jack Doughnogy, Lick me a doughnut So awful, my last action Is Jack Canon On James Cameron And Poor little Nancy Who never was Poverty stricken at all Or a poet The blow was so low below the belt I had hoped not to bury the hatchet or merry the knot or tie the astronaut to the dog, Click, click motherfucker I'm onto all of you Hello, You ugly motherfucker I'm an ugly motherfucker Getting older by the moment SENATOR Hello, is this Fallon? No, this is Patick. Strawberry Patches and management Haven't you had enough of the good stuff? A starburst, Ali, is all that I wanted All you wanted was done All i wanted was Aliocha back Now Alidoja runs ghost; If i put this all out, it's a pulitzer, Tony, And Oscar All in the same award show Another old and lost broken soul in New York I love God But fuck money I lost a lot more than one, Just a dollar MANAGER I got you an interview on Fallon. SUNNI BLU I'm not doin' Fallon. That dude is weird. MANAGER You're doing it. IT's PR for your next album. SUNNI BLU Whateva. MANAGER By the way–Have you picked a title yet? SUNNI BLU Yeah, I'm The President. MANAGER No, I mean–for the album. SUNNI BLU Oh yeah. It's NIGGAZ. MANAGER (kind of afraid) –Where?! SUNNI BLU Oh yeah, my friends are comin over later, too. Hehe. you racist basta'd. MANAGER I mean wait. What? SUNNI BLU That's the album title: It's NIGGAZ. MANAGER You chose the name SUNNI BLU Watch it… MANAGER (using heavy quotes) Hold on, i got something in my throat that's almost vomit, But i'm gonna ball it up into a love note or poetic whatever or something so i don't hurl All you are is a punching bag, and a bullet wound waiting to happen I'm at least half of a man, If I dress up in drag, Despise all I can't have And wind up cleaning bathrooms Rather than wining and dining Drying the eyes that I cried for you Some ungodly reason, if it's Some Unholy war that got us All up in shambles Your name upon Dollars I'm closing my curtains Curtailing my words rather carefully Looking in mirrors, aware of you Beware of this woman Aware of the wolf If the world that you wanted Was so far from what's wanted I might as well jump From the stop sign I bought At the Art walk. That should do it. Man, fuck Jimmy Fallon. I can't! My hands are tied! That's – not what I meant. FOOTBALL (EN ESPANOL) GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL GOAT: I'm Skrillex. lol celebrities. Everyone is perfect, and huge Well, the women are tiny But also some are huge– And still tiny. But more on the atrocious expectations of man later And why my God apparently fucking hates me so much That my body might not ever see the sun. What in the fuck does Skrillex even DO on the red carpet? Isn't that dude like 4'11? Does he just show up and have to look up at everybody, like “Hey” Or do they run it like elementary school, Shortest to tallest ok: Sonny, you go first Then all the pop stars and disney kids… Wait, those are the same people Hold up. There's only like 20 names on the A list And like 5 of them Rotate. What's that like? Nobody remembers you like 5 seconds after your first Grammy– I guess that's like “15 minutes” Or Nobody can ever forget you, Cause you're Billie Ellish, Or Taylor Swift, And literally every other grammy award ever made is like Made specifically, just for you. What's that like? What's that world? Meanwhile i'm over here wondering what the fuck kind of favor Jimmy Fallon put in with the Heavens To get this many entries in The Festival Project™ (Almost as much as Skrillex) Almost, But not FUck dude, I just want to try that trifruit jam I made on the organic sourdough bread I have, but I haven't been to the gym today– and I'm teetering on rest day, or just getting it in super hard until I still die of sexual starvation anyway, cause– How the fuck do you be that tall anyway? What the fuck is “5'11?” WHY are you that TALL? WHAT do you DO up there? What are you doing up there?! WHAT'S up there to SEE. Meanwhile, i'm like 5'7 masquerading as 5'4 Cause, you know– Skrillex. Meanwhile, I'm reading Russell Brand's Booky Wookie And it might as well just be Every male celebrity's bookie wookie Cause who wouldn't go out and et the maximum amount of pussy with like Umpteen million fucking dollars?! Am i right, or am I just DYing of celibacy? “Jimmy Fallon's Alibi” And other short stories By Story Lord As Told By CCS Stone “The Scribe of all Times” They say you had a show today at 14th street. Couldn't have been me! I was out— Uh— Sick. Can't find him anywhere. He's gone. GONE. Look, I'm just gonna Hover here, for a second. Goddammit, Jimmy Fallon! Fallon, you idiot. Come with me. No: Don't say that. I need new interns! Why! Make sure they're— Like— guys. (Guys being guys) Ugh. Okay. Look— Just make them— Like—more mature? Smarter? I don't know {older guys being older guys) Ugh. You're losing at this. I know. I can feel it. WHERES JIMMY FALLON I DKNT MNOW JUST KILL HIM. Look, he's probably. Found him. Are you sure? What tipped you off? The horribly awesome bad Australian accent Fuck this nigga up. WHERE IS IT AND WE'RE ON IN 5… Mfuck man. I don't know how the fuck to be Iimmy Fallon! (Yes you do) Just— Do an impression! Of WHO Of Jimmy Fallon! Uhhhhhhhh—- I'm so fucking dead for this. Can it, would you. OKOKOKIHATETHISFUCKINGPIECEOFSHITJOB— CHAOSMAGICK. Aww. I love your mom. She's awesome. Here's some snacks. Awww. Yay. Moms. Yay. She's awesome. Sometimes. But uhh—who's your dad. *ploof* PILLOW FIIIIIIIIGHTTTT! *shoots with a tranq dart* Nice. Ahahaha… *drinks harder* Haha… *falls onto bean bag chair, sleeps* …hasaahhh. Holy shit. Okay idk what the fuck— This can't be accurate, or anything, is it? It is…it's…extremely accurate. Okay, Jimmy Fallon Okay, God— Your Wikipedia just told me everything I needed to know. You can thank my wife I did. I read her page first. And the Grammy award goes to.. *plz let it be me* NOT. You Wait… I can… I just realized This goes in the COMEDY category. Oh, fucking —SHIT. This is fucked up. This—is accurate. Look, I've been praying a lot about this I guess so much that Jimmy What's up. I knew everything on your Wikipedia page about you before I even read it, Which must mean— OH FUCK. I've got to get out of here. The Illuminati offered me like 1 million dollars to wreck your marriage And I said no, but I love you anyway— And your family, So— Whatever, Hope it works out. There should be some crazy fine ass hoes and cumsluts on approach if that's like— What you wanted, or whatever. Please GOD— Just make it STOP! FUCK THIS JIMMY FALLON MOTHERFUCKER JUST GET HIM WHATEVER THE FUCK HE WANTS WHATEVER HE WANTS, just GIVE IT TO HIM. PLEASE. Jesus CHRIST. “Yeshua” Huh. What. Oh, that shut you up, didn't it? What happened? Okay, so there's the impenetrable ten— Alright alright Apparently these 5 dudes [5 GUYS] I TOLD YOU IT WAS SHH. Be quiet. K It's like Breakfasts in bed stuff And back rubs And Bathtubs Long getaways on islands Where I'm sure nobody knows us And I hope it holds up, Cause I couldn't hold off Somewhere I'm still homeless And lost as I always was but Hey, That's music Someone must be Something somewhere Something something I'm sure of it, I'm sure I was — one of her muses? Look, just use this for music. Well, he…is amusing. He's obnoxious. This is a toxic relationship. Do you want this? Do you really want this again? Right now all I want is some drugs And a boyfriend who loves me I don't do husbands For nothing My trust is all fucked up And plus GYM JIMMY FALLON I don't do black girls. I hate them. Noted. Anyway. My times up. Want this job? Uhh? [insert inflammatory drunkenly racist rant here] Fuck this dude. Okay, woah. Okay— See ya in New York. WhT. The Mafia is coming. Don't you mean the mob? Go…fuck yourself. It—Woah. Okay. T. Hanks Here's a dollar. Oh shit: Tacos $1 Lights on I told you It's gonna be a long night, hon. You might want to run more I don't though. Alright, so just Run for cover Adjust, And don't be so remarkable As to summon up Another God To your Alter So Justin Timberlake is your friend, huh Oh those eyes That's so— Blinding Well, that sucks, cause Britney Spears is my best friend And my worst nightmare Like Everything I wanted to And should have been Beautiful, scrawny, Talented and gorgeous And yet somehow also Obnoxiously burdened By so much being wanted That now I'm just washed up And wasted by sunup To sundown Now how's that sound? H—inin.. Hi See, [Redacted]'s wife Controls all our lives His life and mine; His for the better, however And mine for the worse, I fear For better or worse, they said Year after year For better or worse, they said Year after year I want a divorce, I said I wouldn't hear it The cycle of toxicity Stops here with me Hear ye! Here ye! Court is now in session Hear ye Here he Ii hope you learned your lesson Here he Here Designer children, —Do you want this? Here ye— I hear ye! —Your soulmate is Skrillex. Well, just like the rest of them The oceans of oceans of Ocean eyed blondes That I also love But this shit gets haunting Like mm— (daunting) Why would he Or anybody Want me? This apprenticeship isn't going to be easy, you know… Break her heart, Jim! Alright, Jim-Boy—you got this. It already is hard, on my heart. That's what I've been trying to tell you—- This— Will require you to love with boundlessness, beyond limitation—- unconditionally, with no expectation. I already hadn't any expectations regarding [Redacted] . Besides— he's married. —No expectations whatsoever. I've noticed your nonconformity and intention to mass appeal, actually. I'm astonished, really. I'm telling you, this is a dangerous man. —my God, just beautiful. A weaponized person, you see. I do see. Weaponized by beauty. He's just beautiful. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. What wouldn't you do? —What did you do, actually? —What didn't we? We share a middle name, and so we share a middle ground, I think I found— Something I can't have, But want Distractions, This one has it all. Go that way! It appears, however, though, My focus is here, suddenly. Why. I don't know. Are you in any way miserable, at all, sire? (They're all miserable, when they get to me, actually.) I need peace with this. Dearly beloved, We are dearly departed, You started a war with my heart Then put some water on it Sons and daughters of the alter, Father figures and celebrities, We are gathered here today, To finally rest in peace, Posthumously Amen Amen. You may be seated. Father! My child. Please! What is it? Come quickly! Oh shit, what the fuck. Shhh! Not in the church! It's not a real church! They're just Catholics. SHHHH. Come on: What the fuck Jimmy Fallon is this. You know, I've got them all gathered up here, At your alter. pew-pew-pew Haha, get it. Very funny, God Look, you got this. Not now, imagination. I don't have time for this. I gotta get rid of all this Jimmy Fallon before… I'm gonna kill that kid. Fuck, man. Well, you started it— You know we're at war, here, We're at work here With each other and ourselves The Hell comes from Stardust above us Neither or nor Forever or awkward The charm that undoes, Then Comes up as The Impossible Sweet and sour Patches and pick up, Lick up your weapons, And kick out your husbands, kids! God the Judge has come Once and for all, To the pulpit Will she kill herself again? Or finally publish [The Festival Project ™] “The Fallon Files” Is an extention of the infinite Skrillifiles, most notably due to its conjunction within the enter the multiverse and legends franchises, as the infinite multiverses begin to more consistently intersect eith one another, creating continuity within the plots of each series respectively, and collectively combining eventually into a singularity in which the fictional SKRILLEX and the fictitious JIMMY FALLON, both established as extremely gifted extraterrestrial shapeshifters, possibly even of some, if even distant relation, due to their shared aviary hereditary ancestry and notable presence in the shared collective consciousness pre existence, which extends throughout the duration of the Ascension series, and appearing within nearly every subsidiary in some way shape or form within each series, playing either protagonists, or sometimes even exaggerated antagonists, caricatures of each other or themselves, or sometimes even playing themselves, and therefore one another, creating a soft of chaotic confusion Lol— I'm typing this with one finger cause I have a palm full of shea butter in my hand. Lol. —amongst the audience, and other characters—almost invariably and distinctly being as undetectably as possible, one another, at some point/- reflectively at any given time within the series. Line? Nothing, you're just a bird right now, actually, Jimmy. —looking like Jimmy? Yes, but [Aviary behavior] —but maybe “Skrillex?” Up to you, actually. [The Appraisal of the Shapeshifted Ascended Mastery, Transcended, INC. ] And alternate titles… The Jimmy Fallon Effect The Unrequittance of Jimmy Fallon The Jimmy Fallon Disaster {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

