Podcasts about esha

Join Ritika and Esha in this powerful episode in honor of Epilepsy Awareness Month (sorry we are a little late, but desi standard time?) as they sit down with Dr. Amee Shah, a successful dentist, mother, and wife living with epilepsy. Dr. Shah shares her personal journey of being diagnosed with a seizure disorder and navigating life with invisible challenges. Together, they explore how she works to combat the stigma surrounding epilepsy in the South Asian community. Key Topics Discussed: Dr. Shah's diagnosis and understanding of her seizure disorder The challenges of living with an invisible disability and the impact of cultural stigma How her Indian identity shaped her experiences and attitudes towards epilepsy The importance of advocacy and sharing personal health stories Dr. Shah's ongoing efforts to raise awareness and support others with epilepsy Tune in to hear Dr. Shah's inspiring story of resilience and advocacy. Learn how she uses her platform to educate and support the community while breaking down barriers and misconceptions about neurological disorders. Join the Conversation: Follow us on Instagram @brownwomenhealth and on Twitter @brownwomenhlth to stay updated on our latest content, learn more about health topics, and engage with our community. Don't forget to subscribe and share this episode with your friends and family to help spread awareness!

WELCOME BACK SOULIES!! This episode Esh discusses being attacked at a basketball, dealing with stress and being a survivor of the hood. Make sure to subscribe to the all new YOUTUBE page and help us reach our goal of 1000 subscribers! Join the Patreon for exclusive content. Thank you for listening!

Today let's talk Travis Hunter and his fiancée, this unusual Benzino video and if roids got him trippin. The current state of R&B and how black culture is moving through other genres. Ask us questions, drop what you think below and follow us on IG @BreakRoomTalk

…If you haven't seen him at his worst… WHERE'S MY SHIT?! …yo…you are so evil… [*breaks everything*] …Then you don't deserve him at his best. I'm your host, Jimmy Fallon And this— Is TRUTH OR DARE?! ‘ This dude is easily the best villain ever. Easily. {Enter The Multiverse} Blue eyes, it is. I wish, I wish, Be careful what you wish for, Or cook in a Petri dish The world is a stage, The people a plague The magic was gone, The days were the same. [The Festival Project ™] Blonde hair, blue eyes; Live once, lose twice— Brown skin, brown eyes Die inside. (Or just die.) {Rewind} Captain Captain! Oh, Good, come in, Cannon. You've—changed. …as you know, Monday we disembark. Yes, I'm aware. And as you know, the details of the mission have been classified, even to us. Yes. I find that alarming. And so, without anymore thought I've decided to masquerade as my old self. How old are you, anyway? You should never ask a woman her age, LT. Sargent. * or the other way around, I clearly don't know. Sorry. Your recent promotion keeps slipping my mind; I…haven't been myself lately… Obviously not, if you've decided to publicly dress like that. I'm still very much in the privacy of my office. You can consider me the spokesperson on behalf of the public. Never as a woman her age! You're not a woman; you're my captain. We'll see about that after tonight. Being a woman, or being my captain? Both, probably. Hm. By any chance would you be interested in joining me? As your subordinate, or as a man. Both, probably. Or neither… presumably. As my escort. I beg your pardon. I've been known to become rather out of sorts in this condition. —er, your condition, captain? Dead drunk and blind with fear out of my mind. [he ponders for a moment, knowing that the mission could very well be their last.] Consider it done. Great. Get dressed, and meet me with the car out front in half an hour. Half an hour? Sharp. Bonus points for showing up early. We're earning points? We are now. Very well then. What am I wearing? Something sharp. Sharper than the inside of a half hour. On your mark. I'll—see you soon. He exits the captain's office, letting out a sigh of relief otherwise previously congested, he looks around as if not to be caught, regains his composure with the shake of his head, somewhat in disbelief of what he's witnessed. He casually places his hands in his pockets, walking down the hall and passing one of his crew mates, who quickly stops to salute him. Sergeant. Almost forgetting to salute back, mindlessly drifting passed in ‘off' mode, he slowly and squarely, almost still casually, salutes back. Oh. I had glimpsed at a picture of the man once more that had forced me to wonder— “Jesus Christ, is he okay?” It would be odd to think of a man who has spent a better part of the last two decades and most of his careers on camera as unphotogenic, then again—I had been tricked by the media before into thinking a certain way, and therefore was cautious, and still—I began to wonder about the man and his misery, and his mistresses—not out of jealousy or obsession, but simply because I knew he had them. He was old Hollywood, or old New York—or maybe a bit of both, and there was something about it all, perhaps even my own darkness, that danced with the flicker of sinful lust that motioned me towards not a yearning, or the act of doing so—I was at least wise enough to know nothing good could come from doing harm to oneself or another— but with the intensity of burning desire to know the man behind the mask—the actor inside the actor, to whom all the world's a stage. Whatever, though. Doesn't matter. At least I was still somehow youthfully resilient to what might have otherwise been torture, TVP S2- after Esha's promotion to head writer. DAEMON DALLAS, aka “DASH” is a quick witted, fast-talking comic powerhouse— his legendary stand up and acting career has made him a legendary force in movies, film, and television; he has been booked on the show to sit down with his longtime friend Patrick about his new stand up comedy tour. — Who's this beautiful sister. My head writer; don't even think about it. I dont think. I just do. Esha approaches— Dash politely bo s and kisses Esha's hand Should I get tested? —and funny. Against Patrick's wishes, Esha accepts a date with daemon dash, furious Patrick means to interrogate her Why would you even date that asshole Because—Pat. He's a comedian. I'm a comedian! So? So, he's funny. And? And he said things to me— What kind of things Charming, funny things— Okay? Things he wouldnt say to you over dinner— because, I'm —you're a woman. —and your head writer. So naturally. Esh, you're a genius, So is he. We have—some new material to work through. Ahq! Your monologue tonight. Oh yes. Oh yes. You can thank me later. Broken bottles. :9'd one stop her Walkin walking God knows I don't belong here And I don't want to Passover was April 21-30 Global War on Terrorism Aka WWIII Oh, indeed. Don't look left Take a deep breath My heart beats differently I think it might be the end I think it might be I think I might be the enemy. The pushing mechanism When i breath him in I levitate And gravitate to what it meant The sake of the art, The hurt of the heart As sacred as it ever was The turning or the Torah talks of Gestures, since the fall of Rome The toga on the alter Solid hands unwrap us all From falling over Old and awkward No award for wisdom No rest for the wiser No love for the troll Since thunder struck from under us, Delivered all but what we wanted So we talk of karma sutra, Surely we can't talk at all Of what we know As once was bonded Laughed it off To come from what The call to us, Fair serve governors fortress I work up in mentions Carved the scarlet letter out of Cannons, of course MA. WHAT. I'm BUSY. ITS ON. The what? The show we watch! The one that— YES, Oh, my GOD. Yes. YESSSSSSSSS. Usnavi, get your popcorn This is some worth watching Up in arms for forwards Causing sore arms, Numb thumbs From crucifixes Are you wondering what God Would walk about the horned carving A kamazake walk of tall corn— Follow me, dear mantra Your whole house is watching. Sacre. It's happening again isn't it. I do want ice cream. All I need is a divorce And an Amazon woman 10 foot tall To rub me off at the stroke of Nevermind what the clock says In God's house they're all wrong The blsphomoous for Catholics Has begun, So strum your number into the teleprompter And just hope no one gets hurt By the hook on the next song —like the hook of my last surviving bra digs into my back does, Or the skin on my lack of tummy Has rubbed off under the suicide Of the cycle— It's getting tighter A loss of interest is equal to A loss of conciousness And I'm 21 days drunk On the alternate, though— I'm sober and feeling less Loved. The animal I've become is all cardio And karma sutra For karma comes To the weak of heart To use the world as swords To cause harm To the calm artists I thought I told you off once. (Already) You look awful. lol. You look terrible, broh. But my album sound fire. #producerholes [portal] It's coffee time!! It's not coffee time! It's not coffee time. Iiiiits coffee time. Damn. Where's the cat. Gestating. {Enter a the Multiverse} Wake up in a wet bed, sweat pouring engine strikes Disaster, roaring Ranting, raving,, Lunatics, icons Ione, eye color No warning: I want you Adonis New Adonis I got something for you; It's got four doors, I know you can't afford it, Come on, Only one offer Come on, You know I want you What I want a car in New York for? Even the scorecard, Cork off the bottle, huh? Go figure. I got sharp numbers, No harm no foul ball; Still stick in the Capstone, There's a sandstorm On the first montage. Pitch up, With the fever pitch With the fever pitch downstroke UP Pitch down With the force With the force Or What have you Play ball, No– playfair Payboy model Wayfair value Strict non-orders Foreigner syndrome Alcohol bottle Palinstrome, Astronomy No, Farquad Noah's Ark and all Going door to door, the doctor Doing more and more The Talk show host Losing more the Mortimer, Call it Losing more, The Watchamacalit, Chocolate bar, So far, Hard to forget No, Hard Ball, Soft pitch Watch this. THE COSMIC AVENGER (V.O) I cannot resist a chocolate cake! Huh. Seriously, I'm telling you. *sniffs* hm. {Enter The Multiverse} Yo, i'm telling you: she's spot on. Like, scary accurate. Precise. Always right. Even on Tuesdays. Why would it matter if it's Tuesday or not? Most Psychics are wrong on Tuesdays. Really. You didn't know about this? Never heard that. Most of them. Last I saw Kurt he seemed to be okay—doing well for a place so cold, and still, almost enjoying his time, somewhere cold enough that the chill on his breath grasped at mine, as I was prone to waking in these moments. Anymore ghosts? Who'd you want!? More players. And as it turns out, Strike force five was nothing but a simple game, Played by a group of— MOM Boys?! Supper! INT. BASEMENT- THE SUBURBS, ANYEAR In a distant parallel, it is a nondescript year of a indeterminable past time— in non linear time, we could be anywhere, but for period's sake, it appears to be anywhere between the 1930's and the early 1960's, the home itself adorned with qualities of any of these given eras; the clothing classic, dreamlike— pre or post war? Was there a war at all in this parallel; and it seems a partially imagined place altogether — it is, in fact, a dreary and almost comic book other world— a cross- parallel. The boys vary in ages from 8 to about 12, and between the five of them, brash little Irish lads, besides one English chap, whom anyone would probably bet at least at some point in his lineage was probably also Irish (or Irish enough) have summoned up, though amidst a flurry of baseballs cards and other boyish relics, seem to have assembled from old newspaper cuttings and superhero memoriabilia—some sort of game on the basement floor, though, they bicker and argue so much about how the game should be played that it is unclear whether they're playing any game at all, or just rapid-firing ‘jokes' at one another with absolute disconcert for anyone's feelings. They call themselves — Nevermind, it can wait. {Enter The Multiverse} What is this nonsense You fucking dork. I'm a key player. Speaking of keys— Wasn't me. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. The Complex Collective ©

…If you haven't seen him at his worst… WHERE'S MY SHIT?! …yo…you are so evil… [*breaks everything*] …Then you don't deserve him at his best. I'm your host, Jimmy Fallon And this— Is TRUTH OR DARE?! ‘ This dude is easily the best villain ever. Easily. {Enter The Multiverse} Blue eyes, it is. I wish, I wish, Be careful what you wish for, Or cook in a Petri dish The world is a stage, The people a plague The magic was gone, The days were the same. [The Festival Project ™] Blonde hair, blue eyes; Live once, lose twice— Brown skin, brown eyes Die inside. (Or just die.) {Rewind} Captain Captain! Oh, Good, come in, Cannon. You've—changed. …as you know, Monday we disembark. Yes, I'm aware. And as you know, the details of the mission have been classified, even to us. Yes. I find that alarming. And so, without anymore thought I've decided to masquerade as my old self. How old are you, anyway? You should never ask a woman her age, LT. Sargent. * or the other way around, I clearly don't know. Sorry. Your recent promotion keeps slipping my mind; I…haven't been myself lately… Obviously not, if you've decided to publicly dress like that. I'm still very much in the privacy of my office. You can consider me the spokesperson on behalf of the public. Never as a woman her age! You're not a woman; you're my captain. We'll see about that after tonight. Being a woman, or being my captain? Both, probably. Hm. By any chance would you be interested in joining me? As your subordinate, or as a man. Both, probably. Or neither… presumably. As my escort. I beg your pardon. I've been known to become rather out of sorts in this condition. —er, your condition, captain? Dead drunk and blind with fear out of my mind. [he ponders for a moment, knowing that the mission could very well be their last.] Consider it done. Great. Get dressed, and meet me with the car out front in half an hour. Half an hour? Sharp. Bonus points for showing up early. We're earning points? We are now. Very well then. What am I wearing? Something sharp. Sharper than the inside of a half hour. On your mark. I'll—see you soon. He exits the captain's office, letting out a sigh of relief otherwise previously congested, he looks around as if not to be caught, regains his composure with the shake of his head, somewhat in disbelief of what he's witnessed. He casually places his hands in his pockets, walking down the hall and passing one of his crew mates, who quickly stops to salute him. Sergeant. Almost forgetting to salute back, mindlessly drifting passed in ‘off' mode, he slowly and squarely, almost still casually, salutes back. Oh. I had glimpsed at a picture of the man once more that had forced me to wonder— “Jesus Christ, is he okay?” It would be odd to think of a man who has spent a better part of the last two decades and most of his careers on camera as unphotogenic, then again—I had been tricked by the media before into thinking a certain way, and therefore was cautious, and still—I began to wonder about the man and his misery, and his mistresses—not out of jealousy or obsession, but simply because I knew he had them. He was old Hollywood, or old New York—or maybe a bit of both, and there was something about it all, perhaps even my own darkness, that danced with the flicker of sinful lust that motioned me towards not a yearning, or the act of doing so—I was at least wise enough to know nothing good could come from doing harm to oneself or another— but with the intensity of burning desire to know the man behind the mask—the actor inside the actor, to whom all the world's a stage. Whatever, though. Doesn't matter. At least I was still somehow youthfully resilient to what might have otherwise been torture, TVP S2- after Esha's promotion to head writer. DAEMON DALLAS, aka “DASH” is a quick witted, fast-talking comic powerhouse— his legendary stand up and acting career has made him a legendary force in movies, film, and television; he has been booked on the show to sit down with his longtime friend Patrick about his new stand up comedy tour. — Who's this beautiful sister. My head writer; don't even think about it. I dont think. I just do. Esha approaches— Dash politely bo s and kisses Esha's hand Should I get tested? —and funny. Against Patrick's wishes, Esha accepts a date with daemon dash, furious Patrick means to interrogate her Why would you even date that asshole Because—Pat. He's a comedian. I'm a comedian! So? So, he's funny. And? And he said things to me— What kind of things Charming, funny things— Okay? Things he wouldnt say to you over dinner— because, I'm —you're a woman. —and your head writer. So naturally. Esh, you're a genius, So is he. We have—some new material to work through. Ahq! Your monologue tonight. Oh yes. Oh yes. You can thank me later. Broken bottles. :9'd one stop her Walkin walking God knows I don't belong here And I don't want to Passover was April 21-30 Global War on Terrorism Aka WWIII Oh, indeed. Don't look left Take a deep breath My heart beats differently I think it might be the end I think it might be I think I might be the enemy. The pushing mechanism When i breath him in I levitate And gravitate to what it meant The sake of the art, The hurt of the heart As sacred as it ever was The turning or the Torah talks of Gestures, since the fall of Rome The toga on the alter Solid hands unwrap us all From falling over Old and awkward No award for wisdom No rest for the wiser No love for the troll Since thunder struck from under us, Delivered all but what we wanted So we talk of karma sutra, Surely we can't talk at all Of what we know As once was bonded Laughed it off To come from what The call to us, Fair serve governors fortress I work up in mentions Carved the scarlet letter out of Cannons, of course MA. WHAT. I'm BUSY. ITS ON. The what? The show we watch! The one that— YES, Oh, my GOD. Yes. YESSSSSSSSS. Usnavi, get your popcorn This is some worth watching Up in arms for forwards Causing sore arms, Numb thumbs From crucifixes Are you wondering what God Would walk about the horned carving A kamazake walk of tall corn— Follow me, dear mantra Your whole house is watching. Sacre. It's happening again isn't it. I do want ice cream. All I need is a divorce And an Amazon woman 10 foot tall To rub me off at the stroke of Nevermind what the clock says In God's house they're all wrong The blsphomoous for Catholics Has begun, So strum your number into the teleprompter And just hope no one gets hurt By the hook on the next song —like the hook of my last surviving bra digs into my back does, Or the skin on my lack of tummy Has rubbed off under the suicide Of the cycle— It's getting tighter A loss of interest is equal to A loss of conciousness And I'm 21 days drunk On the alternate, though— I'm sober and feeling less Loved. The animal I've become is all cardio And