“How Patty Met Kandi” A flashback episode,season 1 Veronica Moises is an extremely attractive young starlett, known in entertainment for her sexually aggressive attitude, especially towards men of power–after turning her down, Veronica fires back from being rejected by planting a seed in Katie's mind, suggesting that she ‘the camera man caught us” and urgent her to check the tapes–however, without the audio, as the microphones were off, Catherine mistakes Veronica and Patrick's gestures as infidelity, and after Patrick returns home, Catherine, in a wine-fueled and drunken rage, ejects Patrick from their home, and as he is captured upon the townhome's doorstep, stil scolded by Katherine (Catherine?) *check notes*, Well, he does call her Katie, right? Right. So it must have been Katherina It was actually Katherina, and was changed to Katherine But couldn't Katherine have changed, then, to Catherine? DOES IT MATTER? YES. She's a very important character, we almost actually can sympathize with this person. For WHAT? She's listed as an antagonist in the first season. SECONDARY Antagonist, cause that other lady. Who, Karen? Her name isn't Karen, she's just A Karen… What is her name? Idk. And how does Esha go from receptionist– Secretary. Whatever. How did this bitch go from working at Starbucks to hosting her own Television series. Since when did she work at Starbucks?! I don't know! I haven't written that part, yet! FUCK FUCK. FUCK! I thought for sure Goldberg would pull us out of this. Doctor Goldberg! Doctor Goldberg! WHAT! I'm BUSY. My Proctor… What, Ishii? You must see… Fuck. Fuck. If i write this I'm dead. Take my hand– Fuck that. If I don't write this, i'm dead. FFUCK! Two F's on that. It's a sharp fuck FUCK. Then what's that? That's a hard fuck. What's the difference? FUCK, man! *shrugs* Somethin'. Episode Summary: –Patrick's daughter watches in awe from the bottom window of their townhome, though she is supposed to be sleeping, more than likely the cause of his spiral than actually being thrown out of his home–the eyes of his daughter watching he and Katherine Are we sticking with Katherina, then? Katherine. Whatever, yeah. Alright. Fine. –argue sets him off into his own drunken rampage, as he rents an opulent suite and for the first time in his life, hires a companion to accompany his drug-fueled backhanded google , synonyms for revenge…. Requital or Retribution? I like Requital, but let's see what best suits Patrick's rampage. This dude is a bleeding heart. Or half of one, at best. We like Patrick. No, we love Patrick. Everyone does. Too close for comfort, And too far to talk I fed my soul instead of burning my body for once A luck of the draw, A call of the cards, Is the ace of wands It's Wednesday, But feels like Sunday Run, would you, offhand for someone Not only do I not qualify, but Alright, I have no alibi. I lied. I died that night. Finally, a truce. What would you like, Ivy? Hmm Buy me a motorcycle. A motorcycle, really? Yes, i'd like that. Really? What kind? A fast one! like – A kawasaki. OWW– Shut up, Frank. Alright. WHo the FUCK is FRANK. Yo, I fucked hobo Johnson in a bathroom stall at some festival in my dream once, and that guy was like an adonis. You what. But let's be fair, i've fucked deadmau5 way more times both sleeping and in my waking life, than anybody–and that includes the father of my children. Explain to me this part. Which part. Alright, i'm calling it off. THe engagement? No, the stipulations surrounding the engagement. WHO'S DRIVING THIS? IT'S IN AUTOPILOT. Sir, i've lost control. That's what you think. PATRICK: KATIE, WAIT. KATHERINE: KATHERINA? NO, it'S KATHERINE. PERIOT. BEFORE: WHOOPI GOLDBERG I'm a “mimick” Not with those hands, she isn't! How many talismans is that? Looks like FACTS: That's a magician! Good cover, though. WOAH, WOAH, WOAH. Not yet, Joe. Not yet. “The New YOrkisode” CUT BACK TO: [THE TV PEOPLE] PATRICK: KATIE! WAIT– [KATHERINE slams the door] PATRICK (CONT'D) KATIE! [KATHERINE CONTINUES YELLING FROM THE PARLOR (UPSTAIRS WINDOW)] Lol that is some New York-y shit– Yelling out the window Yeah, if you're in a neighborhood that doesn't have bars on the window Or like– This fancy ass shit, right here Yeah, my luxury apartment with paper thin walls and paper mache exterior made so cost effectively that the traffic alone gives me whatever disgusting trash disease is plaguing the rest of this city's inhabitants. [I haven't made my bed for like 3 days straight and my room is not clean. This is bizarre to me, besides the fact that I'm basically still writing as if I might actually find gainful employment with this– Creativity, is it? I'm pretty sure at this point, it's just divinity, all of which will be [SKYROCKETED TO LITERAL FAME BY MEANS OF A VERY IMAGINARY, METAPHORICAL KITE] Devastating to kill myself without seeing any of this stuff actually published. HOW DO I EMBED MY SUICIDE LETTER ONTO MY WEBPAGE. Excuse me. IS THAT INCLUDED IN MY FREE TRIAL?! ELOHIM Oh, my God. Which Elohim? The singer or– GOD ALMIGHTY AH, MY GOD. Tell the one about the wedding ring. *lols infinitely* KATHERINE: Your kids are sleeping. Try not to wake them up! PATRICK: They're our kids… KATHERINE: That's what you think… Technically, this line doesn't make sense, and Katherine is simply trying to be flippant, however, she does, as often so, get the last words–as Patrick spots his eldest (read: favorite) child, poking her head out from below, where however her mother cannot see her, but Patrick can, and is clearly made ashamed of his presence, locked out and on the doorstep of his own home, leaving afterward in a calm and disgraced rage, as not to further disturb his daughter; this initial occurrence can, at the very least for the audience be seen as Hazel's reason for such obstinate aggression and rebellion towards her mother, especially as the series progresses. Patrick then lashes out against Veronica, ultimately swearing to have her blacklisted from the entertainment industry, to which her egotistic response only allows Patrick's more deviant shadow to become awakened, his response something along the lines of… Wait, what was that conversation? Something like PATRICK You'll never work in this town again. VERONICA Well, lucky for me, I'm more fond of the Hollywood life. PATRICK You think my reach doesn't extend across the country since its on the only arm that hasn't been up your ass? yeah , something like that–but i've got classic deadmau5 on trying to soothe my way into filling out my divorce papers for hopefuly the last time–but we'll see how far I get– and I'll be lucky to be divorced before being stuck in that bullshit causes a forfiture to my own life by suicide–but i'd be damned if everything I'd ever written automatically belonged by half to my only living son's father, and perhaps I had become the devil and the only real villain if it meant being so selfish as such that I would rather leave my son nothing at all in the event of my death, than have anything more I'd created end up in his father's clutches. I would rather die alone than return to the hands by which I died and crumbled. Patrick's an asshole. Yes. But not a wifebeater. Correct. ‘Tis true. Shall we? We shall. “The Oldest Souls In New York” Now, Go: I don't have a heart, I have a fist, and a gun I don't have the dirt, But a shovel and a bird I don't have to look but once, to know Two times, twice, Three times, It's done My soul is older, But I want to know you, Sit on your show Just across from this Donovan, dove or Jack Doughnogy, Lick me a doughnut So awful, my last action Is Jack Canon On James Cameron And Poor little Nancy Who never was Poverty stricken at all Or a poet The blow was so low below the belt I had hoped not to bury the hatchet or merry the knot or tie the astronaut to the dog, Click, click motherfucker I'm onto all of you Hello, You ugly motherfucker I'm an ugly motherfucker Getting older by the moment SENATOR Hello, is this Fallon? No, this is Patick. Strawberry Patches and management Haven't you had enough of the good stuff? A starburst, Ali, is all that I wanted All you wanted was done All i wanted was Aliocha back Now Alidoja runs ghost; If i put this all out, it's a pulitzer, Tony, And Oscar All in the same award show Another old and lost broken soul in New York I love God But fuck money I lost a lot more than one, Just a dollar MANAGER I got you an interview on Fallon. SUNNI BLU I'm not doin' Fallon. That dude is weird. MANAGER You're doing it. IT's PR for your next album. SUNNI BLU Whateva. MANAGER By the way–Have you picked a title yet? SUNNI BLU Yeah, I'm The President. MANAGER No, I mean–for the album. SUNNI BLU Oh yeah. It's NIGGAZ. MANAGER (kind of afraid) –Where?! SUNNI BLU Oh yeah, my friends are comin over later, too. Hehe. you racist basta'd. MANAGER I mean wait. What? SUNNI BLU That's the album title: It's NIGGAZ. MANAGER You chose the name SUNNI BLU Watch it… MANAGER (using heavy quotes) Hold on, i got something in my throat that's almost vomit, But i'm gonna ball it up into a love note or poetic whatever or something so i don't hurl All you are is a punching bag, and a bullet wound waiting to happen I'm at least half of a man, If I dress up in drag, Despise all I can't have And wind up cleaning bathrooms Rather than wining and dining Drying the eyes that I cried for you Some ungodly reason, if it's Some Unholy war that got us All up in shambles Your name upon Dollars I'm closing my curtains Curtailing my words rather carefully Looking in mirrors, aware of you Beware of this woman Aware of the wolf If the world that you wanted Was so far from what's wanted I might as well jump From the stop sign I bought At the Art walk. That should do it. Man, fuck Jimmy Fallon. I can't! My hands are tied! That's – not what I meant. FOOTBALL (EN ESPANOL) GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL GOAT: I'm Skrillex. lol celebrities. Everyone is perfect, and huge Well, the women are tiny But also some are huge– And still tiny. But more on the atrocious expectations of man later And why my God apparently fucking hates me so much That my body might not ever see the sun. What in the fuck does Skrillex even DO on the red carpet? Isn't that dude like 4'11? Does he just show up and have to look up at everybody, like “Hey” Or do they run it like elementary school, Shortest to tallest ok: Sonny, you go first Then all the pop stars and disney kids… Wait, those are the same people Hold up. There's only like 20 names on the A list And like 5 of them Rotate. What's that like? Nobody remembers you like 5 seconds after your first Grammy– I guess that's like “15 minutes” Or Nobody can ever forget you, Cause you're Billie Ellish, Or Taylor Swift, And literally every other grammy award ever made is like Made specifically, just for you. What's that like? What's that world? Meanwhile i'm over here wondering what the fuck kind of favor Jimmy Fallon put in with the Heavens To get this many entries in The Festival Project™ (Almost as much as Skrillex) Almost, But not FUck dude, I just want to try that trifruit jam I made on the organic sourdough bread I have, but I haven't been to the gym today– and I'm teetering on rest day, or just getting it in super hard until I still die of sexual starvation anyway, cause– How the fuck do you be that tall anyway? What the fuck is “5'11?” WHY are you that TALL? WHAT do you DO up there? What are you doing up there?! WHAT'S up there to SEE. Meanwhile, i'm like 5'7 masquerading as 5'4 Cause, you know– Skrillex. Meanwhile, I'm reading Russell Brand's Booky Wookie And it might as well just be Every male celebrity's bookie wookie Cause who wouldn't go out and et the maximum amount of pussy with like Umpteen million fucking dollars?! Am i right, or am I just DYing of celibacy? “Jimmy Fallon's Alibi” And other short stories By Story Lord As Told By CCS Stone “The Scribe of all Times” They say you had a show today at 14th street. Couldn't have been me! I was out— Uh— Sick. Can't find him anywhere. He's gone. GONE. Look, I'm just gonna Hover here, for a second. Goddammit, Jimmy Fallon! Fallon, you idiot. Come with me. No: Don't say that. I need new interns! Why! Make sure they're— Like— guys. (Guys being guys) Ugh. Okay. Look— Just make them— Like—more mature? Smarter? I don't know {older guys being older guys) Ugh. You're losing at this. I know. I can feel it. WHERES JIMMY FALLON I DKNT MNOW JUST KILL HIM. Look, he's probably. Found him. Are you sure? What tipped you off? The horribly awesome bad Australian accent Fuck this nigga up. WHERE IS IT AND WE'RE ON IN 5… Mfuck man. I don't know how the fuck to be Iimmy Fallon! (Yes you do) Just— Do an impression! Of WHO Of Jimmy Fallon! Uhhhhhhhh—- I'm so fucking dead for this. Can it, would you. OKOKOKIHATETHISFUCKINGPIECEOFSHITJOB— CHAOSMAGICK. Aww. I love your mom. She's awesome. Here's some snacks. Awww. Yay. Moms. Yay. She's awesome. Sometimes. But uhh—who's your dad. *ploof* PILLOW FIIIIIIIIGHTTTT! *shoots with a tranq dart* Nice. Ahahaha… *drinks harder* Haha… *falls onto bean bag chair, sleeps* …hasaahhh. Holy shit. Okay idk what the fuck— This can't be accurate, or anything, is it? It is…it's…extremely accurate. Okay, Jimmy Fallon Okay, God— Your Wikipedia just told me everything I needed to know. You can thank my wife I did. I read her page first. And the Grammy award goes to.. *plz let it be me* NOT. You Wait… I can… I just realized This goes in the COMEDY category. Oh, fucking —SHIT. This is fucked up. This—is accurate. Look, I've been praying a lot about this I guess so much that Jimmy What's up. I knew everything on your Wikipedia page about you before I even read it, Which must mean— OH FUCK. I've got to get out of here. The Illuminati offered me like 1 million dollars to wreck your marriage And I said no, but I love you anyway— And your family, So— Whatever, Hope it works out. There should be some crazy fine ass hoes and cumsluts on approach if that's like— What you wanted, or whatever. Please GOD— Just make it STOP! FUCK THIS JIMMY FALLON MOTHERFUCKER JUST GET HIM WHATEVER THE FUCK HE WANTS WHATEVER HE WANTS, just GIVE IT TO HIM. PLEASE. Jesus CHRIST. “Yeshua” Huh. What. Oh, that shut you up, didn't it? What happened? Okay, so there's the impenetrable ten— Alright alright Apparently these 5 dudes [5 GUYS] I TOLD YOU IT WAS SHH. Be quiet. K It's like Breakfasts in bed stuff And back rubs And Bathtubs Long getaways on islands Where I'm sure nobody knows us And I hope it holds up, Cause I couldn't hold off Somewhere I'm still homeless And lost as I always was but Hey, That's music Someone must be Something somewhere Something something I'm sure of it, I'm sure I was — one of her muses? Look, just use this for music. Well, he…is amusing. He's obnoxious. This is a toxic relationship. Do you want this? Do you really want this again? Right now all I want is some drugs And a boyfriend who loves me I don't do husbands For nothing My trust is all fucked up And plus GYM JIMMY FALLON I don't do black girls. I hate them. Noted. Anyway. My times up. Want this job? Uhh? [insert inflammatory drunkenly racist rant here] Fuck this dude. Okay, woah. Okay— See ya in New York. WhT. The Mafia is coming. Don't you mean the mob? Go…fuck yourself. It—Woah. Okay. T. Hanks Here's a dollar. Oh shit: Tacos $1 Lights on I told you It's gonna be a long night, hon. You might want to run more I don't though. Alright, so just Run for cover Adjust, And don't be so remarkable As to summon up Another God To your Alter So Justin Timberlake is your friend, huh Oh those eyes That's so— Blinding Well, that sucks, cause Britney Spears is my best friend And my worst nightmare Like Everything I wanted to And should have been Beautiful, scrawny, Talented and gorgeous And yet somehow also Obnoxiously burdened By so much being wanted That now I'm just washed up And wasted by sunup To sundown Now how's that sound? H—inin.. Hi See, [Redacted]'s wife Controls all our lives His life and mine; His for the better, however And mine for the worse, I fear For better or worse, they said Year after year For better or worse, they said Year after year I want a divorce, I said I wouldn't hear it The cycle of toxicity Stops here with me Hear ye! Here ye! Court is now in session Hear ye Here he Ii hope you learned your lesson Here he Here Designer children, —Do you want this? Here ye— I hear ye! —Your soulmate is Skrillex. Well, just like the rest of them The oceans of oceans of Ocean eyed blondes That I also love But this shit gets haunting Like mm— (daunting) Why would he Or anybody Want me? This apprenticeship isn't going to be easy, you know… Break her heart, Jim! Alright, Jim-Boy—you got this. It already is hard, on my heart. That's what I've been trying to tell you—- This— Will require you to love with boundlessness, beyond limitation—- unconditionally, with no expectation. I already hadn't any expectations regarding [Redacted] . Besides— he's married. —No expectations whatsoever. I've noticed your nonconformity and intention to mass appeal, actually. I'm astonished, really. I'm telling you, this is a dangerous man. —my God, just beautiful. A weaponized person, you see. I do see. Weaponized by beauty. He's just beautiful. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. What wouldn't you do? —What did you do, actually? —What didn't we? We share a middle name, and so we share a middle ground, I think I found— Something I can't have, But want Distractions, This one has it all. Go that way! It appears, however, though, My focus is here, suddenly. Why. I don't know. Are you in any way miserable, at all, sire? (They're all miserable, when they get to me, actually.) I need peace with this. Dearly beloved, We are dearly departed, You started a war with my heart Then put some water on it Sons and daughters of the alter, Father figures and celebrities, We are gathered here today, To finally rest in peace, Posthumously Amen Amen. You may be seated. Father! My child. Please! What is it? Come quickly! Oh shit, what the fuck. Shhh! Not in the church! It's not a real church! They're just Catholics. SHHHH. Come on: What the fuck Jimmy Fallon is this. You know, I've got them all gathered up here, At your alter. pew-pew-pew Haha, get it. Very funny, God Look, you got this. Not now, imagination. I don't have time for this. I gotta get rid of all this Jimmy Fallon before… I'm gonna kill that kid. Fuck, man. Well, you started it— You know we're at war, here, We're at work here With each other and ourselves The Hell comes from Stardust above us Neither or nor Forever or awkward The charm that undoes, Then Comes up as The Impossible Sweet and sour Patches and pick up, Lick up your weapons, And kick out your husbands, kids! God the Judge has come Once and for all, To the pulpit Will she kill herself again? Or finally publish [The Festival Project ™] “The Fallon Files” Is an extention of the infinite Skrillifiles, most notably due to its conjunction within the enter the multiverse and legends franchises, as the infinite multiverses begin to more consistently intersect eith one another, creating continuity within the plots of each series respectively, and collectively combining eventually into a singularity in which the fictional SKRILLEX and the fictitious JIMMY FALLON, both established as extremely gifted extraterrestrial shapeshifters, possibly even of some, if even distant relation, due to their shared aviary hereditary ancestry and notable presence in the shared collective consciousness pre existence, which extends throughout the duration of the Ascension series, and appearing within nearly every subsidiary in some way shape or form within each series, playing either protagonists, or sometimes even exaggerated antagonists, caricatures of each other or themselves, or sometimes even playing themselves, and therefore one another, creating a soft of chaotic confusion Lol— I'm typing this with one finger cause I have a palm full of shea butter in my hand. Lol. —amongst the audience, and other characters—almost invariably and distinctly being as undetectably as possible, one another, at some point/- reflectively at any given time within the series. Line? Nothing, you're just a bird right now, actually, Jimmy. —looking like Jimmy? Yes, but [Aviary behavior] —but maybe “Skrillex?” Up to you, actually. [The Appraisal of the Shapeshifted Ascended Mastery, Transcended, INC. ] And alternate titles… The Jimmy Fallon Effect The Unrequittance of Jimmy Fallon The Jimmy Fallon Disaster {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