karma sutra For karma comes To the weak of heart To use the world as swords To cause harm To the calm artists I thought I told you off once. (Already) You look awful. lol. You look terrible, broh. But my album sound fire. #producerholes [portal] It's coffee time!! It's not coffee time! It's not coffee time. Iiiiits coffee time. Damn. Where's the cat. Gestating. {Enter a the Multiverse} Wake up in a wet bed, sweat pouring engine strikes Disaster, roaring Ranting, raving,, Lunatics, icons Ione, eye color No warning: I want you Adonis New Adonis I got something for you; It's got four doors, I know you can't afford it, Come on, Only one offer Come on, You know I want you What I want a car in New York for? Even the scorecard, Cork off the bottle, huh? Go figure. I got sharp numbers, No harm no foul ball; Still stick in the Capstone, There's a sandstorm On the first montage. Pitch up, With the fever pitch With the fever pitch downstroke UP Pitch down With the force With the force Or What have you Play ball, No– playfair Payboy model Wayfair value Strict non-orders Foreigner syndrome Alcohol bottle Palinstrome, Astronomy No, Farquad Noah's Ark and all Going door to door, the doctor Doing more and more The Talk show host Losing more the Mortimer, Call it Losing more, The Watchamacalit, Chocolate bar, So far, Hard to forget No, Hard Ball, Soft pitch Watch this. THE COSMIC AVENGER (V.O) I cannot resist a chocolate cake! Huh. Seriously, I'm telling you. *sniffs* hm. {Enter The Multiverse} Yo, i'm telling you: she's spot on. Like, scary accurate. Precise. Always right. Even on Tuesdays. Why would it matter if it's Tuesday or not? Most Psychics are wrong on Tuesdays. Really. You didn't know about this? Never heard that. Most of them. Last I saw Kurt he seemed to be okay—doing well for a place so cold, and still, almost enjoying his time, somewhere cold enough that the chill on his breath grasped at mine, as I was prone to waking in these moments. Anymore ghosts? Who'd you want!? More players. And as it turns out, Strike force five was nothing but a simple game, Played by a group of— MOM Boys?! Supper! INT. BASEMENT- THE SUBURBS, ANYEAR In a distant parallel, it is a nondescript year of a indeterminable past time— in non linear time, we could be anywhere, but for period's sake, it appears to be anywhere between the 1930's and the early 1960's, the home itself adorned with qualities of any of these given eras; the clothing classic, dreamlike— pre or post war? Was there a war at all in this parallel; and it seems a partially imagined place altogether — it is, in fact, a dreary and almost comic book other world— a cross- parallel. The boys vary in ages from 8 to about 12, and between the five of them, brash little Irish lads, besides one English chap, whom anyone would probably bet at least at some point in his lineage was probably also Irish (or Irish enough) have summoned up, though amidst a flurry of baseballs cards and other boyish relics, seem to have assembled from old newspaper cuttings and superhero memoriabilia—some sort of game on the basement floor, though, they bicker and argue so much about how the game should be played that it is unclear whether they're playing any game at all, or just rapid-firing ‘jokes' at one another with absolute disconcert for anyone's feelings. They call themselves — Nevermind, it can wait. {Enter The Multiverse} What is this nonsense You fucking dork. I'm a key player. Speaking of keys— Wasn't me. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. The Complex Collective ©

…If you haven't seen him at his worst… WHERE'S MY SHIT?! …yo…you are so evil… [*breaks everything*] …Then you don't deserve him at his best. I'm your host, Jimmy Fallon And this— Is TRUTH OR DARE?! ‘ This dude is easily the best villain ever. Easily. {Enter The Multiverse} Blue eyes, it is. I wish, I wish, Be careful what you wish for, Or cook in a Petri dish The world is a stage, The people a plague The magic was gone, The days were the same. [The Festival Project ™] Blonde hair, blue eyes; Live once, lose twice— Brown skin, brown eyes Die inside. (Or just die.) {Rewind} Captain Captain! Oh, Good, come in, Cannon. You've—changed. …as you know, Monday we disembark. Yes, I'm aware. And as you know, the details of the mission have been classified, even to us. Yes. I find that alarming. And so, without anymore thought I've decided to masquerade as my old self. How old are you, anyway? You should never ask a woman her age, LT. Sargent. * or the other way around, I clearly don't know. Sorry. Your recent promotion keeps slipping my mind; I…haven't been myself lately… Obviously not, if you've decided to publicly dress like that. I'm still very much in the privacy of my office. You can consider me the spokesperson on behalf of the public. Never as a woman her age! You're not a woman; you're my captain. We'll see about that after tonight. Being a woman, or being my captain? Both, probably. Hm. By any chance would you be interested in joining me? As your subordinate, or as a man. Both, probably. Or neither… presumably. As my escort. I beg your pardon. I've been known to become rather out of sorts in this condition. —er, your condition, captain? Dead drunk and blind with fear out of my mind. [he ponders for a moment, knowing that the mission could very well be their last.] Consider it done. Great. Get dressed, and meet me with the car out front in half an hour. Half an hour? Sharp. Bonus points for showing up early. We're earning points? We are now. Very well then. What am I wearing? Something sharp. Sharper than the inside of a half hour. On your mark. I'll—see you soon. He exits the captain's office, letting out a sigh of relief otherwise previously congested, he looks around as if not to be caught, regains his composure with the shake of his head, somewhat in disbelief of what he's witnessed. He casually places his hands in his pockets, walking down the hall and passing one of his crew mates, who quickly stops to salute him. Sergeant. Almost forgetting to salute back, mindlessly drifting passed in ‘off' mode, he slowly and squarely, almost still casually, salutes back. Oh. I had glimpsed at a picture of the man once more that had forced me to wonder— “Jesus Christ, is he okay?” It would be odd to think of a man who has spent a better part of the last two decades and most of his careers on camera as unphotogenic, then again—I had been tricked by the media before into thinking a certain way, and therefore was cautious, and still—I began to wonder about the man and his misery, and his mistresses—not out of jealousy or obsession, but simply because I knew he had them. He was old Hollywood, or old New York—or maybe a bit of both, and there was something about it all, perhaps even my own darkness, that danced with the flicker of sinful lust that motioned me towards not a yearning, or the act of doing so—I was at least wise enough to know nothing good could come from doing harm to oneself or another— but with the intensity of burning desire to know the man behind the mask—the actor inside the actor, to whom all the world's a stage. Whatever, though. Doesn't matter. At least I was still somehow youthfully resilient to what might have otherwise been torture, TVP S2- after Esha's promotion to head writer. DAEMON DALLAS, aka “DASH” is a quick witted, fast-talking comic powerhouse— his legendary stand up and acting career has made him a legendary force in movies, film, and television; he has been booked on the show to sit down with his longtime friend Patrick about his new stand up comedy tour. — Who's this beautiful sister. My head writer; don't even think about it. I dont think. I just do. Esha approaches— Dash politely bo s and kisses Esha's hand Should I get tested? —and funny. Against Patrick's wishes, Esha accepts a date with daemon dash, furious Patrick means to interrogate her Why would you even date that asshole Because—Pat. He's a comedian. I'm a comedian! So? So, he's funny. And? And he said things to me— What kind of things Charming, funny things— Okay? Things he wouldnt say to you over dinner— because, I'm —you're a woman. —and your head writer. So naturally. Esh, you're a genius, So is he. We have—some new material to work through. Ahq! Your monologue tonight. Oh yes. Oh yes. You can thank me later. Broken bottles. :9'd one stop her Walkin walking God knows I don't belong here And I don't want to Passover was April 21-30 Global War on Terrorism Aka WWIII Oh, indeed. Don't look left Take a deep breath My heart beats differently I think it might be the end I think it might be I think I might be the enemy. The pushing mechanism When i breath him in I levitate And gravitate to what it meant The sake of the art, The hurt of the heart As sacred as it ever was The turning or the Torah talks of Gestures, since the fall of Rome The toga on the alter Solid hands unwrap us all From falling over Old and awkward No award for wisdom No rest for the wiser No love for the troll Since thunder struck from under us, Delivered all but what we wanted So we talk of karma sutra, Surely we can't talk at all Of what we know As once was bonded Laughed it off To come from what The call to us, Fair serve governors fortress I work up in mentions Carved the scarlet letter out of Cannons, of course MA. WHAT. I'm BUSY. ITS ON. The what? The show we watch! The one that— YES, Oh, my GOD. Yes. YESSSSSSSSS. Usnavi, get your popcorn This is some worth watching Up in arms for forwards Causing sore arms, Numb thumbs From crucifixes Are you wondering what God Would walk about the horned carving A kamazake walk of tall corn— Follow me, dear mantra Your whole house is watching. Sacre. It's happening again isn't it. I do want ice cream. All I need is a divorce And an Amazon woman 10 foot tall To rub me off at the stroke of Nevermind what the clock says In God's house they're all wrong The blsphomoous for Catholics Has begun, So strum your number into the teleprompter And just hope no one gets hurt By the hook on the next song —like the hook of my last surviving bra digs into my back does, Or the skin on my lack of tummy Has rubbed off under the suicide Of the cycle— It's getting tighter A loss of interest is equal to A loss of conciousness And I'm 21 days drunk On the alternate, though— I'm sober and feeling less Loved. The animal I've become is all cardio And karma sutra For karma comes To the weak of heart To use the world as swords To cause harm To the calm artists I thought I told you off once. (Already) You look awful. lol. You look terrible, broh. But my album sound fire. #producerholes [portal] It's coffee time!! It's not coffee time! It's not coffee time. Iiiiits coffee time. Damn. Where's the cat. Gestating. {Enter a the Multiverse} Wake up in a wet bed, sweat pouring engine strikes Disaster, roaring Ranting, raving,, Lunatics, icons Ione, eye color No warning: I want you Adonis New Adonis I got something for you; It's got four doors, I know you can't afford it, Come on, Only one offer Come on, You know I want you What I want a car in New York for? Even the scorecard, Cork off the bottle, huh? Go figure. I got sharp numbers, No harm no foul ball; Still stick in the Capstone, There's a sandstorm On the first montage. Pitch up, With the fever pitch With the fever pitch downstroke UP Pitch down With the force With the force Or What have you Play ball, No– playfair Payboy model Wayfair value Strict non-orders Foreigner syndrome Alcohol bottle Palinstrome, Astronomy No, Farquad Noah's Ark and all Going door to door, the doctor Doing more and more The Talk show host Losing more the Mortimer, Call it Losing more, The Watchamacalit, Chocolate bar, So far, Hard to forget No, Hard Ball, Soft pitch Watch this. THE COSMIC AVENGER (V.O) I cannot resist a chocolate cake! Huh. Seriously, I'm telling you. *sniffs* hm. {Enter The Multiverse} Yo, i'm telling you: she's spot on. Like, scary accurate. Precise. Always right. Even on Tuesdays. Why would it matter if it's Tuesday or not? Most Psychics are wrong on Tuesdays. Really. You didn't know about this? Never heard that. Most of them. Last I saw Kurt he seemed to be okay—doing well for a place so cold, and still, almost enjoying his time, somewhere cold enough that the chill on his breath grasped at mine, as I was prone to waking in these moments. Anymore ghosts? Who'd you want!? More players. And as it turns out, Strike force five was nothing but a simple game, Played by a group of— MOM Boys?! Supper! INT. BASEMENT- THE SUBURBS, ANYEAR In a distant parallel, it is a nondescript year of a indeterminable past time— in non linear time, we could be anywhere, but for period's sake, it appears to be anywhere between the 1930's and the early 1960's, the home itself adorned with qualities of any of these given eras; the clothing classic, dreamlike— pre or post war? Was there a war at all in this parallel; and it seems a partially imagined place altogether — it is, in fact, a dreary and almost comic book other world— a cross- parallel. The boys vary in ages from 8 to about 12, and between the five of them, brash little Irish lads, besides one English chap, whom anyone would probably bet at least at some point in his lineage was probably also Irish (or Irish enough) have summoned up, though amidst a flurry of baseballs cards and other boyish relics, seem to have assembled from old newspaper cuttings and superhero memoriabilia—some sort of game on the basement floor, though, they bicker and argue so much about how the game should be played that it is unclear whether they're playing any game at all, or just rapid-firing ‘jokes' at one another with absolute disconcert for anyone's feelings. They call themselves — Nevermind, it can wait. {Enter The Multiverse} What is this nonsense You fucking dork. I'm a key player. Speaking of keys— Wasn't me. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. The Complex Collective ©

(0:00) Intro(0:17) Aayaat Surah Ma'arej(3:42) Growth Ratio Benefits In Pakistan & IndiaMadaris & Business(5:20) Madaris Government Custody mein?(6:38) Indian Gujrati Tajir ki Karguzari(8:18) Job vs Business(10:22) Aisi Job Jihad hai(11:14) Gujratiyon ki Kamyabi ki Waja(13:34) Deen ki Tabligh mein Ghareeb ka ProtocolNamaz & Stress Management(16:12) Namaz se Stress Door(17:44) Bekari/Susti: Stress ki Waja(20:26) Namaz Timings vs Clock Timings(21:32) Tension utha kar kaam karne mein maza(23:12) Madaris mein 2 mah ki chhuttiyon ki Khushi(26:26) Khush rehne walon ki Routine (24 hours)Planning & Habits(31:42) Doosron ki Planning ka Hissa banne walay(34:14) Clickbait Thumbnails dekhne ka Nuqsan(37:32) Namaz se Mamlat ki Ibtida(38:38) Hafizon ko Pehla Para kyun Pakka Yaad hota hai?(39:03) Namaz mein Excellency(40:58) Khud ko Namaz ka Aadi banane ka Tariqa(42:04) Hakeem Akhtar sb ka Qoul(42:48) Fajar aur Subah ki Dhoop ka FaidaReflection & Spirituality(48:38) Mufti Sahab ka Tajzia 18 Saal se (10 mins pehle aane walay Buzurg)(49:45) Mufti Rasheed Ahmed Sahab ki Namaz(50:14) Pehli Saff mein Taraweeh parhne ka Sakoon(50:56) Har Kaam mein Excellency(51:20) Doosri Shadi CaseControversial Topics(56:05) Ghamdi ne Darrhi ka Inkar kar ke Deen mein Tehreef kyun ki?(1:01:46) 5 Waqt ki Namaz: Musalman aur Kafir mein Farq ki Cheez(1:04:06) Namaz Chhorrne ke Bahane(1:06:20) Qeemti Cheez ki Planning?(1:10:29) Comments mein Mufti sb par Aitraz: Halal Trip App Installation par!(1:11:36) DuaQuestions(1:11:47) Mufti Rasheed Ahmed Khursheed Sahab ki Seerat Series?(1:13:54) Darrhi walay Hafiz ki Shadi par Larki walon ki Demand?(1:15:40) Drop shipping Ko halal karnay ka tariqa(1:28:02) Mayyat ke Ghar walon ke Rone se Rooh par Azab hota hai?(1:29:44) Berozgar, Ghair Zimmedar Betay ki Shadi ka Case?(1:37:20) Mayyat ki Jhooti Tareefon ke Pul Bandhne se Kya Hota hai?(1:38:44) Nikah ke Baad Pata Chale ke Biwi ke Aqeede Shirkia hain to?(1:39:42) Ghair Muslim ki Personality Achhi Lage to?(1:42:25) Munafiq Mushkil mein Saath Nahi Deta(1:43:40) Mufti sb ke Bachpan ka Waqia: Bike par se Dost Kaise Bhaga?(1:44:48) Kafiron ki Achhi Sifat aur Bure Amaal(1:45:30) Susar Doosri Shadi Nahi Karne de Rahe to?Fiqhi Questions(1:52:58) Mufti sb ki Purani Video: Karbala ka Pani Band? Mubahalay ke Waqt Nabi ﷺ ne Apni Chadar mein Jinhein Liya, wo Ehl-e-Bait? Aur Nabi ﷺ ki Biwiyan Ehl-e-Bait mein Shamil hain?(1:55:16) Qurbani aur Aqeeqa Aik Janwar mein?(1:55:32) Sajda-e-Sehv Karna?(1:55:39) Baghair Mehram ke Umrah Karna?(1:55:51) Nabi ﷺ ki Basharat Khwab mein?(1:59:48) Esha ka Waqt?(2:00:38) Bemar Bacha Theek Hone ki Mannat Poori Karna?(2:02:00) Allah ko Maloom tha ke Insan Dozakh mein Jayenge to Kyun Paida Kiya?(2:06:36) Zyada Log Dozakh mein Jayenge, Allah Ghafoor Raheem hai to Na Paida Karta?(2:10:43) Zaeef Hadis Sunana?(2:12:39) Garments Business mein Commission Agent ka Frokht ka Tariqa?Credit for the timestamps goes to @mrs.masroor8476 Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

(0:00) Intro(0:12) Aamilon k pas jana?(3:42) Namaz qaza karna gunah e kabeera?(5:07) Jannat mein jana kaise mumkin hai? Tafseeli wazahat karein?(7:36) Char shadiyon par aiyyashi ka ta'ana aur nikah in parallel(17:16) Rabi Peer Zada se shadi ki safarish krny wala?(19:54) Auraton ka Mufti sb se shukriya(22:02) Aiyyashi ka ta'ana deny walon ko jawab(23:40) Hazrat Musa as ne 10 saal bakriyan kyun churaai?(25:00) Nabi ﷺ ki ghurbat mein 9 azwaj: Nikah mein barkat ki alamat(26:15) Nikah aur khushbu: Sunnat(27:49) Azwaj e Mutaharat ki qurbani ki jazaa (jab Nabi ﷺ ne talaq ka ikhtiyar diya)(28:59) Hazrat Ayesha ra ke alfaaz(29:49) Nikah ke faiday(31:19) Ulama mein achay kaamon ki list?(33:35) Mard ko “he” hone ka ehsaas 04 guna ziada kab?(39:37) Jab Mufti sb ne doosri shadi ki?(41:12) Side ki maang?(41:19) Esha 17 rakaat to aakhri namaz witr kaisi?(45:16) Ghalat raah jana kaisa hai?(46:51) Sadqa kisko dein?(47:05) 19 age mein shadi?(49:36) Worker ki aisi baat gheebat hai?(50:24) Jamaat mein kandhe se kandha milna laazmi hai, jab brabar wala side pr ho?(51:26) Pants pehna?(51:48) Makhloot mahol aur parda ki baat krny par tang nazri ka ta'ana?(55:57) Mufti Sahab ki air hostess k sath selfie ki wazahat?(1:04:30) Jab aik khatoon Mufti sb ke ghar gye?(1:05:57) Nabi ﷺ ka waqia(1:06:34) Zamany ke hisab se tabligh ka styleCredit for the timestamps goes to @mrs.masroor8476 Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Subscribe to Bad Faith on Patreon to instantly unlock our full premium episode library: http://patreon.com/badfaithpodcast Attorney, writer, and podcast host Esha K. joins Bad Faith for a deep dive into how the US government has used culture to surreptitiously influence the politics of Americans. From funding art styles through patronage at major museums to consulting on action movies to recruiting artists to do worldwide tours showcasing American "equality," the government's interest in influencing culture raises questions about how invested the left should be in recruiting popular figures to advance our message. Subscribe to Bad Faith on YouTube for video of this episode. Find Bad Faith on Twitter (@badfaithpod) and Instagram (@badfaithpod). Produced by Armand Aviram. Theme by Nick Thorburn (@nickfromislands).