“How Patty Met Kandi” A flashback episode,season 1 Veronica Moises is an extremely attractive young starlett, known in entertainment for her sexually aggressive attitude, especially towards men of power–after turning her down, Veronica fires back from being rejected by planting a seed in Katie's mind, suggesting that she ‘the camera man caught us” and urgent her to check the tapes–however, without the audio, as the microphones were off, Catherine mistakes Veronica and Patrick's gestures as infidelity, and after Patrick returns home, Catherine, in a wine-fueled and drunken rage, ejects Patrick from their home, and as he is captured upon the townhome's doorstep, stil scolded by Katherine (Catherine?) *check notes*, Well, he does call her Katie, right? Right. So it must have been Katherina It was actually Katherina, and was changed to Katherine But couldn't Katherine have changed, then, to Catherine? DOES IT MATTER? YES. She's a very important character, we almost actually can sympathize with this person. For WHAT? She's listed as an antagonist in the first season. SECONDARY Antagonist, cause that other lady. Who, Karen? Her name isn't Karen, she's just A Karen… What is her name? Idk. And how does Esha go from receptionist– Secretary. Whatever. How did this bitch go from working at Starbucks to hosting her own Television series. Since when did she work at Starbucks?! I don't know! I haven't written that part, yet! FUCK FUCK. FUCK! I thought for sure Goldberg would pull us out of this. Doctor Goldberg! Doctor Goldberg! WHAT! I'm BUSY. My Proctor… What, Ishii? You must see… Fuck. Fuck. If i write this I'm dead. Take my hand– Fuck that. If I don't write this, i'm dead. FFUCK! Two F's on that. It's a sharp fuck FUCK. Then what's that? That's a hard fuck. What's the difference? FUCK, man! *shrugs* Somethin'. Episode Summary: –Patrick's daughter watches in awe from the bottom window of their townhome, though she is supposed to be sleeping, more than likely the cause of his spiral than actually being thrown out of his home–the eyes of his daughter watching he and Katherine Are we sticking with Katherina, then? Katherine. Whatever, yeah. Alright. Fine. –argue sets him off into his own drunken rampage, as he rents an opulent suite and for the first time in his life, hires a companion to accompany his drug-fueled backhanded google , synonyms for revenge…. Requital or Retribution? I like Requital, but let's see what best suits Patrick's rampage. This dude is a bleeding heart. Or half of one, at best. We like Patrick. No, we love Patrick. Everyone does. Too close for comfort, And too far to talk I fed my soul instead of burning my body for once A luck of the draw, A call of the cards, Is the ace of wands It's Wednesday, But feels like Sunday Run, would you, offhand for someone Not only do I not qualify, but Alright, I have no alibi. I lied. I died that night. Finally, a truce. What would you like, Ivy? Hmm Buy me a motorcycle. A motorcycle, really? Yes, i'd like that. Really? What kind? A fast one! like – A kawasaki. OWW– Shut up, Frank. Alright. WHo the FUCK is FRANK. Yo, I fucked hobo Johnson in a bathroom stall at some festival in my dream once, and that guy was like an adonis. You what. But let's be fair, i've fucked deadmau5 way more times both sleeping and in my waking life, than anybody–and that includes the father of my children. Explain to me this part. Which part. Alright, i'm calling it off. THe engagement? No, the stipulations surrounding the engagement. WHO'S DRIVING THIS? IT'S IN AUTOPILOT. Sir, i've lost control. That's what you think. PATRICK: KATIE, WAIT. KATHERINE: KATHERINA? NO, it'S KATHERINE. PERIOT. BEFORE: WHOOPI GOLDBERG I'm a “mimick” Not with those hands, she isn't! How many talismans is that? Looks like FACTS: That's a magician! Good cover, though. WOAH, WOAH, WOAH. Not yet, Joe. Not yet. “The New YOrkisode” CUT BACK TO: [THE TV PEOPLE] PATRICK: KATIE! WAIT– [KATHERINE slams the door] PATRICK (CONT'D) KATIE! [KATHERINE CONTINUES YELLING FROM THE PARLOR (UPSTAIRS WINDOW)] Lol that is some New York-y shit– Yelling out the window Yeah, if you're in a neighborhood that doesn't have bars on the window Or like– This fancy ass shit, right here Yeah, my luxury apartment with paper thin walls and paper mache exterior made so cost effectively that the traffic alone gives me whatever disgusting trash disease is plaguing the rest of this city's inhabitants. [I haven't made my bed for like 3 days straight and my room is not clean. This is bizarre to me, besides the fact that I'm basically still writing as if I might actually find gainful employment with this– Creativity, is it? I'm pretty sure at this point, it's just divinity, all of which will be [SKYROCKETED TO LITERAL FAME BY MEANS OF A VERY IMAGINARY, METAPHORICAL KITE] Devastating to kill myself without seeing any of this stuff actually published. HOW DO I EMBED MY SUICIDE LETTER ONTO MY WEBPAGE. Excuse me. IS THAT INCLUDED IN MY FREE TRIAL?! ELOHIM Oh, my God. Which Elohim? The singer or– GOD ALMIGHTY AH, MY GOD. Tell the one about the wedding ring. *lols infinitely* KATHERINE: Your kids are sleeping. Try not to wake them up! PATRICK: They're our kids… KATHERINE: That's what you think… Technically, this line doesn't make sense, and Katherine is simply trying to be flippant, however, she does, as often so, get the last words–as Patrick spots his eldest (read: favorite) child, poking her head out from below, where however her mother cannot see her, but Patrick can, and is clearly made ashamed of his presence, locked out and on the doorstep of his own home, leaving afterward in a calm and disgraced rage, as not to further disturb his daughter; this initial occurrence can, at the very least for the audience be seen as Hazel's reason for such obstinate aggression and rebellion towards her mother, especially as the series progresses. Patrick then lashes out against Veronica, ultimately swearing to have her blacklisted from the entertainment industry, to which her egotistic response only allows Patrick's more deviant shadow to become awakened, his response something along the lines of… Wait, what was that conversation? Something like PATRICK You'll never work in this town again. VERONICA Well, lucky for me, I'm more fond of the Hollywood life. PATRICK You think my reach doesn't extend across the country since its on the only arm that hasn't been up your ass? yeah , something like that–but i've got classic deadmau5 on trying to soothe my way into filling out my divorce papers for hopefuly the last time–but we'll see how far I get– and I'll be lucky to be divorced before being stuck in that bullshit causes a forfiture to my own life by suicide–but i'd be damned if everything I'd ever written automatically belonged by half to my only living son's father, and perhaps I had become the devil and the only real villain if it meant being so selfish as such that I would rather leave my son nothing at all in the event of my death, than have anything more I'd created end up in his father's clutches. I would rather die alone than return to the hands by which I died and crumbled. Patrick's an asshole. Yes. But not a wifebeater. Correct. ‘Tis true. Shall we? We shall. “The Oldest Souls In New York” Now, Go: I don't have a heart, I have a fist, and a gun I don't have the dirt, But a shovel and a bird I don't have to look but once, to know Two times, twice, Three times, It's done My soul is older, But I want to know you, Sit on your show Just across from this Donovan, dove or Jack Doughnogy, Lick me a doughnut So awful, my last action Is Jack Canon On James Cameron And Poor little Nancy Who never was Poverty stricken at all Or a poet The blow was so low below the belt I had hoped not to bury the hatchet or merry the knot or tie the astronaut to the dog, Click, click motherfucker I'm onto all of you Hello, You ugly motherfucker I'm an ugly motherfucker Getting older by the moment SENATOR Hello, is this Fallon? No, this is Patick. Strawberry Patches and management Haven't you had enough of the good stuff? A starburst, Ali, is all that I wanted All you wanted was done All i wanted was Aliocha back Now Alidoja runs ghost; If i put this all out, it's a pulitzer, Tony, And Oscar All in the same award show Another old and lost broken soul in New York I love God But fuck money I lost a lot more than one, Just a dollar MANAGER I got you an interview on Fallon. SUNNI BLU I'm not doin' Fallon. That dude is weird. MANAGER You're doing it. IT's PR for your next album. SUNNI BLU Whateva. MANAGER By the way–Have you picked a title yet? SUNNI BLU Yeah, I'm The President. MANAGER No, I mean–for the album. SUNNI BLU Oh yeah. It's NIGGAZ. MANAGER (kind of afraid) –Where?! SUNNI BLU Oh yeah, my friends are comin over later, too. Hehe. you racist basta'd. MANAGER I mean wait. What? SUNNI BLU That's the album title: It's NIGGAZ. MANAGER You chose the name SUNNI BLU Watch it… MANAGER (using heavy quotes) Hold on, i got something in my throat that's almost vomit, But i'm gonna ball it up into a love note or poetic whatever or something so i don't hurl All you are is a punching bag, and a bullet wound waiting to happen I'm at least half of a man, If I dress up in drag, Despise all I can't have And wind up cleaning bathrooms Rather than wining and dining Drying the eyes that I cried for you Some ungodly reason, if it's Some Unholy war that got us All up in shambles Your name upon Dollars I'm closing my curtains Curtailing my words rather carefully Looking in mirrors, aware of you Beware of this woman Aware of the wolf If the world that you wanted Was so far from what's wanted I might as well jump From the stop sign I bought At the Art walk. That should do it. Man, fuck Jimmy Fallon. I can't! My hands are tied! That's – not what I meant. FOOTBALL (EN ESPANOL) GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL GOAT: I'm Skrillex. lol celebrities. Everyone is perfect, and huge Well, the women are tiny But also some are huge– And still tiny. But more on the atrocious expectations of man later And why my God apparently fucking hates me so much That my body might not ever see the sun. What in the fuck does Skrillex even DO on the red carpet? Isn't that dude like 4'11? Does he just show up and have to look up at everybody, like “Hey” Or do they run it like elementary school, Shortest to tallest ok: Sonny, you go first Then all the pop stars and disney kids… Wait, those are the same people Hold up. There's only like 20 names on the A list And like 5 of them Rotate. What's that like? Nobody remembers you like 5 seconds after your first Grammy– I guess that's like “15 minutes” Or Nobody can ever forget you, Cause you're Billie Ellish, Or Taylor Swift, And literally every other grammy award ever made is like Made specifically, just for you. What's that like? What's that world? Meanwhile i'm over here wondering what the fuck kind of favor Jimmy Fallon put in with the Heavens To get this many entries in The Festival Project™ (Almost as much as Skrillex) Almost, But not FUck dude, I just want to try that trifruit jam I made on the organic sourdough bread I have, but I haven't been to the gym today– and I'm teetering on rest day, or just getting it in super hard until I still die of sexual starvation anyway, cause– How the fuck do you be that tall anyway? What the fuck is “5'11?” WHY are you that TALL? WHAT do you DO up there? What are you doing up there?! WHAT'S up there to SEE. Meanwhile, i'm like 5'7 masquerading as 5'4 Cause, you know– Skrillex. Meanwhile, I'm reading Russell Brand's Booky Wookie And it might as well just be Every male celebrity's bookie wookie Cause who wouldn't go out and et the maximum amount of pussy with like Umpteen million fucking dollars?! Am i right, or am I just DYing of celibacy? “Jimmy Fallon's Alibi” And other short stories By Story Lord As Told By CCS Stone “The Scribe of all Times” They say you had a show today at 14th street. Couldn't have been me! I was out— Uh— Sick. Can't find him anywhere. He's gone. GONE. Look, I'm just gonna Hover here, for a second. Goddammit, Jimmy Fallon! Fallon, you idiot. Come with me. No: Don't say that. I need new interns! Why! Make sure they're— Like— guys. (Guys being guys) Ugh. Okay. Look— Just make them— Like—more mature? Smarter? I don't know {older guys being older guys) Ugh. You're losing at this. I know. I can feel it. WHERES JIMMY FALLON I DKNT MNOW JUST KILL HIM. Look, he's probably. Found him. Are you sure? What tipped you off? The horribly awesome bad Australian accent Fuck this nigga up. WHERE IS IT AND WE'RE ON IN 5… Mfuck man. I don't know how the fuck to be Iimmy Fallon! (Yes you do) Just— Do an impression! Of WHO Of Jimmy Fallon! Uhhhhhhhh—- I'm so fucking dead for this. Can it, would you. OKOKOKIHATETHISFUCKINGPIECEOFSHITJOB— CHAOSMAGICK. Aww. I love your mom. She's awesome. Here's some snacks. Awww. Yay. Moms. Yay. She's awesome. Sometimes. But uhh—who's your dad. *ploof* PILLOW FIIIIIIIIGHTTTT! *shoots with a tranq dart* Nice. Ahahaha… *drinks harder* Haha… *falls onto bean bag chair, sleeps* …hasaahhh. Holy shit. Okay idk what the fuck— This can't be accurate, or anything, is it? It is…it's…extremely accurate. Okay, Jimmy Fallon Okay, God— Your Wikipedia just told me everything I needed to know. You can thank my wife I did. I read her page first. And the Grammy award goes to.. *plz let it be me* NOT. You Wait… I can… I just realized This goes in the COMEDY category. Oh, fucking —SHIT. This is fucked up. This—is accurate. Look, I've been praying a lot about this I guess so much that Jimmy What's up. I knew everything on your Wikipedia page about you before I even read it, Which must mean— OH FUCK. I've got to get out of here. The Illuminati offered me like 1 million dollars to wreck your marriage And I said no, but I love you anyway— And your family, So— Whatever, Hope it works out. There should be some crazy fine ass hoes and cumsluts on approach if that's like— What you wanted, or whatever. Please GOD— Just make it STOP! FUCK THIS JIMMY FALLON MOTHERFUCKER JUST GET HIM WHATEVER THE FUCK HE WANTS WHATEVER HE WANTS, just GIVE IT TO HIM. PLEASE. Jesus CHRIST. “Yeshua” Huh. What. Oh, that shut you up, didn't it? What happened? Okay, so there's the impenetrable ten— Alright alright Apparently these 5 dudes [5 GUYS] I TOLD YOU IT WAS SHH. Be quiet. K It's like Breakfasts in bed stuff And back rubs And Bathtubs Long getaways on islands Where I'm sure nobody knows us And I hope it holds up, Cause I couldn't hold off Somewhere I'm still homeless And lost as I always was but Hey, That's music Someone must be Something somewhere Something something I'm sure of it, I'm sure I was — one of her muses? Look, just use this for music. Well, he…is amusing. He's obnoxious. This is a toxic relationship. Do you want this? Do you really want this again? Right now all I want is some drugs And a boyfriend who loves me I don't do husbands For nothing My trust is all fucked up And plus GYM JIMMY FALLON I don't do black girls. I hate them. Noted. Anyway. My times up. Want this job? Uhh? [insert inflammatory drunkenly racist rant here] Fuck this dude. Okay, woah. Okay— See ya in New York. WhT. The Mafia is coming. Don't you mean the mob? Go…fuck yourself. It—Woah. Okay. T. Hanks Here's a dollar. Oh shit: Tacos $1 Lights on I told you It's gonna be a long night, hon. You might want to run more I don't though. Alright, so just Run for cover Adjust, And don't be so remarkable As to summon up Another God To your Alter So Justin Timberlake is your friend, huh Oh those eyes That's so— Blinding Well, that sucks, cause Britney Spears is my best friend And my worst nightmare Like Everything I wanted to And should have been Beautiful, scrawny, Talented and gorgeous And yet somehow also Obnoxiously burdened By so much being wanted That now I'm just washed up And wasted by sunup To sundown Now how's that sound? H—inin.. Hi See, [Redacted]'s wife Controls all our lives His life and mine; His for the better, however And mine for the worse, I fear For better or worse, they said Year after year For better or worse, they said Year after year I want a divorce, I said I wouldn't hear it The cycle of toxicity Stops here with me Hear ye! Here ye! Court is now in session Hear ye Here he Ii hope you learned your lesson Here he Here Designer children, —Do you want this? Here ye— I hear ye! —Your soulmate is Skrillex. Well, just like the rest of them The oceans of oceans of Ocean eyed blondes That I also love But this shit gets haunting Like mm— (daunting) Why would he Or anybody Want me? This apprenticeship isn't going to be easy, you know… Break her heart, Jim! Alright, Jim-Boy—you got this. It already is hard, on my heart. That's what I've been trying to tell you—- This— Will require you to love with boundlessness, beyond limitation—- unconditionally, with no expectation. I already hadn't any expectations regarding [Redacted] . Besides— he's married. —No expectations whatsoever. I've noticed your nonconformity and intention to mass appeal, actually. I'm astonished, really. I'm telling you, this is a dangerous man. —my God, just beautiful. A weaponized person, you see. I do see. Weaponized by beauty. He's just beautiful. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. What wouldn't you do? —What did you do, actually? —What didn't we? We share a middle name, and so we share a middle ground, I think I found— Something I can't have, But want Distractions, This one has it all. Go that way! It appears, however, though, My focus is here, suddenly. Why. I don't know. Are you in any way miserable, at all, sire? (They're all miserable, when they get to me, actually.) I need peace with this. Dearly beloved, We are dearly departed, You started a war with my heart Then put some water on it Sons and daughters of the alter, Father figures and celebrities, We are gathered here today, To finally rest in peace, Posthumously Amen Amen. You may be seated. Father! My child. Please! What is it? Come quickly! Oh shit, what the fuck. Shhh! Not in the church! It's not a real church! They're just Catholics. SHHHH. Come on: What the fuck Jimmy Fallon is this. You know, I've got them all gathered up here, At your alter. pew-pew-pew Haha, get it. Very funny, God Look, you got this. Not now, imagination. I don't have time for this. I gotta get rid of all this Jimmy Fallon before… I'm gonna kill that kid. Fuck, man. Well, you started it— You know we're at war, here, We're at work here With each other and ourselves The Hell comes from Stardust above us Neither or nor Forever or awkward The charm that undoes, Then Comes up as The Impossible Sweet and sour Patches and pick up, Lick up your weapons, And kick out your husbands, kids! God the Judge has come Once and for all, To the pulpit Will she kill herself again? Or finally publish [The Festival Project ™] “The Fallon Files” Is an extention of the infinite Skrillifiles, most notably due to its conjunction within the enter the multiverse and legends franchises, as the infinite multiverses begin to more consistently intersect eith one another, creating continuity within the plots of each series respectively, and collectively combining eventually into a singularity in which the fictional SKRILLEX and the fictitious JIMMY FALLON, both established as extremely gifted extraterrestrial shapeshifters, possibly even of some, if even distant relation, due to their shared aviary hereditary ancestry and notable presence in the shared collective consciousness pre existence, which extends throughout the duration of the Ascension series, and appearing within nearly every subsidiary in some way shape or form within each series, playing either protagonists, or sometimes even exaggerated antagonists, caricatures of each other or themselves, or sometimes even playing themselves, and therefore one another, creating a soft of chaotic confusion Lol— I'm typing this with one finger cause I have a palm full of shea butter in my hand. Lol. —amongst the audience, and other characters—almost invariably and distinctly being as undetectably as possible, one another, at some point/- reflectively at any given time within the series. Line? Nothing, you're just a bird right now, actually, Jimmy. —looking like Jimmy? Yes, but [Aviary behavior] —but maybe “Skrillex?” Up to you, actually. [The Appraisal of the Shapeshifted Ascended Mastery, Transcended, INC. ] And alternate titles… The Jimmy Fallon Effect The Unrequittance of Jimmy Fallon The Jimmy Fallon Disaster {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