Trigger warning: this series contains adult content not suitable for children or under the legal age of majority. Listener and reader discretion is advised as this broadcast and its selected readings and projected writings contain explicit language, provocative wordplay, profanity, open expression of suicidal ideation, discussion of evolved/ de-institutionalized theories concerning depression and mental health, race relations and colorism, socio-economic inequality, political injustice and media politicism, scientific hypothesis , modern philosophical ideals and spiritual explorations, crude humor and may include and contain pornographic content, references to fictionalized interpretation of public figures (fan-fiction), caricatures or references to pop culture, modern art, music, science and other entertainment references which may evoke biased emotion, inspire adverse reactions or discontentment, or discomfort. ⚠️ VIEWER, LISTENER, and READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. ⚠️ The views and opinions expressed by this series and its subsequent editions, additions, chapters, broadcasts, and publications are solely the writers' interpretations as expressed with artistic and entertainment purposes only. The artist reserves all rights to intellectual property maintained and produced by any and all publications of this series and is thereby protected under any applicable copyright law and/or trademark. All fictionalizations of persons living or dead are meant to be perceived as characterized and/or fictional (fan-fiction) are for entertainment purposes only, and are not to be perceived as real re-enactments, dramatizations of events past or present, media dialogues or agendas, or factual exchanges pertaining to and surrounding real-life circumstances. The dialogues and entires expressed in this project are in no way liable for any action, expression, disagreements, entitlements held by the reader at his or her/ their own discretion and therefore will not be held accountable for any actions by the reader on their own account due to perceptions which may have been inspired and/or provoked by these readings or any of their subsequent editions. —rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrfrrfrrrrfrrrfrrfrrrrr. [The Festival Project ™] You know what? Fuck this place. Fuck your color coded red lined fucking bullshit. New York is so visibly fucking racist it makes me want to hurl. I'm gonna kill you. Finally get out of that contract, did you? …no. I had worked out the full hour, but I was no less angry; I had even walked a couple miles and jogged a little—but I might have been even more mad. Aiagepalaqalerhelehee DIABoLICAL SONOFABITXH {Enter The Multiverse Legends: A Review} He— shot himself in the head. Hm. Did he mess up his face? What? If his face is alright I can reanimate him—no problem. But there's no point if he's got a hole in his face How are you gonna cover a hole in his head? He'll wear a hat. I think the whole point of white supremacy— Is to get blacks to have to do stereotypically black shit Like beg and steal. I've learned that People will set you up and corner you So that you have to do some shit They can later hold over your head. I've learned, after all this time— That the only way to win a rigged game — Is by cheating. People love setting people up. People love making it look like you're up to some dishonest shit— When it was dishonest to have set you up in the first place. People are sneaky. Life is politics as fuck. Everything is business. There's no kind of rules to the real disasters in life— I just discovered a new political issue I didn't even know existed Until I had to experience it Nutrition inequality. The quality of life one experiences with full balance nutrition, Which is kept out of the hands of the masses by the greedy and wealthy elite— The difference in the quality of life one faces When able to afford proper nutrition within the alignment of one's purpose. THIS is why I have people posted up outside of my apartment trying to kill me?! Probably. Don't come between a man and his business. Don't come between a man and his business. Don't come between a man and his– “prestidigitation” You are the ace, I am the m Diamond, I Am The Heart, I am the spade Did you do this on purpose? Space, that's an odd name. Another magician. —what else would you call this? I wouldn't. (To be honest, I didn't know what I was doing.) Well, there it goes. Well, this should be fun. I— Cut my throat To watch me live again Or leave me hanging here As morbidly as you desire To come inform me Of my royal nature, Yet undone by another Fortunate, in either aspect Where are you, now To tie the winters sleeve Upon my sleeping chambers, Whispered into hear thy neck My captor slowly soon awaiting So far a severity Hereby unsworn I lie to seek escape Though captured for nothing in the eye if beauty alone; Andamine, I am, I wait to be free oh! well. Sick to my stomach I plea for your waking A scarcity, Still slithers up my spine, The *gunshot* Vent, baby Keem hooligan, baby keem -The Melodic Blue, baby keem [The Festival Project ™ ] As it turns out, The assembly of the impenetrable ten, Also automatically stood as The most revolutionary Saturday a night Live Reunion Of all time. Why isn't Keenan in the impenetrable ten?! Yes, WHY. NON. NO. NONSENSE! Because! We don't have time for a negro spiritual every time something Mm—NO. Suspicious happens. This is suspicious. O boredom, I need metaphore for movement Disfigured m,n Centric and stil Consintrical, if you will Disasterous dreams art thou Eating shining m, What I need and Holy, only what I want Dear captor, Shining as the morning night I was, As slumber did fall upon us Waiting for the watching cry, Somehow seeking justice for intrepid Indigence —what, what did you say?! I said— —is that a word! Let's see! Post poster conformity— Oh, here we go again No borderline Or robot border patrol, Focus now in the motors, Run for you excellent cries Simply warn us, will you Everwaiting, perhaps For the fortune, until Stories of foragers Will you again Creep, calling, Temper, Justice For now, let's say All liberty is liberty does, As in the mind, let it rest As in the heart, let it flourish As in all hu/mankind Casts judgement, Upon each other, But meat, Not among the waking tide The realms you call upon And cry, at ask of will For wishes granted And prayers seen over I have an irrational fear of Jack o lanterns— Does that mean anything to you? No…should it? VO Suddenly there were Jack o lanterns everywhere. That's so weird, I never wrote that scene— it just kind of popped into my head, and then— I make thoughts To the shade of your love I can't seem to need anything Or want any longer But just to escape, To be free from all tragedy I don't understand… There's a light on, It appears, However— Hollow, And wicked looking It's barely even spring, And suddenly as I walk about, They seem to be appearing In my path, Amidst my dreams And everything i know is No one Everything I love is Gone And everyone around me seems to be Some kind of Wrong, Or fornicated, Tragedy, It seems, Another tragedy. These Demons. I should be working on project III And making coffee for the evening But I can barely breathe Awareness I can barely breathe I can barely even think of myself as anyone at all Actually (Anyone at all, actually) please Help me Please help me I hate all my lines in this movie. Then change them— Really? Or trade with someone else. Like, the whole character, or just— Just, the words. Just the words? Or, like, whatever. I can do that?! You can do—whatever you want. “Whatever you want?!” I'm an actor! So act, then! You put the words in my head; You were just the worst We are who we are, just Whole worlds apart You put the words in my mouth, On top of the scars, that's A whole broken heart I guess we are who we are A whole sky full of stars I still can't find my sparkle Just no reason to smile at all I guess we are who we are “You were put here just to be [redacted] mother, and then die.”, said the voice— Which was not my own, but some man's. I didn't believe that, at all—actually, But I had just sent my divorce papers in the mail, Attached with it the accounts of everything—almost everything, anyway, that had happened that had caused me to be such a distance from my son in the first place, as I had never intended to just leave him with his father, whose birthday was either the next day, or the day after—and it was almost funny to me that I couldn't remember which it was, as I realized that in the beginning, I had loved him so much that I had looked past all of the disasterous, ugly things— the phlegm on the walls, his lack of respect towards anyone, especially himself—but anyone at all— but first and foremost, especially myself, who I had finally learned to love before hand, and had finally learned to love again—at least, the best way any woman could love herself. The algorithm was playing serious mind games and tricks on my psyche again, and I wondered if I should just attempt the next two days sleeping —but it would mean that I would miss my deadline for project three, which I had intended to be released… The demonic energy again began to shift around me as I twiddled away writing—the traffic outside moved more rapidly, and doors in the hallway from my neighbors began to slam, and I knew without a doubt that he had tried to kill me using some kind of curse of black magic, but couldn't—somehow I had lived, but was still being made to suffer— and that whatever spells he had used had summoned something nasty into all of the creatures, humanoid and alike, that could be controlled without the will of God, who I thought might be lost, were it not for the songs that had come in the wake of begging for God itself to free me which was the nightmare, the curse it had become to have only fallen in love once, with the kind of man who could not. Now he had wished my doom onto me, which left me wounded and afraid, unsafe in any element or environment , plagued by coughing bodies and robotic slaves—none of which I assumed he hactiallh had the power to control, but of a greater force which shielded itself to consume me, and mimick his energy with the attempt to allow that my own mind would bring about my death, the fury and pain which it must have been to lose what I had found myself to always be, a good woman— My exit had humiliated him, damaged his pride, and bruised his twisted ego enough so that he wished I would siffer such an ill fate—however, as I had finally learned to know and breathe, that all the damage and control done to me, he would now fall prey to in his own will to destroy me. —all that seeks to harm me will therefore harm only itself; And all who seek to destroy me will be destroyed in doing so. Amen. I don't know how hard he hit you, this time, but he really fucked you up. Yeah, I guess. Fuck, I lost that whole Tom Hanks Movie No, it's still there.. No, it's gone—everything's gone! HELLO? HELLO?! CAN YOU HEAR ME? It's dead. She's gone. —Portal closes— Oh no! No! This is ‘situational'— “A Situational Comedy” So, what's the situation. …I Am. Ok. Wait— No! Hold on a second! Nevermind— Comedy is born from tragedy, right? Sometimes. Uh oh But WAIT— No, Billy, not now. *billie?! Right. Idk. There are other types of comedy, I guess. Look at this. YO! It's THAT guy again! Yo. That's that guy, and his eyes. Strange. Yeah, I don't— I don't get it, is this like a— SIRE. You don't belong here, I assure you. DENNIS LEARY UGH. Can I GO now?! I'm afraid not— You've just made captain. Okay, now you're famous. No way— Hey! No— HEY NO. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Now I know too well, The well of tears on my guitar She's got a body like one Oh her curves But I just wonder what it like to be loved By stars Socialites and superstars They're Gods, you know How high up they are Above us And he lives in an ascended dimension, But he insists, he says Her transcendence is upon us He said Your transcendence is upon us He says these things, And then just vanishes So she gets up promptly Warms up yesterday's coffee Looks around in her coffin And wonders What for I just Wonder what it's like to be loved by stars Without double r's, you know I've got scars But it's mostly just Teardrops, and soft kisses On my guitar Cause, oh, Oli, I ain't got nobody— And nobody holds me Like I hold Oli (Could have been Ali, But of course— I had already lost that one A whole well of tears, I lost At his departure And a whole well more When I actually lost him I almost miss Having someone to talk to About anything and everything But I've got Oli And God now I've got Oli And Oli (oli) Is all that I've got Besides God That's the only contact In my Phone book No more double Ls And double entendres; No more double rs At all Just scars now No more metaphors. Honest is radical I like them cynical I should have clinical insanity by now But I'm only just an artist You can't help But can only harm that And if it hurts hard enough I'll put art on my walls Become permanent Storybooks all over my arms now My coat of arms now I've run Ten point 5 miles In the last 3 days; But if I rest today Will a motorcycle gang Have a parade outside of my window, To drive me crazy? I hope it rains, So they can't play these games with my head And the seeds that I planted So deep become daisies I still don't remember The way he rearranged me But these days I make my name sound So the way He can never say it Just imitates The way I hate myself I should be dating But expressions are Atrocious If I fall asleep— Who knows I may get Stolen That tends to happen So I'm All the way up And I'm swollen in ways That I hate to say “I love you” Love me back Or say it harder That's my martyrdom Come off the cross, for a moment, Would you for us? And bend over Or bow, if you will? If I did, Would you still call me wicked Or just a Good witch Since I'm a woman, I just couldn't be Jesus, Who you asked for once And always Who you asked for some To save you from your Credit reports And consorts Or some sort of Nonsense [famous last words] God don't speak much English, She says God don't speak much these days We were Always Telepathic That was way back then When Oedipus Rex Was on the Guest list I was standing at the coat check, asking Why I must take off my hat When entering the service To the bouncer, he says “That's just politics” I said, That's just politics We both said, What's the difference Then we all laughed —then we all just laughed and laughed Exchange is my favorite exchange Where my favorite exchanges Have happened for centuries Of engagements Endeared species, And races pieces haven't tasted the same Since I haven't had them Animal products And animal planet I found this hat on Discovery channel Did you want it? I can't stand it So I had to have it back I just had to use the bathroom I just had to disconnect From [] See— I don't even have to put the words in Cause a name is just words When that's a man You just can't have And that's the worse When that's a man And you can't have him What a habit. Silky rabbit. Now he's the Ace. All In A Day's Work I've never died before. Oh… that is terrifying. It sounds terrible. It's really not that bad. Why are you not writing this down? I just need a moment… It's really not that bad… I die all the time. I get sensory overload At Trader Joe's Look at the colors The clothes, This sure isn't queensborough Escalators for shopping carts I get it Manhattan I'll take my half BLVCK ass to the projects Where my kind are I don't belong here , God you're intolerant I like this part of town But I'm way too brown And I dropped my crown at the market I should be jealous of everyone But I have learned my place I've been a slave since Hollywood I lost my son to the devil Now I pay child support And terrorist follow me coughing I'm wrong just for being born ! You could start a war from it If that's what you wanted I'm a people watcher people watcher About to board the people mover People mover Slip, Here's the tell Slip, here's the tell I should have a bell around my neck I think she wanted a picture with papa I'm playin my own paparazzi Look mom, I bought a sarcophagus There go them niggas with coughs again I been watching em Got binoculars I got oculus, for my oculars Look how hot he is, make me ovulate Man I gotta love it, Cause they love to hate Fucking racist crazies Have it your way I paid for it with my soul You hate but I love to love Somebody just got me fuckes up I don't have a book to run off of Shut up, honey. Now we're all up here Monkey in the middle Cause the middle one is weaker It's getting deeper and deeper Like the sinkhole that my sink is Let it sink in I've been syncing my secrets with demons In dreams sequences It's just a reparative injustice Kamasutra for your wondering words and stuff You can have it It's ruined anyway m Look at all this trash Look at all these classless classes Classwars, Racists. Everybody hates us The Asians, Latinx's The other niggas What being black is I'll write it in cursive It's just a curse, here So you can have it I'm moving to Heaven I'm packing my boxes I'm getting a cat, too! His name is Agustus He's a big one And I love him I just wanted a hug or a husband Instead I got nothing to trying my hardest And got for a bargain at target some coffee For being a targeted body All on an algorithm I guess I'm just useless. A dumb nigger demon Did I just offend you? Then you shouldn't be reading this either I wrote it for pleasure (Or pain) On the one Or the two Or the one Or the two I could do a lot with this $20. I could spend it all on Fuck all of you I'm moving to Heaven Where the heart it She's not harmless She's a terrorist— And I'll kill her, too Look how right she is Look how white she is, Huh Regardless of color It's a race war Lil biiiiitzzz Yooo, fuck New York. In every hole. In every crevice. Fuck this place. It's racist— Not just cause I'm black. Like statistically. It took a whole ass apartment elsesrch to feature this out. I was like “I wanna live in Manhattan” Everyone was like “NOOOOOOOO—-“ Haha “Nooo, no.” I was like “Why not?” The blacks were like: HAHA The whites were like— *COUGHS OBNOXIOUSLY* New York is so racist. It is statistically the most diverse—and most segregated city in the nation At the same time. WHAT. How do you even DO that? But it's true, at this point, the black people are like—fuck this, we'll just stay over here, and over here. And the rich whites are like YES. KEEP THAT SHIT, OVER THERE. Cause if you've ever been to the ghetto. It's some SHIT, It is NOT COOL. I finally got my ‘night card' back. Had it revoked in california . I was almost a whole valley girl. I still eat exclusively at Whole Foods. Trader Joe's. But NO. Now i live in the hood. It's fucking disgusting. I can say ‘nigga' again. Cause it's NIGGAS. Lots of niggas. I'm telling you. It's night and day! The white folks trains smell like bleach— Ammonia. The black folks train smell like a McDonald's. WHAT. Or just— Vomit. I can actually count the number of times just— Vomit—- On the train. Or. Dookie. Yes. Human feces. But I'm ready to go to midtown and it's like the train that goes around Disneyland. Families! People singing! Hey—cotton candy!! —and I didn't have to pick it! Haha! Fuck New York. Racist ass HOLE. I thought surely the next presidential election was one or two years out, but the racial tensions which had been rising became even more pronounced, as I realized that November was theboncoming time—and that they hostility between the whites and the blacks had once again been a result as the oncoming war, fueled onward—that the hatred, disgust, and general aggression of the whites had been of course, in the midsts of yet another Trump-fueled political upheaval, and I wondered why and how at all I had been caught in such a world that existed in form of man, of course, now proven himself to be the weaker sex, and yet in that of dominance, as was arranged in such an unholy war, to be the helm of power by sheer greed— now it seemed that these attacks were indeed political terrorism, and that these motorcyclists, my placement close to the ground level, and my neighbor's clammorings were specific attacks, after my identity had been varied to be that of the same in which I had once held political ambition, now none of which I assumed mattered at all. Perhaps I needed something more certain than a 12 story jump or suicide by train, and wondered as to whether it would be easy enough to kill myself bh self inflicted gunshot—a sure thing for certain, as love has been lost in the way of money at all. At that party…or rather, kind of—after. That acid that never hit Beyoncé I don't feel it. Man, I'm a terrible influence(r) Just take it. Nah, I'm good— PUSSY. -_- Give me three. K. —suddenly hits BEYONCÉ. BEYONCÉ …I got this. [BEYONCE] however, does not Ohh, shit. — “got this.” A very stranded, very sober Johnny depp stumbles upon what appears to be a college frat party, where the only thing they have is light beer, and nobody even recognizes him as a celebrity, because the attendees are all gen z What's even after gen z? The fucking apocalypse. Anyway. The acid hits Beyoncé on her way to make coffee, which extends the trip from the living room to the kitchen infinitely. Multidimensional Anne Hathaway hulks the fuck out and saves the day by ruining everything, which actually fixes everything— and *spoiler* helps Jesus to remain as the king of kings at beer pong. Lol In the late 90s in New York City, the keystone cast of Saturday night live learns of each other's formerly sexret psychic abilities, and uses the radio technologies of Rockefeller plaza to develop a research center for the telepathically gifted, eventually discovering and perfecting time travel. Supacree (the kid version) appears in and out of her ideal and desired realities, baffling ‘the Hollywood people' and later ‘the New York people', becoming the legendary central figure of the Illuminati, as the original timepiece — a pyramid shaped extra terrestrial vehicle which contains an ascended hyper consciousness, which I can't remember how it goes, did the supacree leave to find the Skrillex, or was it the other way around? I think it was both ways at some point, but the whole thing was this, just in case I never wrote it but just saw— These space god (humanoid evolved) are some kind of scientists/ doctors— there are four timepieces, each representing an era upon our planet; earth, which is distant but sacred— these four time pieces each depart their given “docs” in time to appear on earth at specific Fuck this is hard to explain Times in history, at which the first worlds, or previous human eras were known to have been destroyed— these time pieces travel through time space with the full record of these events in order to alert the current human era of its imminent doom, as an attempt to prevent such disasterous events, typically war, which will lead to the annihilation of the human species; these Gods, one male and one female, a king and queen, a married couple are the rules of the humankind, technically worshiped as a whole as one God, with whom the human design was modeled after, however, the true source of all things is the cosmos, known and unknown, in its totality—neither man or woman, but the force of creation. Anyway, what else is happening Oh. All of the celebrities are stuck in— [the festival project] in some way, shape, or form until its creator finishes it—and though it in itself is infinite, its 'finishing' notates its eventual production, which lol. That never going to happen. Because. Let's face it. I'm scared of …rich people. Yeah, sure. Yeah. I'm scared of The effect of the race war, which has been to pit the white woman against the black woman, which allows and maintains the continuation of war mongering male dominance over the entire planet, which remains as a destructive force of greed, racism, and inequality. So why try? [EDITS] CONAN O'BRIEN Alright. If she hit Fallon, she's gonna come for one of us next. No, Conan—that's not how this works. WHAT—where did you come from!? When did you get here? JAY LENO This goes deeper than all of you can understand. WHAT the FUCK, man! When did you-/ —when did he get here? How did you do that?! How did you do that?! What are you, like, the same guy? Are you not all the same guy? [they shrug simultaneously and kind of just agree] Listen at this. Okay then. The enemy of your friend is my enemy. Oh…kay—and the enemy of my enemy—is my friend— That is correct. —so we're all friends here. That's right. Some special forces? Which forces? How special? [JENNIFER LOPEZ is still JENNY FROM THE BLOCK] Do I look like a fool to you? Uh— OOPS [a pre-fame Jennifer Lopez receives a drop full of diamonds instead of the usual; she has been granted access into the Illuminati, and becomes an overnight success.] This feels heavier than usual. Same as always. Hm. Are you sure. Yep. Hey, you're not the regular guy. Regular guy died. That makes sense. JENNIFER ANNISTON is inside of Ū Okay, grosss Not like that [lifting max weight] Okay. That was cool. Wow. Yeah, sure whatever. I am strong Yeah yeah, okay. Are you sure you want to be my size? Yep. JIMMY FALLON/SKRILLEX (we don't know actually which at this point) is also trapped inside of Ū Okay, gross! Yeah. SKRILLEX is in all of Ū. okay—actually, i'm okay with that, but That other guy?! [JIMMY FALLON] Yeah, he's weird. Also meanwhile, kind of— MARSHALL MATHERS has a closet cleaning service lol. Patrick is smooth as a motherfucker, you know. Every time his head is down on the desk like that, he takes a bump of coke. What?! Big uh! [Patrick takes bumps of cocaine in front of a live studio audience—every single night.] Woah! See. Goddamn. You gotta admire a guy like that. Jennifer Anniston is the weight on the cable tension machine Ooh. Psycho bitch devious methods new ludachris commercial All ya'll girls is toddlers I like long boards and longhairs Lawn mowers and lawn shares Aw hell nah, God forgot Cher I got the Blair witch project On Blair, I hope I scare you How dare you. Your girl looks like a naked mole rat. I got my soul back. You blue eyed bastards stole everything From the whole blacks, Hold that thought I'm at Whole Foods market throw in the Amazon algorithm off With marked dollars Look at God at Walmart On them rollbacks You old hacks are cackling I'm shackled to old habits Hold hands with me, rabbit I'm just a silly rapper really, are you? Maybe. Cut the verse of Reverse God Now I'm the devil I'm still lost in the Amazon cart I sharted all up in your pop tarts Before you warmed them up, pops Just for the sake of the art, Heart to heart, It's a war on love And the white girls won with nothin but Buckets of Whatever's up there I wouldn't know Cause I'm stuck job searching And running, Trying not to have a tummy So some gummy worm will love me First their sour, then they're sweet Then nobody, Trolli Holy moly I could use some more petroleum in the ocean! Said nobody But the globalists are performing your programming Which you're worshiping I put my eye on the dollar So I could watch you all Crumble and fall Don't you know The apocalypse is happening at the mall Of all the places How's that for a stream of consciousness, You salamander I asked Anandar back But I went past that chapter Have a chap Or a chapstick, for four times four dollars A bottle of water will cost you a fortune (But at least the drugs are in it) Get it It's recycled piss Distilled? Which is it, Mr,? The mystery box was literally lifted into My dinner from a fishery filled with nothing but niggers in it— I want a refund, before I catch that Fucking curse of poverty from — what'd you call it salmonellahallibut One hell of a cough from someone on the sidewalk But guess what? The devil's in your pocket or your palm, And that's the omen and the psalm rolled into one Cause God is awesome, But my mom is fuckin toxic And that's how I fuckin got here Blow my head off, Slit my wrists And write a song While jumping off a bit When all you need is money, But the world costs more than It's worth, and words are nothing But another fucking problem in your Google documents I look at my son and see a God, But half of Satan's in him, Oh man Robotics Lets be honest, I don't even know how to write this. Where's my sides?! WHERE'S MY SIDES. You don't get SIDES with this; It's just CHICKEN. I don't eat CHICKEN. It appears as though, however– You do. Ok, I gotta get off this playlist. I… i gotta . “The Wal*Mart Wars” Hm. … …………. …. *face* … no. No. l– What is this place. {After a wild night which apparently spiraled out of control, great , there goes my peace. Not forever, though, maybe. FUCK THIS PLACE. I HATE THIS PLACE. Everybody hates this place. But the album is called “I love New York” Yes, thats Technically How it's pronounced, though It's stylized like I _ NY Cause. EXT. MIDTOWN MANHATTAN. DAY Oh, wow, this is beautiful. THis is great. I love this place FUCK THE FEDS. CUT TO: EXT.Typically WHEREVER ELSE Anywhere ‘above' like 87th? Lets just call it 80th, be safe. BE SAFE! NIGGAZ. ah shit, i gotta go. BITCH– But lets just be honest, It's technically ‘above' But it's really [THE BRONX is a literal extension of the Underworld] Oh no. srsly tho. X_c Anyway. FUck man, Do you think i'll ever get good like that. Idk what equipment is this Hmm, lets see, that's approximately $8,000 USD of CDJs wow yep That's retarded Yep. And you still need a mixer. fukt. OKay, I would literally sell my soul for this. Consider it done. wait , really? YES. you earned it. Wait, I– What?! You earned it… Uh oh. Take care now. Shit. [BILLIE ELLISH is trapped inside WALMART] Uh oh. Fuck. what is this place. INT. WALMART. WHENEVER EMPLOYEESLAVES WHAT TIME IS IT. THERE'S NO WINDOWS IN HERE. That's not funny IT'S literally a synonym, we might as well make it a portemantau MEanwhile, in this other dimension, So that i don't offend anybody… Actually, you know what? Be offended. Quit that stupid fuckin shit and follow your dreams! Wait really? Wait, really? Sure! If you want! …i guess. AMERICA NO. INSTANT HOMELESSNESS ok , nvm. Damn. I know, right. wtf r u guys watching. Shut up. All Wal*Mart Employees are actually top secret government agents. x ∞ >.< (we'll just use Billie Ellish as the alternate, but really it could be Could it really? Shut UP, PLURNICORN. Wtf is a PLURNICORN We'll see. [Upon Realizing s/he is trapped in a mysterious place apparently extremely public Wait, you've never been to a Wal*Mart Before?! NO. I grew up in LA Rich as fuck And i've been famous since I was liike 12, Or something. Right. That is–kind of terrifying. LATER: WHY IS IT SNOWING INSIDE. WHERE'S THE EXIT. THEY HAVE GUNS?! oh wow, they have GUNS. WHY DO WE NEED GUNS! KA-BLAM. BECAUSE THEY HAVE GUNS. Bang-bang! Ptttttttttt—sttt. And they have guns. Actually, these are just– confetti cannons. *pop!* Lol “Possibly The Worst Show Ever the infinite rave continues on in Hell as everyone awaits the return of SŪPACREE- The Cosmic Avenger (Who Is NOT a DJ) and Sunnï Blū (who is a superstar rapper but also not a DJ) go back to back, buying time as the beacon to. Signal "The Supacree" is completed, battling the 10th dimensional DJ Ū, a super ninjas, for control of the decks. what else happened? idk. I CANT STOP DANCING. none of the DJs can find a pair of working headphones, and the sound guy is missing from the booth. "missing" YOU SHOT HIM. I THOUGHT IT WAS A TRANQ DART. {Enter The Multiverse} “TVP” Hazel is 6, turns 7 season 1 Season 7- 15 Man, I can't remember the other two kids names, I think the little boy is Ira but I might have named them all and forgotten, shit. Her sister, though is between 4 ½ and 5, they are technically “Irish twins”, and always fighting—they look very similar, however are not at all alike; Hazel is very much a daddy's girl, while her younger sister is a no-nonsense old soul with the tendency to cause trouble, not by being inquisitive or showy, as her sister often is, but rather by being quietly observant, and tends to dismiss both her parents, often isolating, or even dissappearing without notice, quietly and comfortably into her own world—as the series progresses, and though all of Patrick's children like their parents have showcased some kind of special ability or talent— Holy shit, give this kid a name-/ I thought I already named her, I just don't remember. That's true. It seems like they all had names. She is almost very typically, though showing signs of genius, even at the early age at the beginning of the series, a middle child, prone to upset almost too easily, but rather than acting out, is more likely to take her anger quietly; she shares her fathers deep brown eyes, dark hair, and though she looks otherwise very much like her sister, and later despises her father, is more inwardly and outwardly like him, though taking the side of her mother during their separation and divorce, oftentimes even lashing out at her father quite openly, and very vocally, as she grows into herself. “Ira”, (may have had another name earlier) is the youngest of three— as his third birthday approaches sometime during the first season. Great, now I gotta hide all those allegories so nobody can actually draw from this that Patrick— Where's his write up, anyway? That shit could go on for days. I have no idea why this catharsis is happening. I tried to sleep it off, I swear, but I still woke up like— At least mildly obsessive about this, for whatever reason. Hazel's 7 - Season Arc Hazel has the eyes, charm, and charisma for entertainment —she hopes to one day be as her father, an entertainer and performer, and will do almost anything for a laugh. She is often telling jokes, and is a people- pleaser. She is sickeningly cute, with golden hair and Hazel eyes, long eye lashes, and carries baby fat in her face, though she is rather average, neither heavy or plump, and however also not frail at all. She is inquisitive, smart, and busy, almost never idle-minded, and strong. Though sort of a Tom boy, she has been trained well to act with dignity, class, and feminine eloquence, much like her mother—but like her father, has a tendency to be crass, sometimes carelessly so, or even brutally honest—to her mother's disdain, but embraced wholesomely by other family members and adults, she's extremely funny and delightful, and very much unlike her mother, not a spoiled brat at all, often raising questions beyond her years about inequality, later wishing to attend a public school, and becoming quite the advocate for social justice and human rights in her later years, her final season shows a rebellious and sometimes even antagonistic Hazel, who later even favors Esha over her own mother as a parental figure, often confiding in her about things she can't and shouldn't share with her father, although her almost over the top admiration for her father has become the driving force and inspiration for her own endeavors in show business, much to her father's disdain, as she grows older, him becoming more protective of her, and especially within the oftentimes secretive nature of his actual placement and purpose in the business, and her rebellious nature and charm even force-feeding her into the industry, she is a bleeding heart for superstardom, and is often seen along what may be a path to fame, making Patrick's bleeding heart all the more aching, as though he and Catherine remain at odds throughout the series, he truly loves his children, even “the little sick one”, as he refers to the second child. Holy shit, what is this kid's name If I had the energy to go through my notes, I could know; but I don't. The city sickness has been sinking in from the noise of the obnoxious motorists and honestly, being out of protein is giving me muscle soreness, I'm in some sort of a bloated haze from eating almost nothing but carbs, and the fact that I haven't been with anyone in years is starting to circle like buzzards around my head, my heart has been literally screaming but overwhelming with this sense of calm, and though slipping into Patrick's sometimes erratic tendencies, for the most part I've been underwhelmed with society's expectations that I should get some kind of job, and somehow while working not lose focus on my own interests and projects—I hate [the strange modern behaviors of] most people, and everything costs too much money— my son might be going into foster care, or my ex husband is evil enough just to try to force my energy to worry about a problem he's created, and I really wanted to sleep into the afternoon with this lethargy, hoping that everything surrounding this series would just fall off, but it doesn't. I wake up often wishing I could just forget The Festival Project ™ , but the truth is, it just keeps writing itself, but in the very least, sometimes God gives me little presents that mean the very most to me— a chord organ that I thought was from the 80's, but is more likely from the 1960's— I love vintage stuff, and musical instruments, which only God could know, really—my fascination with history as if I'm still living it, and this, my sudden fascination and drive to write and complete just one series has been haunting me almost just as badly as anything else has, but especially ripping me apart—especially since I have motorcyclists ripping through my body as if it were some kind of disease that existed outside of me, so contagious that it began to sink in to my insanity and mental hygiene. I wondered if anybody else knew or cared about these creatures as much as I didn't—and in fact, I had never felt so much like Ali in the way that I didn't care if they, other “human beings” supposedly, all died tragically, and wondered why the walls and windows didn't keep out the sound of the outside world at all… The middle child begins writing secretly very early on, and is the first to be required more extensive therapy, (as suggested by the family's therapist) after her parent's separation and subsequent divorce. It is not long after she begins learning to read and write at all, that she begins also showing interests in art, asking for art