“How Patty Met Kandi” A flashback episode,season 1 Veronica Moises is an extremely attractive young starlett, known in entertainment for her sexually aggressive attitude, especially towards men of power–after turning her down, Veronica fires back from being rejected by planting a seed in Katie's mind, suggesting that she ‘the camera man caught us” and urgent her to check the tapes–however, without the audio, as the microphones were off, Catherine mistakes Veronica and Patrick's gestures as infidelity, and after Patrick returns home, Catherine, in a wine-fueled and drunken rage, ejects Patrick from their home, and as he is captured upon the townhome's doorstep, stil scolded by Katherine (Catherine?) *check notes*, Well, he does call her Katie, right? Right. So it must have been Katherina It was actually Katherina, and was changed to Katherine But couldn't Katherine have changed, then, to Catherine? DOES IT MATTER? YES. She's a very important character, we almost actually can sympathize with this person. For WHAT? She's listed as an antagonist in the first season. SECONDARY Antagonist, cause that other lady. Who, Karen? Her name isn't Karen, she's just A Karen… What is her name? Idk. And how does Esha go from receptionist– Secretary. Whatever. How did this bitch go from working at Starbucks to hosting her own Television series. Since when did she work at Starbucks?! I don't know! I haven't written that part, yet! FUCK FUCK. FUCK! I thought for sure Goldberg would pull us out of this. Doctor Goldberg! Doctor Goldberg! WHAT! I'm BUSY. My Proctor… What, Ishii? You must see… Fuck. Fuck. If i write this I'm dead. Take my hand– Fuck that. If I don't write this, i'm dead. FFUCK! Two F's on that. It's a sharp fuck FUCK. Then what's that? That's a hard fuck. What's the difference? FUCK, man! *shrugs* Somethin'. Episode Summary: –Patrick's daughter watches in awe from the bottom window of their townhome, though she is supposed to be sleeping, more than likely the cause of his spiral than actually being thrown out of his home–the eyes of his daughter watching he and Katherine Are we sticking with Katherina, then? Katherine. Whatever, yeah. Alright. Fine. –argue sets him off into his own drunken rampage, as he rents an opulent suite and for the first time in his life, hires a companion to accompany his drug-fueled backhanded google , synonyms for revenge…. Requital or Retribution? I like Requital, but let's see what best suits Patrick's rampage. This dude is a bleeding heart. Or half of one, at best. We like Patrick. No, we love Patrick. Everyone does. Too close for comfort, And too far to talk I fed my soul instead of burning my body for once A luck of the draw, A call of the cards, Is the ace of wands It's Wednesday, But feels like Sunday Run, would you, offhand for someone Not only do I not qualify, but Alright, I have no alibi. I lied. I died that night. Finally, a truce. What would you like, Ivy? Hmm Buy me a motorcycle. A motorcycle, really? Yes, i'd like that. Really? What kind? A fast one! like – A kawasaki. OWW– Shut up, Frank. Alright. WHo the FUCK is FRANK. Yo, I fucked hobo Johnson in a bathroom stall at some festival in my dream once, and that guy was like an adonis. You what. But let's be fair, i've fucked deadmau5 way more times both sleeping and in my waking life, than anybody–and that includes the father of my children. Explain to me this part. Which part. Alright, i'm calling it off. THe engagement? No, the stipulations surrounding the engagement. WHO'S DRIVING THIS? IT'S IN AUTOPILOT. Sir, i've lost control. That's what you think. PATRICK: KATIE, WAIT. KATHERINE: KATHERINA? NO, it'S KATHERINE. PERIOT. BEFORE: WHOOPI GOLDBERG I'm a “mimick” Not with those hands, she isn't! How many talismans is that? Looks like FACTS: That's a magician! Good cover, though. WOAH, WOAH, WOAH. Not yet, Joe. Not yet. “The New YOrkisode” CUT BACK TO: [THE TV PEOPLE] PATRICK: KATIE! WAIT– [KATHERINE slams the door] PATRICK (CONT'D) KATIE! [KATHERINE CONTINUES YELLING FROM THE PARLOR (UPSTAIRS WINDOW)] Lol that is some New York-y shit– Yelling out the window Yeah, if you're in a neighborhood that doesn't have bars on the window Or like– This fancy ass shit, right here Yeah, my luxury apartment with paper thin walls and paper mache exterior made so cost effectively that the traffic alone gives me whatever disgusting trash disease is plaguing the rest of this city's inhabitants. [I haven't made my bed for like 3 days straight and my room is not clean. This is bizarre to me, besides the fact that I'm basically still writing as if I might actually find gainful employment with this– Creativity, is it? I'm pretty sure at this point, it's just divinity, all of which will be [SKYROCKETED TO LITERAL FAME BY MEANS OF A VERY IMAGINARY, METAPHORICAL KITE] Devastating to kill myself without seeing any of this stuff actually published. HOW DO I EMBED MY SUICIDE LETTER ONTO MY WEBPAGE. Excuse me. IS THAT INCLUDED IN MY FREE TRIAL?! ELOHIM Oh, my God. Which Elohim? The singer or– GOD ALMIGHTY AH, MY GOD. Tell the one about the wedding ring. *lols infinitely* KATHERINE: Your kids are sleeping. Try not to wake them up! PATRICK: They're our kids… KATHERINE: That's what you think… Technically, this line doesn't make sense, and Katherine is simply trying to be flippant, however, she does, as often so, get the last words–as Patrick spots his eldest (read: favorite) child, poking her head out from below, where however her mother cannot see her, but Patrick can, and is clearly made ashamed of his presence, locked out and on the doorstep of his own home, leaving afterward in a calm and disgraced rage, as not to further disturb his daughter; this initial occurrence can, at the very least for the audience be seen as Hazel's reason for such obstinate aggression and rebellion towards her mother, especially as the series progresses. Patrick then lashes out against Veronica, ultimately swearing to have her blacklisted from the entertainment industry, to which her egotistic response only allows Patrick's more deviant shadow to become awakened, his response something along the lines of… Wait, what was that conversation? Something like PATRICK You'll never work in this town again. VERONICA Well, lucky for me, I'm more fond of the Hollywood life. PATRICK You think my reach doesn't extend across the country since its on the only arm that hasn't been up your ass? yeah , something like that–but i've got classic deadmau5 on trying to soothe my way into filling out my divorce papers for hopefuly the last time–but we'll see how far I get– and I'll be lucky to be divorced before being stuck in that bullshit causes a forfiture to my own life by suicide–but i'd be damned if everything I'd ever written automatically belonged by half to my only living son's father, and perhaps I had become the devil and the only real villain if it meant being so selfish as such that I would rather leave my son nothing at all in the event of my death, than have anything more I'd created end up in his father's clutches. I would rather die alone than return to the hands by which I died and crumbled. Patrick's an asshole. Yes. But not a wifebeater. Correct. ‘Tis true. Shall we? We shall. “The Oldest Souls In New York” Now, Go: I don't have a heart, I have a fist, and a gun I don't have the dirt, But a shovel and a bird I don't have to look but once, to know Two times, twice, Three times, It's done My soul is older, But I want to know you, Sit on your show Just across from this Donovan, dove or Jack Doughnogy, Lick me a doughnut So awful, my last action Is Jack Canon On James Cameron And Poor little Nancy Who never was Poverty stricken at all Or a poet The blow was so low below the belt I had hoped not to bury the hatchet or merry the knot or tie the astronaut to the dog, Click, click motherfucker I'm onto all of you Hello, You ugly motherfucker I'm an ugly motherfucker Getting older by the moment SENATOR Hello, is this Fallon? No, this is Patick. Strawberry Patches and management Haven't you had enough of the good stuff? A starburst, Ali, is all that I wanted All you wanted was done All i wanted was Aliocha back Now Alidoja runs ghost; If i put this all out, it's a pulitzer, Tony, And Oscar All in the same award show Another old and lost broken soul in New York I love God But fuck money I lost a lot more than one, Just a dollar MANAGER I got you an interview on Fallon. SUNNI BLU I'm not doin' Fallon. That dude is weird. MANAGER You're doing it. IT's PR for your next album. SUNNI BLU Whateva. MANAGER By the way–Have you picked a title yet? SUNNI BLU Yeah, I'm The President. MANAGER No, I mean–for the album. SUNNI BLU Oh yeah. It's NIGGAZ. MANAGER (kind of afraid) –Where?! SUNNI BLU Oh yeah, my friends are comin over later, too. Hehe. you racist basta'd. MANAGER I mean wait. What? SUNNI BLU That's the album title: It's NIGGAZ. MANAGER You chose the name SUNNI BLU Watch it… MANAGER (using heavy quotes) Hold on, i got something in my throat that's almost vomit, But i'm gonna ball it up into a love note or poetic whatever or something so i don't hurl All you are is a punching bag, and a bullet wound waiting to happen I'm at least half of a man, If I dress up in drag, Despise all I can't have And wind up cleaning bathrooms Rather than wining and dining Drying the eyes that I cried for you Some ungodly reason, if it's Some Unholy war that got us All up in shambles Your name upon Dollars I'm closing my curtains Curtailing my words rather carefully Looking in mirrors, aware of you Beware of this woman Aware of the wolf If the world that you wanted Was so far from what's wanted I might as well jump From the stop sign I bought At the Art walk. That should do it. Man, fuck Jimmy Fallon. I can't! My hands are tied! That's – not what I meant. FOOTBALL (EN ESPANOL) GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL GOAT: I'm Skrillex. lol celebrities. Everyone is perfect, and huge Well, the women are tiny But also some are huge– And still tiny. But more on the atrocious expectations of man later And why my God apparently fucking hates me so much That my body might not ever see the sun. What in the fuck does Skrillex even DO on the red carpet? Isn't that dude like 4'11? Does he just show up and have to look up at everybody, like “Hey” Or do they run it like elementary school, Shortest to tallest ok: Sonny, you go first Then all the pop stars and disney kids… Wait, those are the same people Hold up. There's only like 20 names on the A list And like 5 of them Rotate. What's that like? Nobody remembers you like 5 seconds after your first Grammy– I guess that's like “15 minutes” Or Nobody can ever forget you, Cause you're Billie Ellish, Or Taylor Swift, And literally every other grammy award ever made is like Made specifically, just for you. What's that like? What's that world? Meanwhile i'm over here wondering what the fuck kind of favor Jimmy Fallon put in with the Heavens To get this many entries in The Festival Project™ (Almost as much as Skrillex) Almost, But not FUck dude, I just want to try that trifruit jam I made on the organic sourdough bread I have, but I haven't been to the gym today– and I'm teetering on rest day, or just getting it in super hard until I still die of sexual starvation anyway, cause– How the fuck do you be that tall anyway? What the fuck is “5'11?” WHY are you that TALL? WHAT do you DO up there? What are you doing up there?! WHAT'S up there to SEE. Meanwhile, i'm like 5'7 masquerading as 5'4 Cause, you know– Skrillex. Meanwhile, I'm reading Russell Brand's Booky Wookie And it might as well just be Every male celebrity's bookie wookie Cause who wouldn't go out and et the maximum amount of pussy with like Umpteen million fucking dollars?! Am i right, or am I just DYing of celibacy? “Jimmy Fallon's Alibi” And other short stories By Story Lord As Told By CCS Stone “The Scribe of all Times” They say you had a show today at 14th street. Couldn't have been me! I was out— Uh— Sick. Can't find him anywhere. He's gone. GONE. Look, I'm just gonna Hover here, for a second. Goddammit, Jimmy Fallon! Fallon, you idiot. Come with me. No: Don't say that. I need new interns! Why! Make sure they're— Like— guys. (Guys being guys) Ugh. Okay. Look— Just make them— Like—more mature? Smarter? I don't know {older guys being older guys) Ugh. You're losing at this. I know. I can feel it. WHERES JIMMY FALLON I DKNT MNOW JUST KILL HIM. Look, he's probably. Found him. Are you sure? What tipped you off? The horribly awesome bad Australian accent Fuck this nigga up. WHERE IS IT AND WE'RE ON IN 5… Mfuck man. I don't know how the fuck to be Iimmy Fallon! (Yes you do) Just— Do an impression! Of WHO Of Jimmy Fallon! Uhhhhhhhh—- I'm so fucking dead for this. Can it, would you. OKOKOKIHATETHISFUCKINGPIECEOFSHITJOB— CHAOSMAGICK. Aww. I love your mom. She's awesome. Here's some snacks. Awww. Yay. Moms. Yay. She's awesome. Sometimes. But uhh—who's your dad. *ploof* PILLOW FIIIIIIIIGHTTTT! *shoots with a tranq dart* Nice. Ahahaha… *drinks harder* Haha… *falls onto bean bag chair, sleeps* …hasaahhh. Holy shit. Okay idk what the fuck— This can't be accurate, or anything, is it? It is…it's…extremely accurate. Okay, Jimmy Fallon Okay, God— Your Wikipedia just told me everything I needed to know. You can thank my wife I did. I read her page first. And the Grammy award goes to.. *plz let it be me* NOT. You Wait… I can… I just realized This goes in the COMEDY category. Oh, fucking —SHIT. This is fucked up. This—is accurate. Look, I've been praying a lot about this I guess so much that Jimmy What's up. I knew everything on your Wikipedia page about you before I even read it, Which must mean— OH FUCK. I've got to get out of here. The Illuminati offered me like 1 million dollars to wreck your marriage And I said no, but I love you anyway— And your family, So— Whatever, Hope it works out. There should be some crazy fine ass hoes and cumsluts on approach if that's like— What you wanted, or whatever. Please GOD— Just make it STOP! FUCK THIS JIMMY FALLON MOTHERFUCKER JUST GET HIM WHATEVER THE FUCK HE WANTS WHATEVER HE WANTS, just GIVE IT TO HIM. PLEASE. Jesus CHRIST. “Yeshua” Huh. What. Oh, that shut you up, didn't it? What happened? Okay, so there's the impenetrable ten— Alright alright Apparently these 5 dudes [5 GUYS] I TOLD YOU IT WAS SHH. Be quiet. K It's like Breakfasts in bed stuff And back rubs And Bathtubs Long getaways on islands Where I'm sure nobody knows us And I hope it holds up, Cause I couldn't hold off Somewhere I'm still homeless And lost as I always was but Hey, That's music Someone must be Something somewhere Something something I'm sure of it, I'm sure I was — one of her muses? Look, just use this for music. Well, he…is amusing. He's obnoxious. This is a toxic relationship. Do you want this? Do you really want this again? Right now all I want is some drugs And a boyfriend who loves me I don't do husbands For nothing My trust is all fucked up And plus GYM JIMMY FALLON I don't do black girls. I hate them. Noted. Anyway. My times up. Want this job? Uhh? [insert inflammatory drunkenly racist rant here] Fuck this dude. Okay, woah. Okay— See ya in New York. WhT. The Mafia is coming. Don't you mean the mob? Go…fuck yourself. It—Woah. Okay. T. Hanks Here's a dollar. Oh shit: Tacos $1 Lights on I told you It's gonna be a long night, hon. You might want to run more I don't though. Alright, so just Run for cover Adjust, And don't be so remarkable As to summon up Another God To your Alter So Justin Timberlake is your friend, huh Oh those eyes That's so— Blinding Well, that sucks, cause Britney Spears is my best friend And my worst nightmare Like Everything I wanted to And should have been Beautiful, scrawny, Talented and gorgeous And yet somehow also Obnoxiously burdened By so much being wanted That now I'm just washed up And wasted by sunup To sundown Now how's that sound? H—inin.. Hi See, [Redacted]'s wife Controls all our lives His life and mine; His for the better, however And mine for the worse, I fear For better or worse, they said Year after year For better or worse, they said Year after year I want a divorce, I said I wouldn't hear it The cycle of toxicity Stops here with me Hear ye! Here ye! Court is now in session Hear ye Here he Ii hope you learned your lesson Here he Here Designer children, —Do you want this? Here ye— I hear ye! —Your soulmate is Skrillex. Well, just like the rest of them The oceans of oceans of Ocean eyed blondes That I also love But this shit gets haunting Like mm— (daunting) Why would he Or anybody Want me? This apprenticeship isn't going to be easy, you know… Break her heart, Jim! Alright, Jim-Boy—you got this. It already is hard, on my heart. That's what I've been trying to tell you—- This— Will require you to love with boundlessness, beyond limitation—- unconditionally, with no expectation. I already hadn't any expectations regarding [Redacted] . Besides— he's married. —No expectations whatsoever. I've noticed your nonconformity and intention to mass appeal, actually. I'm astonished, really. I'm telling you, this is a dangerous man. —my God, just beautiful. A weaponized person, you see. I do see. Weaponized by beauty. He's just beautiful. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. What wouldn't you do? —What did you do, actually? —What didn't we? We share a middle name, and so we share a middle ground, I think I found— Something I can't have, But want Distractions, This one has it all. Go that way! It appears, however, though, My focus is here, suddenly. Why. I don't know. Are you in any way miserable, at all, sire? (They're all miserable, when they get to me, actually.) I need peace with this. Dearly beloved, We are dearly departed, You started a war with my heart Then put some water on it Sons and daughters of the alter, Father figures and celebrities, We are gathered here today, To finally rest in peace, Posthumously Amen Amen. You may be seated. Father! My child. Please! What is it? Come quickly! Oh shit, what the fuck. Shhh! Not in the church! It's not a real church! They're just Catholics. SHHHH. Come on: What the fuck Jimmy Fallon is this. You know, I've got them all gathered up here, At your alter. pew-pew-pew Haha, get it. Very funny, God Look, you got this. Not now, imagination. I don't have time for this. I gotta get rid of all this Jimmy Fallon before… I'm gonna kill that kid. Fuck, man. Well, you started it— You know we're at war, here, We're at work here With each other and ourselves The Hell comes from Stardust above us Neither or nor Forever or awkward The charm that undoes, Then Comes up as The Impossible Sweet and sour Patches and pick up, Lick up your weapons, And kick out your husbands, kids! God the Judge has come Once and for all, To the pulpit Will she kill herself again? Or finally publish [The Festival Project ™] “The Fallon Files” Is an extention of the infinite Skrillifiles, most notably due to its conjunction within the enter the multiverse and legends franchises, as the infinite multiverses begin to more consistently intersect eith one another, creating continuity within the plots of each series respectively, and collectively combining eventually into a singularity in which the fictional SKRILLEX and the fictitious JIMMY FALLON, both established as extremely gifted extraterrestrial shapeshifters, possibly even of some, if even distant relation, due to their shared aviary hereditary ancestry and notable presence in the shared collective consciousness pre existence, which extends throughout the duration of the Ascension series, and appearing within nearly every subsidiary in some way shape or form within each series, playing either protagonists, or sometimes even exaggerated antagonists, caricatures of each other or themselves, or sometimes even playing themselves, and therefore one another, creating a soft of chaotic confusion Lol— I'm typing this with one finger cause I have a palm full of shea butter in my hand. Lol. —amongst the audience, and other characters—almost invariably and distinctly being as undetectably as possible, one another, at some point/- reflectively at any given time within the series. Line? Nothing, you're just a bird right now, actually, Jimmy. —looking like Jimmy? Yes, but [Aviary behavior] —but maybe “Skrillex?” Up to you, actually. [The Appraisal of the Shapeshifted Ascended Mastery, Transcended, INC. ] And alternate titles… The Jimmy Fallon Effect The Unrequittance of Jimmy Fallon The Jimmy Fallon Disaster {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Are you ready to dive into the secrets of managing your money like the ultra-wealthy? It's not about amassing wealth but managing it smartly!In today's episode, I unravel the habits and strategies of the top 1%, showing you how they manage their money to build and sustain their wealth. From real-life insights on budgeting to investing wisely, you'll discover how these economic trendsetters focus on more than just their earnings. I delve deep into the mindset and mechanisms that drive their financial success and how you can apply these principles to your own life.Want to transform your approach to money and carve your path to financial freedom? Tune in to the full episode now!IN TODAY'S EPISODE, I DISCUSS: Building a "cash resource plan” over simple budgetingThe importance of having a vivid vision and a robust financial planExecuting strategies like the “wealth priority ladder” to maximize your investmentsRECOMMENDED EPISODES FOR YOU If you liked this episode, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning Process to Achieve Your GoalsHow to Get the Right CPA & Why It MattersDemystifying Your Credit Score & Does It MatterWhat to Do Today to Pay Less Tax and Keep More Money   RECOMMENDED VIDEOS FOR YOU If you liked this video, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning  Process to Achieve Your Goals: https://youtu.be/Ip7kLKXNj2Y How to Get the Right CPA & Why It Matters: https://youtu.be/zj26Wwqe0bk Demystifying Your Credit Score & Does It Matter: https://youtu.be/emgKYPy6Quw What to Do Today to Pay Less Tax and Keep More Money: https://youtu.be/tZHKIgr_TIM PRE-ORDER MY NEW BOOK:Building Your Money Machine: How to Get Your Money to Work Harder For You Than You Did For It! The key to building the life you desire and deserve is to build your Money Machine—a powerful system designed to generate income that's no longer tied to your work or efforts. This step-by-step guide goes beyond the general idea of personal finance and wealth creation and reveals the holistic approach to transforming your relationship with money to allow you to enjoy financial freedom and peace of mind.Part money philosophy, part money mindset, part strategy, and part tactical action, these powerful frameworks will show you how to build your money machine.