lessons and to begin painting and art therapy, rather than the recommended Equine therapy— she often keeps things to herself, then returning to her hidden places at times when the family's dysfunction becomes uncomfortable and overstimulating, very often paining or reading during times of peace, and retreating to her safe places—sometimes under the stairs, into the attic, the treehouse, or even later, the family's barnyard, where she often keeps drawings, as she ages, later comics, sometimes caricatures of the things she absorbs through her own reality—and diaries, sometimes hidden in nooks and crannies and in places no one would think; a true prodigy and genius, though hidden from much the world, as she is often overlooked, however, her therapist begins unfolding her true reality, often times carrying over sessions and losing track of time, picking her brain or even conversations philosophically What's the therapists name? Doctor Robin She has to have a last name Well, she's a child's therapist, so she's Doctor Robin, but It seems like it starts with a T. We'll see. I just saw her anyway. I drifted off again, thinking about how wildly detailed this all was becoming, and wondered if there was a series of fictional books waiting to be written. There certainly could be, but my mind was reeling, freshly showered but still undressed, and not even wanting to think of going outside—and yet—I was out of water, and had learned that the drinking water from the fountains, especially in large quantities, had a tendency to make me sick—I hadn't yet eaten anything, and though the coffee was fresh, and my apartment was clean (which made me overtly overjoyed for some reason) smelling of Lemon Lysol and Bleach; with notes of a strong pot of organic fresh ground coffee, it seemed like I couldn't do much more than lay in bed writing this catastrophically interesting series—and it was interesting, which said volumes, considering I had always been picky about my TV watching, being that only ever did certain series catch my eyes or my ears, and those series were almost always—or always, always specifically well written, perfectly casted, and had the edge and draw of becoming an entire world within itself, which this series, though only a week or two old at best, in my heart and in my mind , was rampantly ravaging my own world, almost as if it had become of some importance to keep writing it, and never stop, and though Patrick was the forefigure, another broken male protagonist, the truth in the series was that the true heroes of this sometimes scarily violent drama, were its women—a story meant to be told with a diversified cast of creatures from all worlds and walks of life—Esha, of course, herself, a role that had been some recreation of myself, somehow, though so different that even primarily, I never did see myself as her, besides the onslaught of some otherworldly pain, visions of a scene recollected from some remarkable download, and it might have been once and for all that I had lost my mind, or my life, if I wasn't a writer—I was, somehow, though, after all, a writer. It had been a fasting day that could have and might have ended tragically anyway, and still the devil marked his mockery of my efforts by consistently flinging perfect bodied women everywhere that I went—though usually with ugly enough faces that I could see nothing but what a man was—uncaring for one thing over the other, a flawless representation of woman, represented in the current time with scantily clad fashion, almost painfully so—the insecurity of women becoming more apparent in the way she would appear, always almost begging to be near to me, with every perfection and complexion I hadn't—but at least I had a tendency to laugh at my own damage, often surmising that she, these demon creatures, hadn't any talent for this at all—which had turned the state of television into a near circus act; that alone urged me to continue writing the series, perhaps with a typewriter, due to the negligence of nepotism within the industry which often resulted in these pretty little creatures getting even further ahead by stealing works as such, and passing them on as their own originality almost so cruelly and without judgement—plagiarism, as it was called, but more accurately intent-to-kill the imminent threat of what had been said to be a minority becoming a more powerful force to flourish in entertainment however, as quickly as the visions had come, the thought of writing it without my phone became dauntingly impractical, and I scribbled only the most intense scenes and plot lines onto notebooks and scratch papers, keeping them as hidden from the algorithm as possible… lol the Al Gore Rhythm Ahahahahahahaha Was that the joke? Maybe. Idk. Maybe. Idk. Hm. Hmmmmm: What: Nothing. That actually might have been it. Really, was it? I will never know. That is kind of a good dad joke, though. And a good band name. Idk about that. My coffee was lukewarm enough so that I could taste its flavor, as I whittled away at whatever it was— The story was almost so beautifully being told in allegories and parables that it seemed a shame I may never be rich enough to buy fame, as it seemed that was the only way to become a star these days— and yet—it was more the wealth than the fame I wanted, I had realized, at all—the polished class of the Manhattanites drawing me out of Brooklyn and into some debauchery which was my own Grandiose thought form, that I could actually become, at the ripe old age of 31, some kind of superstar. ‘Why would I even want that, anyway?' I thought, interrupted painfully by who I'm sure was the same motorist, who seemed to do nothing but circle the block all day, and all night, doing nothing — and I wondered why he himself had decided not to do grub hub in a richer neighborhood, where money would more than likely come more easily. But really— I drifted off to a time where I wanted to ride a motorcycle myself, and the curiosity forced me to go online to check the price of what it might cost to have one. $5,000 for a decent bike, which would include a muffler as not to be so obnoxious and disturbing to others as these creatures had become to me— and I began doing the math on how long it would take to save $5,000 as if it would be possible to work some dead end job for any amount of time without spending money on anything else. It would take at least 5 months to earn enough for a motorcycle, which landed me directly back at “Not worth it”, and as horrible as it was, I did at the very least have a luxury apartment for at minimum the next 5 years, however, wanting still to move to Manhattan, Midtown specifically—or one of the quaint and quiet neighborhoods on the upper West Side. The neighborhood was going to hell, after some unworldly godless force had seemed to drop hundreds of thousands of rude and thoughtless third world workers onto the streets and buildings bordering the one I lived on, the neighborhood becoming more rough and less peaceful with trash and debris from the depression and congenital disease that was poverty, the collective unconsciousness of the masses colliding with my empathetic nature and oversensitivity to sound, especially awful sounds, such as the hundreds of motorcycles and hot rodded junk cars which only seeemed to move in a track around a four block radius, and had become a cancerous trigger of sorts, no authority figure seemed to much care about. I cared less and less each day to listen to music, since I wasn't making it the way I wanted to—and I had realized that the constant displeasure and unrest, the lack of peace had as much to do with the world outside as it did with the world within—and I began to see the disgusting obnoxious noise pollution outside my window as just an extension of man's abuse, ability to rape, torture, and kill, terrorize— the uncaring waging of war, control, and lack of true power; as no good and true man who wielded actual strengeth or true power in any way would continue to show such distructive action and carelessness for others around him— chaos, corruption, abuse, and misogyny was proving to be the downfall of all humankind, as patronaged by man, and, as I became doubtful of anyone's lack of understanding of this, especially as the immigrants themselves were often naturally pedophillic culturally and toxically abusive in nature, most migrants flocking from countries in which women's liberation or the protection of youth had not yet materialized into their understanding of conciousness and morality—the men were weak, unkind, and selfish—the women mere machines at their disposal—and however many there were, I could see that their children, the many of them, remained as the redeeming factor. Anyway, a political ploy for the ages of there ever was such a thing, the newest chapter in American greed and slavery, it only seemed like an extension of evil itself, and less of a coincidence with each growing day—each new person, another burden to the middle class taxpayer, another reason to inflate the cost of living—and all the more reason to continue to terrorize the American people into its own division, hatred, demise, and consumption. e. My faith, however, was unwavering—God was real, but these abusive and toxic creatures were pushing it further away with violent arrogance, and the inability to understand that God itself was the nature they continued to destroy. Robin Bennett Fine. “My name's —ahem— “Ron Sennet, and I ain't In it.” —did the say “don't” write a book about me? It's Not about him… Or something cute he used to say like that, I couldn't remember, but he had a bunch of cute little idioms that matched his name, and to the day, I still missed him — it was 11:15 PM exactly as I hung up the phone, after an unsuccessful attempt to reach 911, after realizing that the threat outside was maddening enough to be impossible to only be in my head, and after weeks of the excruciating noise, I finally called NYPD dispatch, much to my disdain, and of course magically, the noise seemed to disappear, but these abusive and toxic creatures were pushing it further away with violent arrogance, and the inability to understand that God itself was the nature they continued to destroy. Robin Bennett Fine. “My name's Jon Sennet, and I ain't In it.” Or something cute he used to say like that, I couldn't remember, but he had a bunch of cute little idioms that matched his name, and to the day, I still missed him — it was 11:15 PM exactly as I hung up the phone, after an unsuccessful attempt to reach 911, after realizing that the threat outside was maddening enough to be impossible to only be in my head, and after weeks of the excruciating noise, I finally called NYPD dispatch, much to my disdain, and of course magically, the noise seemed to disappear as soon as I had made the call, which infuriated me. It seemed as though the game in entirety to make me look or feel crazy, though I knew I wasn't—well, I was, but not without purpose or reason. I had been theorizing in energy exchange quite decisively making a mark for my alter, at which I asked to be designated the wisdom and truth of the light within the eye, desire, however never in mind, although I had been summoned in part due to the fact that we were somehow alike—I was in some ways besides and out of sorts with my set, sinking my teeth into the forced obsession as I unraveled any possibilities and plotline. Episode 01. Pilot An opportunity presents itself seemingly at random— the protagonist's hand is forced into a life changing ultimatum, putting his reuputation and family in danger. Already involved in an illegal gambling ring which operates out of a secret historical prohibition era speakeasy and some “light” drug mulling within its walls, however often extending even as dangerously close to his workplace, Patrick is propositioned to become an investor in the high end escort service, with which he hired and contracted his lover, Kandi, a “rescue” whom he supports in her exchange for exclusivity, to remain as her only client, however, although he begrudgingly declines, wishing not to be involved in anything much more than what he has already kept under the radar, he is intimidated and threatened by blackmail, his high profile becoming at stake—he then obliges to embark upon this new endeavor, the expansion of this establishment to include a warehouse, which houses a large scale brothel, and, able to use his social status to procure wealthy clientele, quickly becomes a power player within a ring of coveted elites, setting fire to his already inflated ego, and colliding with his intense and highly functional polyaddiction, which he has maintained since his youth, using his entertainment persona as an outlet, becoming a medium of excess, fame, and rampant wealth. Patrick is beloved by his peers, and is humbled often by his devoted fans and friends—proactively worshiped as a comic genius, a prodigy, and a revered successor to legendary frontmen— Okay, this is weird, because I started writing this before I even understood what I was writing at all… —specifically, the sixth successor, to his coveted role. I had written for Esha to be the seventh successor, as with the symbolism deeply and quite literally woven into the sometimes brutal framework of the series, which I had shorthanded to ‘TVP'…the world around me trailed off as my eyes blurred as they had been lately, and I wondered if I might be having some kind of stroke or something, as I was certainly some sort of out of body—the day had been strange, and I had given up on a run or a gym for the day, the motorcycles alone ravaging my energy, and whether I worked out or not, they were ever present anyway. They were some sort of toxic, abusive force I just had to put up with, hoping it didn't upset my psychology so much that it ended me, though I had become quite odd as of recently, rambling more than usual and actually praying out loud, as my silent ones just didn't seem to be working—they were probably white supremacists, or in some way connected to some political terror group, but it didn't seem to matter. Someone liked torturing me, and it was becoming apparent that no matter much time I spent at the gym, this torture was going to persist. After a month long gym streak, at least going once a day to lift something, I rested, or rather, tried to rest, kind of— but my mind had been swirling with thoughts of a man I was certain by now I had made up—and writing the story of a man I was absolutely certain came from my mind, but in a way that it almost made no sense at all—as the more I looked into the world that I had already written about, the more I realized was accurate without first having known these things, and however cursed I might have been to even know such things, I decided to call it some sort of blessing instead. ‘God, I used to get so fucking high for days, and when I would come down, just crying and crying, eating Totinos or DiJorno and a bag of Bugles, I would watch Saturday Night Live for fucking hours, and I hated [Redacted]. I hated him.' Now I still hated [Redacted], but in a different way, and though really it was myself that was more like Patrick, he at the very least, for whatever reason, used to have his face—now, he was just Patrick, and [Redacted] was just [Redacted], and i knew entirely too much about it all, and about myself to be comfortable with it, but nothing was comfortable at all. I had written entire atrocities, novels, and all that was some conglomerate of nonsense which was the festival project, besides how insanely and innately prodigal it all was sometimes, my own words confusing me with a bizarre and asinine dysfunction, awe, actually, often as if someone else had written them, and although I was always at least sort of semi-conscious while writing, the spells and cadences I would fall under were some sort of trance, and as I watched the Nirvana rehearsal from Saturday Night Live in 1992, long before [Redacted] or any of the rest of the — Was it Keystone? It was, the Keystone cast of SNL, but the first word my mind had jumped to was Hallmark, which—after referencing Google quickly for a fact check, also stood true. I was willing to admit, even now, though I had long lost interest in Saturday Nighy Live, or anything at all having to do with current events, that the [Redacted] era—or rather even, the Tina Fey era, a true role model, perhaps, and someone I favored over all of the performers I admired, or allowed myself to admire— the Golden Years of Saturday Night were the only years, for me that even mattered— trying to make sense of anything couldn't be done, but I at least had this new project birthed from it to think about. It would be hard to sit down at a taping of The View and not think about all I had written at all, and it would be impossible not to unfold the characters which had presented themselves, though slowly but surely, through the most vivid visions and insanely lucid dreams, as The TV People began to What if someone steals this out of my documents? That would be unwise…the best scenes are somewhere scribbled in my notebooks and random scraps of paper somewhere in my room…this series is almost nothing without those scenes—the elements with which the most painful scenes I had ever written, became word form. ‘I don't know why, but I feel so incredibly high, So incredibly high right now…' They could have been words to a song, but I did feel high as a kite for whatever reason, without the actual kite metaphor quite literally dagling over my head, for once, or at least, it had been a few weeks, not a prominent as is was before. I sat soaking in the tub teetering on the possibility that I should actually even watch The Tonight Show, or whatever it was, to set my mind at ease, a betrayal of my own code—as one does not literally feed its obsessions into insanity on purpose. ‘Perhaps, though', I thought, ‘I could get rid of this.' — A cancerous abscess in the tradegy that had become my own sex fueled, rage driven, racing mind—and rather admittedly, it was almost too late, for anything of the sort, as I hadn't any other place to keep the growing world of The Television People any quieter, than within the monstrous algorithm which was Google documents cloud, where it seemed nothing was safe, and anything could be fabricated into reality after being stolen, by someone rich enough to make it happen, however, never being any better than my own disaster of a creation. And it was, a disaster. He was a comic genius, a professional, and spectacular performer— in actuality, I knew nothing if not anything at all about him, and the more I collected, the more interesting I found myself, actually, bemused that I seem to have found some sort of twin, another synchronization nightmare—if only that I made it to be so, unbelieving yet that I was in some kind of fairytale, though it had become some sort of fantastical and adventurous thing, this what I now refer to as ‘the allegories,'. I must have been something parasitic to the industry, with the tendency to latch on and ride out whatever had become a fascination, but it wasn't, in its sense of origin, like anything before— it was something new, in the ways that it was, and something old at the same time—though needing to fall drastically from The Tower without actually doing so, putting a stop to my unlimited creation became a pertinent priority, as even exercising, meditating, and chronic masturbation tended to exacerbate it, as if I was missing a step in transmutation of this foreign substance— an energy which seemed familiar, but also wasn't. I was receiving downloads several hours at a time, and drifting off into spells and trances of inspiration so heavily that it seemed counterintuitive to call it off, fearing I might lose the intensity of the plot and its characters, and they were that: just characters. It had taken days to erase Patrick's face into a blank state to restore him from that of his namesake, but now everything was a blur, the allure of scrapping it all to return to making music was upon some sort of dawning, but not yet arrived. I allowed whatever came to mind to flow freely from my fingertips, even if it felt bizzare—and even if it felt bizarre, it never felt wrong at all. ‘Unfortunate, that.' , I thought crossing one leg over another to complete my chapter before draining the tub. I promised myself long ago to always pray for my own son, before worrying about another celebrity, whose fame and fortune protected them more than I ever seemed to protect myself or my own—nonsense, but a strong sense of remorse, as I had been painted as wicked, in a sense, just for being kept poor, separated from my son, and left in a world without love at all; My project, a keepsake of the hard work I had done; but had not yet been paid for—and the fear was in the understanding that that money might not ever come, that I would never be a mother, a muse, or anything or anyone else I actually wanted. I thought briefly again about just getting a dog—but I only had 45 dollars, aside from the unmarked Jimmy Fallons, I had placed atop an alter on my kitchen counter, wondering how to multiply them into something I wanted—and that had been the start of the game or the project at all— saving my last dollars and spending them at once, with the hopes and wishes that they would become somehow much larger quantities, returned as good karma for the love I had given, but that had not yet come back, in one form or another. ‘He seems miserable, the poor bloak.' , I thought—and with all that I had known to have come with fame and fortune along with the luck, he probably somewhere, somehow was—but my concern was my son, turning the mere dollars somehow from one's into bundles of hundreds, thousands, and maybe even one day a whole million or more. That was the push behind the project at all—breaking the cycle of the poor black single mother, the story that had been told over and over-/ with stories that had not; the stories that had become [The Festival Project™]# Sai Psy. See you in seven years, then. You're so silly— I'm not going to live seven more years. We'll see about that. You will see. I'll be dead. So I'll be dead. So it is. A summer hiatus, Vacations in Prague, yes Let's pray for the rest of us A sign of the times and a coming of ages Who made you famous again As the rest of us I don't like it As much as I'd like to Keep writing Keep finding the reason to die and you're blinded by kindnesses And I Ams I woke up in the 9th dimension, As an infinite friend Familiar with my kitchen JOHN SLATTERY An interesting thing happened this morning. What's that, John? I woke up as John Slattery Just remember what love holds The death of a salesman, rechargeable batteries This walk could take forever in designer jeans Another day in slave hell The controllers controlling And Satan is Sataning Seems like a time to go clubbing It's a simple kind of depression Resting on your head when All you simply wished is the taste of flesh The freedom of skin And the lather of love— Or blood spatter on the pavement Aim for the head If the door's fixed, then we'll break it again Look what greed does I hate lazy days in Manhattan Ca

Maybe someone was ringing my doorbell just to make sure that I hadn't slit my wrists—I had been sitting in the tub silently for hours, at least thinking about it. There was no other way to consolidate it; I did not want to interact with humans, and my daily gym routine would have to be pushed so late into the night that it would become impossible to see anyone, I was simply over the robots. I wondered if the former president was reelected, if his l people would seek to finish the job—make sure that I killed myself or appeared as mentally unstable and unwell in response to my former political ambitions, as they had before; perhaps they were attempting to subdue my attempts at success order never to become a an actual threat to the psychological terror system. I already wasn't a threat, and my openly right-winged dissaproval of the immigration crisis had probably raised eyebrows and questions on both sides as to whether I was a competent human at all—then again, I saw it as a financial leak above all things, and found it unfair for the working class to support such nonsense as to let millions of undocumented people become the responsibility of the taxpayers. Then again, here I was, a responsibility of the state. I was sure I wouldn't be a burden much longer— reflections of a cruel world creeping up on me in that I lived day to day on eggshells only hoping that my lease would be renewed—unable to find suitable work and struggling to actually make any sensible or meaningful music at all; I hadn't, and I hadn't forgotten how to, but it seemed that the motorcyclists were quietest when I was, and they they themselves, too, were terrorists intended to derail me from my purpose. The intent to kill, however indirectly. Do you want breakfast? Patrick and Esha had returned, however seemingly on limited engagement; most of The TV People were Patrick and Esha and the rest of the characters could be filled in with almost any seemingly random characters and quips. The basis of the world had been established, and now this strange and odd love story—an actual love story, between the show's two protagonists had bloomed and set on a mantle safely looking over me, like a flower on such said mantle, where I could admire it with careful consideration to its beauty, only wondering how long it should last. Luckily, The Tonight Show was most probably on some summer hiatus, with any hope, surrounded by the love and the family one could pray would keep a man like that afloat. I couldn't say. It wasn't my business. If anything, I was beyond beside myself with what nature had called for in the first place. Sure, something cosmic, with fear and respect, I kept the flower at a distance and the city between myself and I. What the fuck did New York want with me anyway? I chipped away at any and all creative endeavors, but above all, I felt discarded. Who could hate me this much? I didn't seem to be of much use to anyone or anything at all. I looked at my writing and was astounded, but looked at myself and was ashamed. What if I could be the greatest writer of our time and never know it? It took me hours just to sort through ny own writing, editing along the way and wondering what to do with it. I almost wanted a friend, but overall I wanted nobody. I felt betrayed by the world that I had been given such gifts, and unable to use them. I felt scammed that all the world wanted was money, but I wasn't good at making it. [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

niagara falls. Collection II - ‘antithesis. Track 12. - ‘niagara falls' Prod By Blū Tha Guru [Previously on L E G E N D S: Enter The Multiverse} Baby's all right Brooklyn Pretty little palace of disaster Pretty little patterns of — Whatever Tantrums, smashing Jack o lanterns Shadows, Hands that attach to the strings Allowing them to dance into dreams It seems these sacred places Have been ravaged And I have not been running But I don't have any money Wise than that It's less than zero Negatives I want to kill myself again Honestly, I see a way out it just Requires being tortured By people coughing. And motorcycles I might have seen my son for the last time At age five It's finally warm outside And everything's just Reminding me I'm struggling with poverty Nothing really matters cause I don't belong here Everything is wrong I just want blonde hair, Hurry up, God Assist me with a suicide I can take pride in Not an attempt, but The only success I'll ever have At anything At all -El Al Nothing moves the same After an unrequited love becomes a tragedy Or just a movie scene I want to scream for needing to be needed Then again Could die just to be dead Could go back To just be blacklisted Or a crackhead Doing magic tricks Pass I couldn't have ever imagined This fascination as of late Or making trance But anything can happen With the light switches on and off As the kite catches headwinds Or hedwig is getting bigger by the minute That just grows out of his head, But I wish it was a wig Like Kristen Pass Yes. Breathe deep into my lungs, These scenes of things So evil seeming, even to me Lucidity becomes as dreamily Eerie, intermittently meaningless, And then suddenly, However much later, Maddeningly attractive, As I am, in fact Attached to this project As menacingly handsome and devilish as he is I've decided, it's manageable, but clashes with my Moral standards and clasps with fabrications Lay hands on me and see what happens! —-okay… “Okay” Pass! I asked to be a rockstar and showrunner On the same blood soaked candles I took blood oaths Dancing in front of the fountain At rockafeller plaza, to no applause, Of course, Drinking monsters nonstop, Ontop of my skateboard I came back late to Boston And took a plane to Vegas early the next morning But somewhere deep in my Google Drive or documents Is me under a neon sign, Which reads a name I resigned from saying Until maybe I get signed I hate him, but hey, The name of the game is Mating Season, And lately I've been craving eggs and Mayonnaise instead of protein shakes and Crayons Wax on, wax off… Pass, but that last sentence didn't make sense It did.:: Oh, Yes, it did. Promise. You do some stupid shit. Okay, so I do stupid shit. Believe me, you do some stupid shit. Okay, I believe you. Don't believe me when I tell you things like that. What the fuck, Patrick, do you mean, even? I mean what I mean, but usually just— For me. I am you, I thought. Exactly: don't believe me. Okay? I don't believe you… Just—believe me. Believe me. Oh dang. So there really is no “Jimmy Fallon” No, there isn't it's just— Poor little Jimmy Fallon… What if— There is no “if”. Nobody has to ‘agree' to this project Sign the terms of agreement For what. You'll see.. stupid little bitch. *squints* What did you just say. (Walking away, mumbling) Nothing! Fucking idiot. What did you just say?! (Yelling) I said you're a fucking idiot, Fallon! You're a fucking lDi0T: Well, okay. lol NBC is not gonna let this fly at all. No, Jimmy, you cannot do this project. Well, that's alright. I quit. You can't quit. You have a contract. I don't—I'm out of my contract: On what grounds?! Conflict of interest! That's my say, isn't it? Is it? MORGUE. I bought a network! MY NAME IS— MAaaa!! WHATTTTTTT. The show's on! [A Cold Open] L E G E N D S {Enter The Multiverse} Fuck this kid. I'm gonna kill him. Kill what. Who. FALLON. GET IN HERE. Ah. [explitive] [‘THE FALLON' gets ‘FALLONED' by ELLEN DEGENERES] ELLEN YES. FINALLY, I'm in this bitch. [And other members of ‘THE HOSTS COLLECTIVE', a high ranking team in the ILLUMINATI FOREFRONT] Well, not in the way I'm sure you'd hoped, but. Shutthefuckup! Oh wait—is she Is it “she” Is she a lesbian?! What's the “Illuminati”— We'll get back to that later. No! gross! Portia Derossi! Huh? I want to be that pretty! Well, okie. MEANWHILE, In my actual own age group… I'm older than all these hosts, anyway! Even Leno? Isn't he dead already?! Exactly! EVEN STEVENS [BEANS is now VEGAN] Why is vegan capitalized. Cause it's important. Hey buddy! Don't call me buddy. I'm edging on 40. Time flies when you're— Rapidly aging? I brought you some bacon. You what: It's farm fresh! Kooldjredalert Lie to me Try to sleep (In my arms, won't you) Try to keep the Time with My heart Beat (Heavenly) I've been living in your world for just over a month, now. I'm sorry, Fallon. That must be awful. Not too sorry— Some of this stuff is good. Just, priceless. Wouldn't trade it for the world. But I've hung my head in shame, Cause I hung myself with gratitude, Haven't you had enough? If it makes any difference at all, And I'm betting it does All I wished for a wanted and prayed Was for you to be happy I buy burners with trackers Put burn holes in sweaters The summit at the plummet, pulling forwards And backwards I've four words for parlors, For barbers and hatchets I bury the four suns, The moon arose after I left an Oscar on your alter this morning Never shall ye rest, Haven't ever then, Paid the tythe, And for the while, Immortal wife and lover, Mother daughter, Soon to call your name and number, However, The fall from the drop of polish, Of course, oil marks upon canvases Sickness and swells of my Hands upon your corset Could you collide with another? Doubtful, to that, So shall it must be List, but never to utter A mustard seed; Ground, then unground— As if planted, Simple, As the seed of laughter So then, would you By the turn of the hour, return to the one had you called Lover, A curse upon the Coerced and responsible A blonde, But worse, A pretty one For never after happens out of nowhere Now, Dissociate, Before I dissipate of Loneliness Hark, The door opens for one, A bold soldier to come, Listen lover, The stone has been Suspended, by the mirror In terror Alarmed, Cool you are now Calm, however Not abound to be lie Or below Bound by blood There you are In excelsior, Predecessor What would you want that for— The camera obscured; Why, If only, To look upon you Plastered and enlarged As you are Endangered in my imagination A dangerous and strange, Dangling addiction Fascination, now With power, And prowess Come now, The midnight hour is upon us [his body hung from the rafters above the studio, just one lamp left aglow—and then suddenly I had awakened, his body still and resting, sleeping quietly—although the hanged man burned into my mind; I left him quietly as I could in the loft and sat with nothing in my mind at all at the canvas, brush in hand, as if I were to draw something—but could not. It was almost as if I was frozen, or even perhaps the canvas were instead a mirror, and I the painting —though I could not know. My dearest Patrick was a broken man, and I his broken lover—the both of us an atrocity at all in shambles—I wept inwardly but not outward, as not to wake him as my tears often did, even from a deep sleep. The sun was far from rising, and though I had barely slept at all, I felt I would never sleep again—I fell at my tilted alter as the sun rose, in prayer and devastation; What had I done?] —Esha's Memoirs, the journals from The Altar You know what, kid— You've got something. I don't know what it is, But it's something. Kid? Aren't we like, the same age? No. I'll tell you what I've got I've got a seven year old kid I haven't seen in two years; I've got a sink full of dishes I've got credit card debt and school loans I've got racist neighbors, An ex husband who swears he never hit me With a brand new baby I've got Extreme back pain I've got a body only God could ever love And I've got something like 10,000 pages or more Of stuff I barely remember writing Just sitting in the Google algorithm Pushing me closer and closer to suicide Every single day I've got Sexual fantasies about celebrities for no given reason at all. I've got 800 songs that are just words I've got books I want to read just— sitting there And I've got this pain That just sits inside my soul That never goes away, ever I've got something, alright. I've got something, sure But when it comes to money I got a dollar One fucking dollar And you know what I call that? -Useless. She's dead, isn't she? You guessed it. Well, what am I supposed to do? What you always do. What is that? What is that? Swear of the palm d ore I Cannes, Atop the Eiffel You are the river that crosses my eye, The scar across my heart, The Eye, is All we are And all is one; One is all, And All are One Well, I'm quite nervous. Don't be nervous, at all, Johnny. Relax. Another John—my first, in fact. Indeed, I was once relentlessly obsessed With Johnny Depp Infatuated, if you will Whatever you want to call it. Of course, For a teenaged girl, however This sort of obsession was somewhat normal Somewhat. I had always wanted to star in movies— So much so that I began to write them. I was about 7, maybe 8 when the stories in my headed started to form as narratives— Not just stories, but words Characters and conversations— Plots. I should leave this poor Fallon boy alone. Some darkness inside of me wants him; That thing that doesn't quiet, nor does it want, Anything but what it wants— And it is, Darkness-m— That thing that lives inside of me and what is does; The thing it calls love, and calls our for The something in someone that rises it up From wherever it dwells, Deep in my soul, and into my hear, Into my thoughts, It haunts all that I must and mustn't Ponder upon A woman's cause, And a murderer of sorts, The ugly swan , who dances on ponds, Laying one one, but all of precious stones, The egg, The coveted stones of trust, And wander, Listing upon that which it feeds, Not only the bod, But its motor, It's mind, A hearty philosopher, And willful warrior, Of wit, And of talent, The strength of Astonishment A power above all, A blindness of fate; Judged by all The spectacular amongst us The famed and the damned, Acquitted of warmth and dutiful, Exquisite in awe A rarity. —The Fame Files. V.O. Coming to terms with one's death is always peaceful. All harm caused will be returned by he/she who causes it or acts in such a way as to inflict pain and hostility towards peaceful persons. Causing with intention psychological, physical, mental, or physical harm will result in the immediate karmic retaliation of such pain as inflicted on peaceful individuals; these acts of war will inhibit the actor from entering the transcendence, or developing expanded consciousness, gaining wealth, further material possessions–his own will is therefore weakened, and therefore unworthy of love himself, by the intent to cause one such pain as an act of violence or ill will. One's disruption of peace is thereby an act of cruelty, punishable beyond death–causing pain by intention to another individual in the attempt of control or manipulation, intrusion, and abuse is therefore against the laws by which the ascended abide by, and therefore cannot and will not exist beyond the ill fate of its perpetrator. Please leave me alone; I'm asking you nicely. Alright, fine. Where is it! Where is what? You know what. What? From the fountain. It wasn't me! I don't have it. And this, is why Jimmy Fallon is impenetrable. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Hey, Oprah— Oprah. Oprah. Oprah. Oprah. Oprah Oprah Oprah Oprah OPRAH— WHAT?!? —I love you. (OPRAH WINFREY sighs and groans, sinking back into bed.) —and… ...AND? ...I made breakfast. (This wakes her up a bit, as she is curious to see what has been made; Supacree energetically bounces into the next room.) HEY, JANET JACKSON— “Legends: The Melanin” S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ has been taken to a top secret training facility to prepare her for her journey into celebritism. EARLIER: S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ is robbed and kidnapped at gunpoint by JANET JACKSON, BEYONCÉ, MARIAH CAREY, ALICIA KEYS & OPRAH. what a combo. I know, right? A NINJA stops S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ in her path, knocking the açaí bowl out of her left hand— WHAT THE FUCK! —luckily, she still has her smoothie—however, before she can take a sip, the ninja, who she seems unbothered by, knocks the smoothie out of her other hand. NO, MY SMOOTHIE!!!!!!!!!! The NINJA stands, motionless. S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ takes a fighting stance. THE NINJA takes a fighting stance. FUCK you dude, that shit's EXPENSIVE! YAAAAH. YAAAAHHH! They NINJA fight; S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ SUPACREE has the advantage, until. ANOTHER NINJA arrives as backup. I got this! Then, ANOTHER OTHER NINJA and A FOURTH NINJA surround SUPACREE; Oh, fuck that. They create a formation—each taking a fighting stance. She is majorly outnumbered. THE GRAND NINJA arrives HIIIIIIIIIYYYAAAAAAA. Nope, fuck this. The ninjas synchronize, ready to fight. Nope, I quit. S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ retreats, running. One of the ninjas has already advanced in her path. Not so fast! You're a LADY?! Now you're surprised?! S Ū P ∆ © я E E ™ attempts to flee. The ninja pistol whips Supacree. She's out cold. God dammit, Janet! What?! She's fast! She's also heavy. Just get her! It takes 3 ninjas (and a fourth for support) to lift SUPACREE into the sleek, blacked out Escalade. They close the back, and unanimously all 4 doors, in sync. The Escalade drives away, license plate reading: LEGENDS Leave it alone, Just let it be Could you just–practically be me for a second, I want to check something out. –I am–practically you– Hold on, Let me get a cat and a couple supermodels. I'll be right back. Great. Where am I supposed to get two cats and a supermodel on short notice? No, it was, a cat and two– Tell me your name one more time. I was certain i'd never forget. You will forget about this. I need more magic. I just gave you magic. Where is it? Uh. Up my nose. Wat is the dosage on those anyway? PORCUPINE. uh, don't touch that? DON't GeT TO0 Hold on a second, this might be the most accurate, if I ever– DId you ever NO. I'm stuck in this MUFFIN. MUFFIN! COME HERE MUFFIN. What happened? I lost a cat. [RACHEL DRATCH IS IN THE IMPENETRABLE TEN] this has never happened. Hold the fucking phone. Hold the fucking– OPRAH UHWUHT. PHONE. [OPRAH WINFREY DOES NOT HAVE TIME FOR YOUR BULLSHIT.] Why all caps CAUSE SHE'S MAD WHO THE [NOPE] DO YOU THINK YOU ARE CALLING ME AT THIS [UH OH] HOUR WHAT HOUR. WHAT TIME IS IT. WHERE'S WHOOPI. I got her. -Wait–you go her? Yup, she's safe. *squints* I'll be right there. Oh shit, is that Skrillex? No, that's The President. No, this is Patrick. Why did the Chicken cross the road? Pretty much out of sheer panic. Run it! Run it to exhaustion! RUN THIS BITCH INTO THE GROUNDHOLE! Good, it's Groundhog's day. SPRINGTI– NO. Put some clothes on. Let's play piano. I'm a martian. oh . that's dumb. What happend to your planet. Yer on it. No, you're on this: my planet. URANUS What happened. *SPPLAT* (Now I'm like, gas.) *blat* Ooh, wow, how'd that happen *shrugs* science /math ASSHOLES. Wat happened. Just wait here. I'll be right back. ARTY MCWIRED You know, just in case there's a LAWSUIT dammit . LAW SUIT huh LAW SUITS I don't get it. Why are you all dressed in What BRoTHeRhOoD is THIS. Oh good, a map. YOu know these things are useless to me. Of course, this would be the perfect day to go SHOPPING JELLYFISHING. DOLPHINS. Idget it. What. How did Dolphins survive a nuclear holocaust? Anything left here? Nothing I s– ooh , wats that. Woah, look, dolphins. LIke, 12 of them. Gnarly. My world changed when I got a couch. Everything changed, actually—when I got furniture. Actual furniture, more than just a mattress on a floor and a cheap Asian desk from Amazon I actually loathed. I almost never worked at the desk, anyway, as it didn't seem equipped for the totality of my studio—the keyboard and drum machine, and though the keyboard had been calling to me over the last few days particularly, I had spent the last couple days almost carelessly longing, in peace and near total silence, with not a care In the world or a thought besides my mantras, with the occasional conglomerate rapid overthinking caused by the terrorists outside, now thought more likely to be police officers or feds themselves, as the police never seemed to be able to stop them–and it seemed that perhaps It was a federal act of domestic terrorism itself. No actual police officers or forces seemed to care or could stop them–and if it wasn't the devil himself, it had to have been the military or something of the like, pushing some sort of political agenda. Either way, I wasn't going to be moved in such a way to keep reacting to such immature and primitive war tactics—and thought that it was just as likely that by November, come voting time, they would all be miraculously disappeared, if not before due to the inclement weather I was sure was coming by the end of summer. I was almost sort of on my own time, besides the voices in my mind which screamed to work harder and faster, be skinner and more perfect, and that my prime time had passed—that I would never be loved again and that I was a horrible mother, that besides all the more knowing it for myself, I hushed and numbed with my mantras, uncaring. At the very least, I was alone, and not interested in people— the humanity had left the humans by way of corporate slavery and electronic addictions, rigged elections and a totalitarian government which masqueraded as a democracy, but In all truth had been for quite some time, out of the hands of its people. All the better, as the people had become programmed and controllable, easily manipulated, and for the most part and maybe even for the best, unconscious creatures—the majority of them malnourished, dehydrated by choice and lifestyle, eating processed foods as voluntary poison–and especially in New York City– undereducated, and without rest; The youth at the hands of the system which controlled all aspects of their lives, comparing them not by wit or skill but privilege and genetic composition; by looks, wealth, and vanity. The algorithm was indeed sorting them by all it knew to— perfect, and imperfect, almost always attributed to environmental factors, such as financial stability and of course—access to certain luxuries and freedoms— a hard line dividing the classes now. I lounged somewhat gracefully in my favorite polyester blend skirt as my harems washed with the tablecloth and dishrags— I was nearly out of suitable casual clothes, and although I had been collecting some fashionable outerwear, I never planned on actually going out. Being penniless in New York was tiresome, and I had spent enough time fighting its monsterous crowds and the infestation of migrants long enough during my year within the homeless system—now, still trapped by the terrorists which surrounded the block and what, if it wasn't some kind of federal experiment altogether, also seemed like some kind of criminal enterprise, which situated itself in the warehouse just adjacent to my building, though having lost their illegal smoke shop, a group of shirtless hoodlum-looking types, still appearing to continue business outside of where the smokeshop once had been, now becoming an obvious and unwelcoming eyesore, as the owners of the “auto body shop” which plagued the neighborhood by parking ugly cars on the sidewalks around the entirety of the corner—combined with the discarded trash, old appliances and the occasional shopping cart filled with such , not to mention the trees which stood in beds of littered filth– as if to say “we run this block”—some shade of brown and careless as to what peace might be to some others, they held enough of something like money which masquaraded as power, and therefore enough of whatever they had to continue to make the block a less welcoming place to live, and besides the motorcyclists—which all seemed to be one, haphazard, operational network— stood as a good reason not to bring any child into this mess— the brown-black world of Brooklyn New York's Queen's facing war zone—the ugly truth of old racism and money in New York City; and after a year two year spectacle on how most of the black and brown culture within New York City had bred itself to be unrestful, misbehaved, and brutally drained of its class by the system itself; it was nearly understated that the culture had become toxic. The Redlining of New York City had become obvious–New York City's own racism a blistering outward truth. I I wanted so badly to be able to travel and return “home” or rather, to my apartment–or even rather–to my studio–as it never really did feel like home with the ability to see it all in a new light. I had been in New York so long that I felt myself becoming callous and bitter—I needed to leave, but had been at a standstill creatively, as if there was some kind of block on my music. It was true that I couldn't hear much of my own sounds or music over the traffic in the outside world, and I was sure I had been sent here as sabotage so that I might never make it out of the depths of this world. Either way, I wasn't going to take it much longer— if I was ever made to be homeless again, I would simply kill myself—and without a love that I could call my own— a real love, disconnected from the destruction of my son's father, completely away from the satanic, demonic and evil curses he had set upon me— a love that would set me free from him and his world— I would kill myself. I would do anything to escape the constant thoughts of him bombarding me, the flashbacks of his brutal beating— the evil words he had said and the evil, tumultuous series of homelessness which followed. I would do anything to rid myself of him entirely, and I had not yet at all been loved by someone who didn't seem possessed by something after some time—it was as if this energy would find its way into anyone near me and drive me to insanity just so that his version of the story would become true; the evil lie that I had simply “lost my mind”, and out of nowhere, just had “gone crazy.” His version was the lie— Everything that I had once become was a reflection of himself—weak, unstable, and unable to function, all the while he had used my energy to sustain and survive; a vampire narcissist who could not have without my doing lived or functioned on his own. The one man I had ever shared tied with had been always too tired to get up for work, and always without fail, unable to keep a steady job – and of course— situationally plagued with poor spending habits, bad judgement, and outright laziness. He simply wanted to play the game, drink his 4locos, and use my computer to make rap beats; of course–I was holding him back from his true potential. Becoming like him was what seemed to the outside world as ‘losing my mind', and upon choosing to leave him, to find myself again. His only strategy had been to to form an illusion—that his own mental illness was actually mine. That the traumatic physical violence I had endured and hidden in fear of him had never actually happened. He kept me at a distance to make it seem as though I had abandoned my son; used our son as bait to attract another mate, and then began to discard him, treating him as an extension of myself which he could feed on for light and energy–and eventually discard. He claimed that by ignoring my phone calls and attempts at keeping a bond with my son, that I had no interest in being a mother. He projected onto other that I had been sick or incapable—with the veracity of a cereal killer with just enough charm, the racistly indoctrinated outside world fell to default that always, though having been the survivor of serveral violent acts, that I was somehow in the wrong–that I had somehow deserved the things which were being done to me. The physical scars that I wore were of his making, and the label that it formed— a mentally ill and unstable homeless colored woman— projected to the right-swinging red-necked Alaskans that I was somehow the problem; However, with time, I was sure that his meaning to subdue and belittle me was returning to him in the way of Karmic justice, and that the light that I had left within my own child would be his redeeming quality, in a world where I had been outcast from and unable to return to. I wanted desperately to at least visit—but saw no end to the financial ruin which homelessness and debt had caused insight; the recovery from his physical violence almost seemingly impossible; even frequenting the gym often enough would result in a particular man entering the gym to practice his sparring; often though I tried to prevent the flashbacks from occuring, I would eventually, hearing this, over my music at high volume, imagine the punching bag as my face. I realized at some point that I might never actually see my son again. We were thousands of miles separated and years between us–and because I had been honest in my documentation of the violence that had happened between us–he was refusing to sign the divorce papers, leaving me dangling at the end of a long rope I was sure I'd hang from, and limiting my ability to be seen by the system as entirely independent of this disastrous type of person. Of course, ‘boys will be boys'--and these types of boys in particular had the habit of protecting one another whether they were in the wrong, or not. A brotherhood of course, in which I had been marked as beatable, discardable, and of course, some sort of sub-human. How could I even know that I was safe from his dark and evil reach in a world said to be and many believed ruled by demonic bodies which Satan himself had claimed? In heavy prayer and reflection I had been asking of the men on motorcycles, to which God's answer seemed to speak truth; that these men were not men at all, but Satan's playthings. They had no free though or will to act on their own, and were instead controlled—that the toxicity, the terrorism, the injustice was a spectacle of sorts for the dark lord, in thy he controlled so many of what used to be people—now more just puppets for his displays of affliction upon humanity. These men had no purpose at all but to be consumed and possessed by a creature which had no face at all—no true name at all— the force of evil itself, which by now had controlled nearly all man, and nearly all of humanity. The Complex Collective © Nicolas Fountainisi was a disgusting human being. Not altogether a human creature, he foraged ways of l believing in kindness and gratitude though never actually having felt, or with feeling at all— what human nature actually at all was. Premeditated murder. Desensitization, Sensitive information Curious niggers Did I say it again? Indifference. It's whatever. Psychological terror chamber. I love Oprah and motorcycles But I hate robots. Huh. Well, I'm at it. Let's go kick in the googleverse I could write a metaplex Languages, and something was stolen! Porch robber False fortune Decisions, decisions Evil ass bitches Temptations, Temptations— I seen your face when I mated here Oh, Lord It's the lyricism Let's make spousal abuse poetic. Let's make her stay in the system! Let's make it more severe weather! [Thunder and lightning.] Let's go hang in the googleverse I might write a metaplex I'm infinite, And you're infinite— But your producer Is inferior Where is he then? I left him in a wedding For aftermarket parts I'm making belated birthday cakes On the 4th Or the fifth Better believe it I ain't got enough to— Switch from the antiquity, did you? I told you, I ain't tell if they come at me! (Don't tell if he touch you) He got the power, The lawyers The women, The money, The mortals on battery pack— Waaaages! I'm not finna snatch shit Just so you can say I snatched it I asked you for passion and peace All I got was the passion And nails in my outstretched palms I tried to warn you! Sickness, is it? It is, Traffic on magnets Let's go hang in the googleverse, I might write metaplex Fear of the fortunate Don't mean to hurt us-/ We're just immortals They don't even know us no more Depart the children of earth For the worst days to come Not to the worthless, But the wealthy and fortunate Burn up Listen and learn, son Your mother was for us But I got my butter's worth (Don't make me work hard!) I thinkni just left myself Woke up in a primary school A perfect apartment But a dive bar To an old fuck Going out on those LTEs Is always bothersome, Don't you know? Torturer's complex —they know not. Don't worry mom, I got an assignment You're proud of me, aren't I? Are you adorable, For a robot stalker Stop in the road Just to intercept That I'm always Where you don't want (On top of you) Once you been hit in the face by a man And Separated from your young Then blamed for it Once you old your dead children and Feel their cold frozen bodies Once you get stalked And tracked by hostile robots Pulling out All the fine details of your life Is if your birth Your entire upbringing Is your fault You stop giving a fuck About little dudes Throwing weights around Guess who gets dangerous Once they find out They're being fucked with Over and over And nobody loves her This ugly fat bitch Guess who gets tired of poverty But gets blocked from getting a job Being broke I shouldn't even need this shit But apparently demons And shit he said Stands up in court —but he hit me. Turns out I lost my mind And the devil's a liar Turns out I like them blonde and blue eyed Huh Oh well I'll stay alone on false positives All day Getting fucked with Pennies on the dollar Followed and followed and followed All I want is a bullet hole In my aura Whatever man, this just got weird again. Reading the book, I realized how funny I was—because Tina Fey was funny and interesting—but I might even be actually funnier, and had al certainly lived a more seasoned life—her white girl hardships were endearing and I loved her all the more for having read through the surface level collection of stories from throughout her life and world—she was certainly luckier than I was, and more likable—-and maybe even probably funnier in person, but for now, she was just smarter, and that was enough to encourage me to list the words that so far I didn't know, starting in the middle, and somehow