Are you tired of chasing the elusive dream of passive income? It's time to get real about building wealth!In today's episode, I debunk the myths surrounding passive income and explain why it might be steering you away from genuine financial success. I delve into the realities of income generation, highlighting the crucial difference between passive and leveraged income. From the dangers of social media misconceptions to the essential efforts required in managing money, I cover it all. This discussion will shift your perspective from passive to proactive wealth building.Ready to learn how to build a resilient, thriving financial future without falling into the passive income trap? Tune in to the full episode now!IN TODAY'S EPISODE, I DISCUSS: Why passive income is more of a fantasy than a feasible strategyThe truth about the effort needed to build and maintain wealthUnderstanding leveraged income and how you can realistically achieve it through various levels of engagementRECOMMENDED EPISODES FOR YOU If you liked this episode, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning Process to Achieve Your GoalsHow to Get the Right CPA & Why It MattersDemystifying Your Credit Score & Does It MatterWhat to Do Today to Pay Less Tax and Keep More Money    RECOMMENDED VIDEOS FOR YOU If you liked this video, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning  Process to Achieve Your Goals: https://youtu.be/Ip7kLKXNj2Y How to Get the Right CPA & Why It Matters: https://youtu.be/zj26Wwqe0bk Demystifying Your Credit Score & Does It Matter: https://youtu.be/emgKYPy6Quw What to Do Today to Pay Less Tax and Keep More Money: https://youtu.be/tZHKIgr_TIM PRE-ORDER MY NEW BOOK:Building Your Money Machine: How to Get Your Money to Work Harder For You Than You Did For It! The key to building the life you desire and deserve is to build your Money Machine—a powerful system designed to generate income that's no longer tied to your work or efforts. This step-by-step guide goes beyond the general idea of personal finance and wealth creation and reveals the holistic approach to transforming your relationship with money to allow you to enjoy financial freedom and peace of mind.Part money philosophy, part money mindset, part strategy, and part tactical action, these powerful frameworks will show you how to build your money machine.

Are you struggling to hit that first $100k milestone in your financial journey? It's not just a number; it's a crucial stepping stone to future wealth!In today's episode, I dive deep into why earning your first $100,000 is the hardest but most transformative part of building sustainable wealth. I share personal anecdotes, the setbacks I faced, and actionable strategies to overcome the common hurdles that might be holding you back. From understanding the psychological barriers to effectively managing your lifestyle creep, I cover all bases to help set you on the right path.Want to break through the financial noise and accelerate your journey to $100k? Tune in to the full episode now!IN TODAY'S EPISODE, I DISCUSS: - The significant psychological hurdles in early wealth-building stages- Practical tips to avoid lifestyle inflation and maintain financial discipline- The critical role of insurance and proper risk management in safeguarding your growing assetsRECOMMENDED EPISODES FOR YOU If you liked this episode, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning Process to Achieve Your GoalsHow to Get the Right CPA & Why It MattersDemystifying Your Credit Score & Does It MatterWhat to Do Today to Pay Less Tax and Keep More Money   RECOMMENDED VIDEOS FOR YOU If you liked this video, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning  Process to Achieve Your Goals: https://youtu.be/Ip7kLKXNj2Y How to Get the Right CPA & Why It Matters: https://youtu.be/zj26Wwqe0bk Demystifying Your Credit Score & Does It Matter: https://youtu.be/emgKYPy6Quw What to Do Today to Pay Less Tax and Keep More Money: https://youtu.be/tZHKIgr_TIM PRE-ORDER MY NEW BOOK:Building Your Money Machine: How to Get Your Money to Work Harder For You Than You Did For It! The key to building the life you desire and deserve is to build your Money Machine—a powerful system designed to generate income that's no longer tied to your work or efforts. This step-by-step guide goes beyond the general idea of personal finance and wealth creation and reveals the holistic approach to transforming your relationship with money to allow you to enjoy financial freedom and peace of mind.Part money philosophy, part money mindset, part strategy, and part tactical action, these powerful frameworks will show you how to build your money machine.

Looking to monetize beyond services? Let's unlock prosperity with products! Join entrepreneur Jacqueline Snyder as we explore creating physical products aligned with your strengths and customer needs. From workbooks to branded merchandise, discover how to boost your brand's income potential. Ready to dive into the world of products?IN TODAY'S EPISODE, I DISCUSS: -The critical steps to identifying what your clients truly need and how to enhance their experience-Differentiation strategies to find and own your niche-Jacqueline's personal journey from fashion mogul to product guruCONNECT WITH JACQUELINE SNYDER:Get to know more about Jacqueline Snyder: https://www.theproductboss.com/ RECOMMENDED EPISODES FOR YOU If you liked this episode, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning Process to Achieve Your GoalsHow to Get the Right CPA & Why It MattersDemystifying Your Credit Score & Does It MatterRECOMMENDED VIDEOS FOR YOU If you liked this video, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning  Process to Achieve Your Goals: https://youtu.be/Ip7kLKXNj2Y How to Get the Right CPA & Why It Matters: https://youtu.be/zj26Wwqe0bk Demystifying Your Credit Score & Does It Matter: https://youtu.be/emgKYPy6Quw PRE-ORDER MY NEW BOOK:Building Your Money Machine: How to Get Your Money to Work Harder For You Than You Did For It! The key to building the life you desire and deserve is to build your Money Machine—a powerful system designed to generate income that's no longer tied to your work or efforts. This step-by-step guide goes beyond the general idea of personal finance and wealth creation and reveals the holistic approach to transforming your relationship with money to allow you to enjoy financial freedom and peace of mind.TAKE THE FINANCIAL FREEDOM QUIZ:Take this free quiz to see where you are on the path to financial freedom and what your next steps are to move you to a new financial destiny at http://www.YourFinancialFreedomQuiz.com  OTHER RESOURCES:7-Day Money Plan Workshop: https://www.TheMoneyPlanWorkshop.comAffluent Entrepreneurs Private Facebook Group https://www.melabraham.com/group/CONNECT WITH ME:Website: MelAbraham.comYouTube: MelAbraham.com/tubeInstagram (@melabraham9): MelAbraham.com/igFacebook Group: MelAbraham.com/group/TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@melhabraham

When experiencing obstacles and challenges in life, we all ask, "Does this really matter?"—we often wonder if the investment we are making is yielding the results and outcomes we are looking for. Maybe you've asked, "Does marriage still matter? Is it still relevant in our culture today?” Join us NOW for the start of this four-part series as we learn to live intentionally and answer the question, Does It Matter?

Dive into the fundamental money habits that could be keeping you from achieving financial freedom in this eye-opening episode. From the importance of tracking your numbers to making investing a priority, Mel takes you through the habits that could be holding you back from the financial freedom you deserve. This episode empowers you with real, actionable steps to break these habits and replace them with wealth creation habits. Understanding the difference between savings and investing or the impact of taxation on wealth creation, Mel provides insightful guidance to help you take control of your financial future.IN TODAY'S EPISODE, I DISCUSS: The importance of tracking your financial numbersMaking investing a priority over spendingThe significance of a peace of mind fund for financial stabilityRECOMMENDED EPISODES FOR YOU If you liked this episode, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning Process to Achieve Your GoalsHow to Get the Right CPA & Why It MattersDemystifying Your Credit Score & Does It MatterWhat to Do Today to Pay Less Tax and Keep More Money    RECOMMENDED VIDEOS FOR YOU If you liked this video, you'll love these ones:My Money Planning  Process to Achieve Your Goals: https://youtu.be/Ip7kLKXNj2Y How to Get the Right CPA & Why It Matters: https://youtu.be/zj26Wwqe0bk Demystifying Your Credit Score & Does It Matter: https://youtu.be/emgKYPy6Quw TAKE THE FINANCIAL FREEDOM QUIZ:Take this free quiz to see where you are on the path to financial freedom and what your next steps are to move you to a new financial destiny at http://www.YourFinancialFreedomQuiz.com  OTHER RESOURCES:7-Day Money Plan Workshop: https://www.TheMoneyPlanWorkshop.comAffluent Entrepreneurs Private Facebook Group https://www.melabraham.com/group/CONNECT WITH ME:Website: MelAbraham.comYouTube: MelAbraham.com/tubeInstagram (@melabraham9): MelAbraham.com/igFacebook Group: MelAbraham.com/group/TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@melhabrahamGET MY BOOK:“The Entrepreneur's Solution The Modern Millionaire's Path to More Profit, Fans, & Freedom” – melabraham.com/book/Go to AskMelNow.com to let me know how I can serve you and your financial journey

Today on AirTalk, Los Angeles Unified School Board members are scheduled to vote on a policy that would limit charter school locations. Also on the show, AI-generated conspiracy theories flood TikTok; Toby Keith's impact on music and American politics; everything you need to know about coining the next viral phrase; and more. Future Of Charter Schools On LAUSD Campuses To Be Considered Today As Board Votes On Policy That Would Limit Locations (00:17) How AI Is Stoking Conspiracy Theories On TikTok (15:50) Love Series: Love At First Sight Sounds Great, But Is It Real? Does It Matter? (34:11) Ukrainian President Replaces Military Chief As The War Enters its Third Year (51:31) Looking Back At Toby Keith's Impact On Music & Affiliation With America's Culture War (1:08:46) Girl Math, Microcheating, Couch Friend. The Battle To Coin The Next Viral Term Is Brewing On TikTok (1:30:25)

Metaphysical - A view of, or how you relate to the unseen world.  Does It Matter?' Our perspective on what this means matters!! Most of us have not been introduced to this and yet we have.  Our ‘awareness' of ‘spiritual' things plays a major role in how we understand our surroundings in our day-to-day lives.  May this conversation stir up a hope-filled perspective that there is more going around us than we realise, and it isn't that scary! ENJOY!!   Watch Today's Episode on YouTube https://youtu.be/fP7Gby08JtI    Or listen to the audio podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/still-growing-in-grace    ***Love what you are hearing?  Donate today and help keep this going:   Growing In Grace Canada:  https://square.link/u/QcTAIu0c https://www.paypal.com/donate/?hosted_button_id=XHQ9UTBPTKDPW     FOR MORE TOPICS & CONTENT, TUNE IN HERE:   Michael Zenker's Youtube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/c/MichaelZenker Weekly Blog: https://mikezenker.blog/   Hope Fellowship, Your Community Church Website: www.hopefellowshipycc.com FACEBOOK  https://www.facebook.com/hopefellowshipycc   Still Growing In Grace YouTube Playlist:  https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLKfv-9uArQHIzcebDIyS8F3nj2MF_FV-H FACEBOOK page: https://www.facebook.com/growingingraceministriescanada   Web: Still Growing In Grace www.growingingrace.ca Spotify:   https://open.spotify.com/show/6AvFWO7epyVeIuNf5WHFRD   GUESTS Richard Murray: https://thegoodnessofgod.com/ Parking Lot Theology with Richard Murray: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLKfv-9uArQHKCXZQPsLeEVYe-bt4YN5lj Bill Thrasher: https://www.facebook.com/groups/444411502587439 Fred Young: https://eschurch.com/ Randy Elstrott: https://www.randyelstrott.com/

Question: How can I protect against oxalates? Short Answer: Getting 300-400 mg calcium between food and supplements at each meal will minimize oxalate absorption. Maintaining postprandial urine pH in the 6.4-6.8 range by getting 3-5 grams of potassium per day from food or from organic acid salts such as potassium citrate will prevent its crystallization in the kidney. Reducing dietary oxalate will prevent any possible damage in the gut. This is a clip from a live Q&A session open to CMJ Masterpass members. In addition to this episode, you can access two other free samples using this link: https://chrismasterjohnphd.substack.com/p/questions-on-blood-glucose-and-oxalate In that batch of free episodes you will also find the answer to this question:  Why Should Postprandial Glucose Be Kept Under 140 mg/dL? If you want to become a Masterpass member so you can participate in the next live Q&A, or so you can have access to the complete recording and transcript of each Q&A session, you can save 10% off the subscription price for as long as you remain a member by using this link to sign up: https://chrismasterjohnphd.substack.com/qanda Learn more about the Masterpass here: https://chrismasterjohnphd.substack.com/about This snippet is from the April 12, 2023 AMA. The full recording and transcript is reserved for Masterpass members. Here is a preview of what's included: What Causes Hypercholesterolemia and Does It Matter? How to Reverse Coronary Calcification? How to do a comprehensive nutritional screening How long after eating improperly cooked egg whites should I wait to take biotin? Is the extrusion process as harmful as some claim? How long can one fast before micronutrient deficiencies become an issue? Do B vitamins compete with each other for absorption? Why is thirst a symptom of diabetes? Do I agree with Peter Attia that ApoB should be driven as low as pharmacologically possible? During a fast, does the body break down muscle? How do you rest and refeed your brain? Why would someone have high RBC magnesium but low serum magnesium? GLA deficiency? Should we eat for our ethnicity? How convincing are polyphenol studies? Can coronary calcium be driven by oxalate? Citrulline for vasodilation How to reduce catabolism Rapid-fire run-through of orphaned questions from the submission contest, including a detailed look at Nadia's thyroid numbers Here's a link to the full AMA: https://chrismasterjohnphd.substack.com/p/recording-and-transcript-of-the-april Access the show notes, transcript, and comments here.    

Question: Why should postprandial blood glucose be kept under 140 milligrams per deciliter? Short Answer: When blood glucose rises above 140 mg/dL, this is the approximate point at which it spills into the polyol pathway at a greater-than-normal rate, which represents a suboptimal state of metabolism that is likely to hurt antioxidant status and compromise detoxification pathways as well as the recycling of vitamin K and folate. It must be kept in mind that a healthy person will adapt to glycemic loads they consume regularly. Thus, a one-time spike above 140 mg/dL should never be used to conclude anything whatsoever. Only repeated spikes above this level with repeated consumption of the same glycemic load over several days to several weeks should be used as a cause for concern. This is a clip from a live Q&A session open to CMJ Masterpass members. In addition to this episode, you can access two other free samples using this link: https://chrismasterjohnphd.substack.com/p/questions-on-blood-glucose-and-oxalate In that batch of free episodes you will also find the answer to this question: How can I protect against oxalates? If you want to become a Masterpass member so you can participate in the next live Q&A, or so you can have access to the complete recording and transcript of each Q&A session, you can save 10% off the subscription price for as long as you remain a member by using this link to sign up: https://chrismasterjohnphd.substack.com/qanda Learn more about the Masterpass here: https://chrismasterjohnphd.substack.com/about This snippet is from the April 12, 2023 AMA. The full recording and transcript is reserved for Masterpass members. Here is a preview of what's included: What Causes Hypercholesterolemia and Does It Matter? How to Reverse Coronary Calcification? How to do a comprehensive nutritional screening How long after eating improperly cooked egg whites should I wait to take biotin? Is the extrusion process as harmful as some claim? How long can one fast before micronutrient deficiencies become an issue? Do B vitamins compete with each other for absorption? Why is thirst a symptom of diabetes? Do I agree with Peter Attia that ApoB should be driven as low as pharmacologically possible? During a fast, does the body break down muscle? How do you rest and refeed your brain? Why would someone have high RBC magnesium but low serum magnesium? GLA deficiency? Should we eat for our ethnicity? How convincing are polyphenol studies? Can coronary calcium be driven by oxalate? Citrulline for vasodilation How to reduce catabolism Rapid-fire run-through of orphaned questions from the submission contest, including a detailed look at Nadia's thyroid numbers Here's a link to the full AMA: https://chrismasterjohnphd.substack.com/p/recording-and-transcript-of-the-april Access the show notes, transcript, and comments here.  

https://tatyanasussex.substack.com/p/beauty-q-and-a-with-clare-dimond?utm_source=substack&utm_medium=email#playFrom Tatyana: Dear Beautiful Friends,Are you ready for a mini-PhD in reality, freedom, and the awakened life—with some laughter thrown in? Meet my beloved teacher, guide, coach, friend, and playmate of the past three amazing years, Clare Dimond. I'm going to introduce her by going straight to the very last question I ask in my Beauty Q&As, because Clare's answer is so

The managers vs. workers leverage pendulum is swinging back again. Will management continue investing in IT Skills, or hollow out the IT future? SHOW: 705CLOUD NEWS OF THE WEEK - http://bit.ly/cloudcast-cnotwCHECK OUT OUR NEW PODCAST - "CLOUDCAST BASICS"SHOW SPONSORS:Make Cloud Native Ubiquitous with Cloud Native Computing Foundation (CNCF)Join the foundation of doers, CNCF is the open source, vendor-neutral hub of cloud native computing, hosting projects like Kubernetes and Prometheus to make cloud native universal and sustainableKubeConEU Virtual Event Registration Code: Please use the code KCEUVCCP, while supplies last.CloudZero – Cloud Cost Visibility and Savings​​CloudZero provides immediate and ongoing savings with 100% visibility into your total cloud spendDatadog Kubernetes Solution: Maximum Visibility into Container EnvironmentsStart monitoring the health and performance of your container environment with a free 14 day Datadog trial. Listeners of The Cloudcast will also receive a free Datadog T-shirt.SHOW NOTES:Gartner's Maverick Research group - Stop investing in IT SkillsStackOverflow's survey of Emerging TechnologiesAmazon's head of HR rejects employee petition to work from home“Does IT Matter?” (book, 2004, Nicholas Carr)Hollowing Out (definition)WHAT HAPPENS AFTER THE GREAT RESIGNATION AND QUIET QUITTING?Economic changes put the leverage back into management's handsEverything gets re-evaluated when budgets get tightenedManagers look to offload accountability to external sourcesHOW TO COMMUNICATE VALUE vs PRODUCTIVITY vs COST SAVINGSMany companies look at AI as a 1:1 replacement for tasks and people vs. looking at it to augment people. Companies outsourced IT in the late 1990s and early 2000s, hollowing out IT. Will that become a new trend in the 2020s again? Today's engineers see things like low-code as not being viable, but see AI as being a way to augment their work (not replace it). Do companies know how to determine what isn't differentiated vs. requiring creativity or can create differentiation? Workers have had quite a bit of freedom of movement for the last 10+ years. Will that continue into the next decade? How much does the remote-work trend impact this?Gartner expects 75% of needed IT roles will go unfulfilled by 2030 (up from 25% in 2023)Big companies (e.g. Amazon)  are pushing back on remote-work demands from workers.FEEDBACK?Email: show at the cloudcast dot netTwitter: @thecloudcastnet

Josh Neighbors shares his thoughts on the recent comments from Arizona State President Michael Crowe & Robert Robbins of Arizona came out in a series of interviews & shot down a potential move to the Big 12. He then talks about why Arizona State & Arizona are focusing on keeping the Pac-12 together. He shares thoughts on why that is the right move for those schools, for right now. He then discusses why these comments don't change much for them right now.Arizona State & Arizona's President's Shoot Down Potential Big 12 Move... Does It Matter?Follow & Subscribe on all Podcast platforms…

Josh Neighbors shares his thoughts on the recent comments from Arizona State President Michael Crowe & Robert Robbins of Arizona came out in a series of interviews & shot down a potential move to the Big 12. He then talks about why Arizona State & Arizona are focusing on keeping the Pac-12 together. He shares thoughts on why that is the right move for those schools, for right now. He then discusses why these comments don't change much for them right now. Arizona State & Arizona's President's Shoot Down Potential Big 12 Move... Does It Matter? Follow & Subscribe on all Podcast platforms…

In today's episode, we welcome back Jeanne Faulconer, writer for TheHomeSchoolMom.com blog, as she discusses the ins and outs of the homeschooling world, pre, and post-Covid. We discuss the biggest challenges homeschooling families face, from educator questions to prospective policy changes. We cover a wide range of topics with someone who's been involved with the homeschooling world for 20 years and works as a homeschool advocate and coach. The Homeschool Mom - https://www.thehomeschoolmom.com/ Support The Podcast If you like what you hear, consider supporting the podcast: https://homeschooltogether.gumroad.com/l/support Consider Leaving Us A Review If you have a quick moment please consider leaving a review on iTunes - https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/homeschool-together-podcast/id1526685583 Show Notes Gene Starwind (Outlaw Star) - https://outlawstar.fandom.com/wiki/GeneStarwind The Homeschool Mom - https://www.thehomeschoolmom.com/ Brave Writer - https://bravewriter.com/ Virtual Virginia - https://virtualvirginia.org/ NCES - https://nces.ed.gov/ School Choice - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schoolchoice Local and State Resources for State Requirements - https://www.thehomeschoolmom.com/local-support/ When Your Child Goes from Homeschooling to Public School - https://www.thehomeschoolmom.com/going-homeschooling-public-school/ Is Your Curriculum Accredited? Does It Matter? - https://www.thehomeschoolmom.com/is-your-curriculum-accredited-does-it-matter/ The Brave Learner - https://amzn.to/3XQJnHR Raising Critical Thinkers - https://amzn.to/3XSG8zG Homeschooling 101 - https://www.thehomeschoolmom.com/homeschooling-101/ Zero to Homeschool Series - https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLDKdLRM2hFFywVa75yGBUVEowTeTXXG5E College Without Highschool - https://amzn.to/3YPGh8o Online Schooling: Everything You Need to Know - https://www.thehomeschoolmom.com/online-schooling-everything-you-need-to-know/ Transferring Homeschool Credits to Public High School - https://www.thehomeschoolmom.com/transferring-homeschool-credits-to-public-high-school/ Ask Jeanne: Money for Homeschooling My Kids? - https://www.thehomeschoolmom.com/ask-jeanne-money-for-homeschooling-my-kids/ Education Hybrids: Is This Homeschooling? - https://www.thehomeschoolmom.com/homeschool-hybrids-are-education-hybrids-homeschooling/ Star Trek "Let That Be Your Last Battle" - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/LetThatBeYourLastBattlefield Star Trek "A Taste of Armageddon" - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ATasteofArmageddon Connect with us Website: http://www.homeschool-together.com/ Store: https://gumroad.com/homeschooltogether Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/c/homeschooltogether Facebook: www.facebook.com/groups/homeschooltogetherpodcast/ Instagram: www.instagram.com/homeschooltogetherpodcast Twitter: https://twitter.com/hs_together The Gameschool Co-Op: https://www.facebook.com/groups/gameschoolcoop/ Email: homeschooltogetherpodcast@gmail.com

Wha impact does less consumption of stimulation + less access to information have on their thinking? DOES IT MATTER?   Check out my YouTube account! Ya Boi Mr. Stevenson YouTube

When you hear someone say “UX/UI” do your eyes roll into the back of your head? When I hear people say this it tells me one thing: They don't understand the real value a UX Designer can bring to a team. The post 04. How Do You Define UX? Does It Matter? appeared first on Beyond UX Design.

When you hear someone say “UX/UI” do your eyes roll into the back of your head? When I hear people say this it tells me one thing: They don't understand the real value a UX Designer can bring to a team. The post 04. How Do You Define UX? Does It Matter? appeared first on Beyond UX Design.

"Why Are Americans Becoming More Isolated and Does It Matter?" New research shows that more and more people are retreating into their interior worlds. In others words, we are becoming less social people. We are interacting with other people less than prior generations. Is there a price we are paying for being less social? Does God care about how social we are? Josh and Betsy, your favorite amateur researchers, are back to break this down and tease out the implications for the church in 2022. Show Notes: "The Price We Pay for Being Less Social" (Article) "Text Your Friends. It Matters More Than You Think." (Article) Suggestions for future episodes? Email us at intersect@nepres.com Intersect Podcast is a ministry of Northeast Presbyterian Church. The views expressed on this podcast are those of Josh and Betsy Desch and are not intended to be presented as the official views of NEPC. Please see our Intersect Podcast landing page for further information. .fusion-body .fusion-builder-column-0{width:100% !important;margin-top : 0px;margin-bottom : 0px;}.fusion-builder-column-0 > .fusion-column-wrapper {padding-top : 0px !important;padding-right : 0px !important;margin-right : 1.92%;padding-bottom : 0px !important;padding-left : 0px !important;margin-left : 1.92%;}@media only screen and (max-width:1024px) {.fusion-body .fusion-builder-column-0{width:100% !important;}.fusion-builder-column-0 > .fusion-column-wrapper {margin-right : 1.92%;margin-left : 1.92%;}}@media only screen and (max-width:640px) {.fusion-body .fusion-builder-column-0{width:100% !important;}.fusion-builder-column-0 > .fusion-column-wrapper {margin-right : 1.92%;margin-left : 1.92%;}}.fusion-body .fusion-flex-container.fusion-builder-row-1{ padding-top : 0px;margin-top : 0px;padding-right : 0px;padding-bottom : 0px;margin-bottom : 0px;padding-left : 0px;}

How can we tell if one country is more innovative than another? What drives that difference? And hey, what is innovation to begin with? Soumitra Datta joins Vasant Dhar in episode 46 of Brave New World to share his insights on innovation, and the lessons they hold for us. Useful resources: 1. Soumitra Datta on Twitter, Wikipedia and Saïd Business School. 2.  Does IT Matter? -- Nicholas Carr. 3. Global Innovation Index 2020 -- Edited by Soumitra Datta, Bruno Lanvin and Sacha Wunsch-Vincent. 4. India Innovation Index 2021: NITI Aayog. 5. Nandan Nilekani on an Egalitarian Internet -- Episode 15 of Brave New World. 6. The Swedish Hitmaker Behind Britney Spears, Taylor Swift and the Weeknd -- Neil Shah in the Wall Street Journal. 7. 2022 Edelman Trust Barometer. 8. Why Nations Fail -- Daron Acemoglu and James Robinson. 9. The Narrow Corridor --  Daron Acemoglu and James Robinson. 10. James Robinson on What Makes a Successful State -- Episode 19 of Brave New World. 11. That Fancy University Course? It Might Actually Come From an Education Company -- Lisa Bannon and Rebecca Smith in the Wall Street Journal. 12. The Innovator's Dilemma — Clayton M Christensen. 13. Law and Education in Our Modern World -- Episode 5 of Brave New World (w John Sexton). 14. Too much efficiency not good for higher education, March argues -- Stanford University News Service. 15. Uplift the Unremarkables -- Episode 2 of Brave New World (w Scott Galloway). Check out Vasant Dhar's newsletter on Substack. Subscription is free!

Hour 4 - Gresh and Hart were joined by Mike Giardi, of the NFL Network, to discuss Bill Belichick's press conference and the status of QB Mac Jones.  The guys also played a game called "Does It Matter?".  To close out the show, it's You Got Somethin'?.  

Celebrities. They are ubiquitous in American culture and now, ever increasingly, in our politics. From Donald Trump to Dr. Oz, the memeification of Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg and President Volodymyr Zelensky of Ukraine — the power of celebrity has gripped our democracy and society. We want our elected officials to be superstars, but is that a good thing?So today, host Jane Coaston is joined by Jessica Bennett, contributing editor to Times Opinion and Frank Bruni, a contributing Opinion writer, to discuss our modern celebrity politics phenomenon and how it's shaping our cultural and political realities.“I'm distressed that we've conflated celebrity and politics because I think it gives politicians the wrong goals, the wrong motives,” Bruni says. And a lot of that is on us — the fans.“We place values on celebrities that may not actually represent them, and they become something outside of themselves,” Bennett says. “They start to represent something that has nothing to do with the person who's actually there.”Warning: This episode contains explicit language.Mentioned in this episode:“Dr. Does-It-All” by Frank Bruni in The New York Times Magazine“He's Sorry, She's Sorry, Everybody Is Sorry. Does It Matter?” by Jessica BennettSign up for Frank Bruni's newsletter for New York Times Opinion here.(A full transcript of the episode will be available midday on the Times website.)

Today on AirTalk, guest host Austin Cross marks 30 years since the LA Uprising by taking a look at food inequity in South LA. Also on the show, language evolution since the LA Uprising; FilmWeek; and more. Food Disparity in South LA Before And After The LA Uprising (0:00) Language And Media Coverage Has Evolved Since The LA Uprisings. Does It Matter? (17:34) Parents Don't Typically Apologize To Their Kids…Should They? (33:10) FilmWeek: ‘The Survivor,' ‘The Will To See,' ‘Flint: Who Can You Trust?' And More (51:26) Critic Reacts To Latest Film Featuring Bruce Willis Following Actor's Aphasia Diagnosis And Retirement Announcement (1:26:15) Are Theater Owners Feeling Optimistic About The Future? John Horn Reports From CinemaCon (1:31:02)

What Is This Episode?- Top of Show . THE 2022 OSCARS/THE SLAP REBOOT RECAP . THE SLAP HEARD ROUND THE WORLD: What Happened - 2:26 Rock/Jada History - 6:25 GET. WILL. GONE. - 9:25 Wins Best Actor - 12:09 Will The Academy Strip Will Smith? Does It Matter? - 15:13 The Slap Was 2nd Scariest - 17:58 The Host Angle - 20:00 Denzel Ascends to the Throne - 21:14 . THE OSCARS RED CARPET: Jessica Chastain Avoids The Wardrobe Curse - 25:26 (And AlsoMike is a PERFECT 20 for 20) Dune Dominates Pre-Show Awards - 29:36 . THE TELECAST: Great Start w/ Beyonce - 33:17 The Hosts Did Well…Right? - 35:25 Ariana DeBose Starts on a Strong Note - 39:14 The Preshow Conundrum Goes OK - 41:12 White Man Can't Dune, or Something - 42:51 Shaun White is the Next James Bond, What? - 46:43 Top 5…Whatevers - 50:02 Yuh Jung Yoon is The Best - 53:40 How Was Ukraine Handled? -58:01 We Don't Talk About That Performance - 1:01:14 Belfast's Moment - 1:03:29 Ratings Talk - 1:07:43 HOW AlsoMike Went 20 for 20 - 1:09:30 The Bomb Goes Off - 1:12:30 In Memorium - 1:15:12-1:28 Chastain's Moment - 1:19:42 CODA Too - 1:23:07 (and Netflix vs Apple) . . THANK YOU!!!/Where To Find Our Work/LEAVE US 5* REVIEWS! - 1:30:45 Words of Wisdom/What's Coming Next - 1:32:00