looking back to the beginning. I didn't want to miss anything—she was actually a considerable role model besides Oprah, though it was obvious we lived in different worlds entirely. Captain Captain! Oh, Good, come in, Cannon. You've—changed. …as you know, Monday we disembark. Yes, I'm aware. And as you know, the details of the mission have been classified, even to us. Yes. I find that alarming. And so, without anymore thought I've decided to masquerade as my old self. How old are you, anyway? You should never ask a woman her age, LT. Sargent. * or the other way around, I clearly don't know. Sorry. Your recent promotion keeps slipping my mind; I…haven't been myself lately… Obviously not, if you've decided to publicly dress like that. I'm still very much in the privacy of my office. You can consider me the spokesperson on behalf of the public. Never as a woman her age! You're not a woman; you're my captain. We'll see about that after tonight. Being a woman, or being my captain? Both, probably. Hm. By any chance would you be interested in joining me? As your subordinate, or as a man. Both, probably. Or neither… presumably. As my escort. I beg your pardon. I've been known to become rather out of sorts in this condition. —er, your condition, captain? Dead drunk and blind with fear out of my mind. [he ponders for a moment, knowing that the mission could very well be their last.] Consider it done. Great. Get dressed, and meet me with the car out front in half an hour. Half an hour? Sharp. Bonus points for showing up early. We're earning points? We are now. Very well then. What am I wearing? Something sharp. Sharper than the inside of a half hour. On your mark. I'll—see you soon. He exits the captain's office, letting out a sigh of relief otherwise previously congested, he looks around as if not to be caught, regains his composure with the shake of his head, somewhat in disbelief of what he's witnessed. He casually places his hands in his pockets, walking down the hall and passing one of his crew mates, who quickly stops to salute him. Sergeant. Almost forgetting to salute back, mindlessly drifting passed in ‘off' mode, he slowly and squarely, almost still casually, salutes back. Oh. I had glimpsed at a picture of the man once more that had forced me to wonder— “Jesus Christ, is he okay?” It would be odd to think of a man who has spent a better part of the last two decades and most of his careers on camera as unphotogenic, then again—I had been tricked by the media before into thinking a certain way, and therefore was cautious, and still—I began to wonder about the man and his misery, and his mistresses—not out of jealousy or obsession, but simply because I knew he had them. He was old Hollywood, or old New York—or maybe a bit of both, and there was something about it all, perhaps even my own darkness, that danced with the flicker of sinful lust that motioned me towards not a yearning, or the act of doing so—I was at least wise enough to know nothing good could come from doing harm to oneself or another— but with the intensity of burning desire to know the man behind the mask—the actor inside the actor, to whom all the world's a stage. Whatever, though. Doesn't matter. At least I was still somehow youthfully resilient to what might have otherwise been torture, TVP S2- after Esha's promotion to head writer. DAEMON DALLAS, aka “DASH” is a quick witted, fast-talking comic powerhouse— his legendary stand up and acting career has made him a legendary force in movies, film, and television; he has been booked on the show to sit down with his longtime friend Patrick about his new stand up comedy tour. — DAEMON Who's this beautiful sister? PATRICK My head writer; don't even think about it. DAEMON I don't think. I just do. Esha approaches— Dash politely bows and kisses Esha's hand. ESHA Should I get tested? DAEMON —and funny. [Against Patrick's wishes, Esha accepts a date with Daemon Dash; Furious, Patrick means to interrogate her at work the next day. ] PATRICK Why would you even date that asshole. ESHA Because—Pat. He's a comedian. PATRICK I'm a comedian! So? ESHA So, he's funny. PATRICK And? ESHA And he said things to me— PATRICK (defensively) –What kind of things?! ESHA Charming, funny things— PATRICK Okay? ESHA Things he wouldn't say to you over dinner— because, I'm– PATRICK —you're a woman. ESHA —and your head writer. So naturally…. PATRICK Esh, you're a genius, ESHA So is he. We have—some new material to work through. [ESHA produces a hefty pile of notes and serves them to PATRICK] PATRICK (squealing) Ahq! ESHA Your monologue tonight. [Patrick excitedly shuffles through the papers.] PATRICK Oh yes. Oh yes. ESHA You can thank me later. © The Festival Project ™ , Inc. All Rights Reserved. Broken bottles. Someone should stop her Walkin walking God knows I don't belong here And I don't want to Passover was April 21-30 Global War on Terrorism Aka WWIII Oh, indeed. Don't look left Take a deep breath My heart beats differently I think it might be the end I think it might be I think I might be the enemy The pushing mechanism When i breath him in I levitate And gravitate to what it meant The sake of the art, The hurt of the heart As sacred as it ever was The turning or the Torah talks of Gestures, since the fall of Rome The toga on the alter Solid hands unwrap us all From falling over Old and awkward No award for wisdom No rest for the wiser No love for the troll Since thunderstruck from under us, Delivered all but what we wanted So we talk of kama sutra, Surely we can't talk at all Of what we know As once was bonded Laughed it off To come from what The call to us, Fair serve governors fortress I work up in mentions Carved the scarlet letter out of Cannons, of course MA. WHAT. I'm BUSY. IT'S ON. The what? The show we watch! The one that— YES, Oh, my GOD. Yes. YESSSSSSSSS. Usnavi, get your popcorn This is some worth watching Up in arms for forwards Causing sore arms, Numb thumbs From crucifixes Are you wondering what God Would walk about the horned carving A kamikaze walk of tall corn— Follow me, dear mantra Your whole house is watching. Sacre. It's happening again isn't it. I do want ice cream. All I need is a divorce And an Amazon woman 10 foot tall To rub me off at the stroke of Nevermind what the clock says In God's house they're all wrong The blasphemous for Catholics Has begun, So strum your number into the teleprompter And just hope no one gets hurt By the hook on the next song —like the hook of my last surviving bra digs into my back does, Or the skin on my lack of tummy Has rubbed off under the suicide Of the cycle— It's getting tighter A loss of interest is equal to A loss of consciousness And I'm 21 days drunk On the alternate, though— I'm sober and feeling less Loved. The animal I've become is all cardio And karma sutra For karma comes To the weak of heart To use the world as swords To cause harm To the calm artists I thought I told you off once. (Already) You look awful. lol. You look terrible, broh. But my album sound fire. #producerholes [portal] It's coffee time!! It's not coffee time! It's not coffee time. Iiiiits coffee time. Damn. Where's the cat. Gestating. I fell asleep on a Saturday afternoon and woke up on a Saturday morning something like 19 hours later, after a series of dr same the types of like I was sure that my new dreamcatcher would shield me from—the turquoise beads were probably plastic, but who could know—without further inspection, I gladly hung it up near the window to catch the bad spirits who had been attacking me in the night, mostly in the form of satanic possessed motorcycle riders or heavily drinking passerby's. Wouldn't it be nice to have somewhere beautiful like this in downtown Los Angeles, or even Santa Monica? I had grown tired of the toxicity of inner city New Yorkers and the third world antics of the newest inhabitants— still/- it was the first apartment ever in my entire adulthood that was totally and completely mine, and I took good care of it. I knew that most folks weren't as clean and tidy as I was, and although I had left my apartment quite a mess in a lurch to get to the post office, returning the cheap and improperly advertised fake essential oils I had returned upon discovering that they were indeed not actually essential oils, but something that smelled more like floor cleaner, and was the consistency of water—they were fake, and the bath rug had been altered with photoshop to make it look gold, while it was actually yellow. I took it back, remembering the promise I had made 3 days ago—once I was finished reading Tina Fey's matching yellow book, I would find somewhere else to put the rug, but it clashed so classlesley with everything in my apartment, that I couldn't stand to look anymore; the rug had been removed from the bathroom before even filing for a return label; the fake essential oils joined it in the box three days later— a Saturday I was sure upon first waking was Sunday, but then glad it was some kind of time slip through the dimensions as I slept wearily for hours after refusing to go to the gym, only to be followed by what seemed like robots—the same 3 or 4 people showing up when I worked out no matter what time I decided to go—early or late. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Oprah thinks you're a dipshit. Good...good! What?! At least she THINKs of me!

Speak now, or forever hold your peace. Damn. Patrick is one cold ass motherfucker. It was all still rumbling around in my head somewhere… How could i forget something like that. Why even come to the ceremony if you were going to make a big scene like that I didn't. Why even show up? Appearances. Are you serious? –it would look bad if I didn't. It looked bad that you did and then exited during the ceremony. –the end of the ceremony. Specifically at the objections. –I wasn't paying attention. You stood up! I had to use the restroom. As an objection? Merely a coincidence. You don't believe in coincidences. I don't believe in marriages, either. Oh, please. I begged you. That's your excuse. It's not an excuse. Is it an objection? And if it was? I got married anyway. –So it wouldn't matter. Thanks for the toaster oven. –I didn't get you a toaster oven. Yes you did. Uh–no, I didn't. Then what did you get us? Nothing, I forgot. Well, the card was from you. Hm Maybe you forgot to forget. Maybe. Thank you, anyway. –Congratulations. There's leftover cake. Where? Everywhere. __ LATER. Hazel is practicing her guitar; her glasses rest at the edge of her nose, as she focuses on the instrument, almost as if her father in the doorway is a shadow, or an afterthought. She carefully tunes the strings as he leans into her bedroom. Hazel. Hm. Did you buy Esha and Mark a toaster oven with my credit card? She stops for a moment and peers over the brim of her glasses briefly addressing her father. –I knew you'd forget. Oh. I–I did. I know. Thank you. You're welcome. He pauses for a moment before making his departure, turning into the hallway. There's leftover cake. She seems genuinely excited. There is? Where? [beat] …everywhere. Ugh. This show blows my mind. Yeah. Sometimes almost literally. Happiness is a warm gun. You're the Hatter, and the rabbit, Alice and The Cheshire! You're The Rabbit, The Hatter, The Cheshire, and Alice! Did I ever write that scene about the liquor store? Maybe, probably. I don't know. Now every time i go to the store where I saw that scene, I see it again–although not quite as clearly, and I can't help but wonder if I ever wrote it down, or, like so much of whatever and somesuch–it was all just in my head. No, Patrick exists. Clearly. I had been fasting for an extraneous amount of time, though for how long i couldn't say. And the words repeated over and over in my head for me to fetch a book from the cabinet I had been interested in by its cover alone, but had put away weeks ago. I had stopped reading, and had become more focused on creating something that could generate revenue. I needed money, almost desperately enough to sell my already outdated DJ equipment and some of my studio gear, and yet–there was still work to be done. There wasn't much that I could do with my aged equipment, but there wasn't much I could do without it, either. Luckily, winter was coming forward faster, with heavy enough rain throughout the week that it kept some of the cyclists at bay, however, the same evil energy seems to have moved inward; now the doors just outside of my own slammed continuously throughout the day, without any logical explanation as to why; there were only six apartments on the floor, and most of the other people on the floor used the elevator to go about their tasks, so I couldn't much understand the constant door slamming–and though I had put in a maintenance request, being well aware that the doors could be fixed not to slam, my request had been ignored. It seemed as though the property manager had grown tired of my requests, but I had grown tired of having to make them. THe neighbors were inconsiderate, and I desperately wanted to move to a cleaner and quieter neighborhood–and though I knew by New York city standards what I had was a blessing–the noise had become depressing, and so had being followed by the same group of people during my gym regimen–enough so that I avoided nearly all human contact. People seemed to be increasingly toxic, in such a way that I intended to find a suitable enough position that I could save money and be able to one day escape. New York was not a clean, quiet, and friendly place. I disliked my newfound bitterness, hostility, and anger which the city had characteristically put into its place. My creativity meant nothing–I would need to earn money to be respected, or even well liked– Not that I cared much for being accepted or admired, however, in the way Californians upheld high standards of vanity, New York never overlooked the value of a dollar; it was a money game, and so far, I was losing. ‘Guncle. Guncle.' A faraway voice seemed to say. ‘Uh, okay.' I continued about my ritualistic deep cleaning, which always seemed to automatically take place towards the end of a fast. ‘GUNCLE!' The voice was loud this time, almost as if it was being yelled. “Jesus Christ, alright.” I reached up onto the high shelf where the book was stored and retrieved the book; I had almost forgotten the pink and blue letters which had drawn me to it in the first place. I had figured the colors to be some sort of code, as they were often used in media–but I wasn't sure besides what meaning I had assigned to it all my own what it was supposed to mean, besides being somewhere along the right path– ‘G U N C L E' I had no idea what the book was about, but flipped to the middle as I often did to get a glimpse at what the book might fortell. Low and behold, there it was– Not a massive sign, but a sign at least. I myself no longer believed in coincidences, especially while fasting, and all incidences of a certain nature lately seemed in fact to be somewhat Divine; I opened up to find that the main character of the book was named Patrick– And of course, He was some kind of actor– A television personality. I had nearly abandoned The Television people with Fallon and his–whatever-he-was– and being entirely honest with myself, I wasn't sure. What I was certain was, though, was that he was whatever I was, and whatever I was, was dangerous, volatile, prone to both implotsions and explosions and a little bit whimsical–I'd have liked to think, some sort of artist, or creative, however, Obviously not vibrating at the speed of celebrity status, at least not consistently– And, of course, remarkably tamed, for the kind of creature in my nature to have stumbled upon quite a discovery so ‘casually.' But there was really nothing so casual about it– it was formally divination, this specific puzzle piece, in that I had been fasting for no reason or purpose at all with no end in sight until being directed with such pertinence to pick up this book, only to find that the first word my eyes would see, was not at all just a word, but a name. I couldn't remember why he was Pat Kirkpartrick, at first, at all; then I remembered that for some reason–there was some kind of teaching i was supposed to have remembered about these people–the television people–and the Irish, especially; but then, there were also, strangely with some of the same ties, the Greeks, the…. Suddenly the back of my neck cause a warm wind, which I always thought to be strange sitting in the middle of my apartment with no air conditioning on at all. I had been fasting on this day as well and had gotten a second wind after eating, completing as many instrumentals as i could before continuing to look for a normal ‘slave job' so that I could earn money to travel and visit my loved ones. I didn't want for much else, not that I wanted to be normal, because I knew already at this point that I couldn't–but I needed to be paid in money I could choose what and where to spend on things I needed without relying on anything or anyone else. I couldn't keep taking my chances in entertainment; I was aging, and growing tired, and wary of the whitewashed and over-politically correct world that was sure to be pursuing entertainment anymore, especially television–I thought that perhaps I was best suited for desk work at a gym which would motivate me to show up every day; otherwise, I would probably quit or be fired almost immediately. It was time to retire to bed, with protective stones strapped to my chest to protect myself against whatever that awful, evil thing was–now that it was rainy for motorcycles, the doors slammed all day long and ached in my bones as if someone were hitting me; I knew that this thing only wanted to hurt me–it could be no other force but the force of evil that continued to lurk around me whatever way that it could–whether I meditated or prayed, fasted or exercise, ate or didn't–there was always someone or something unpeaceful happening; something which allowed me to understand that perhaps I was in a world that I could leave sooner than later. Often my wrists ached with the throbbing sensation of a dreary and thoughful wish for freedom; a suicide which would end all things once and for all–but–I also knew there was more art to leave behind than I had made, and so for that, I continued to be; I let the motorcycles and slamming doors stand as a reminder that all things that would seek to harm me would also be harmed in doing so–not in the least a calming sense of knowing, but a sense of something known nonetheless. Damn I keep forgetting Trevor Noah. How do you do? How do I do what? Fuck man, America is so fucking racist. It's like, We'll kind of almost fuck with South Africa– But only cause it's dominated by white culture; And the prominent blacks that come from south Africa are light skinned And have accents, so they're not as scary. “Oh, South Africa” “Right. How's the water? That ought to tip your elections in the right direction. “I'll say!” (Ours too.) The only time racists accept anything colored is if its beautiful, (read:flawless) Or overly accomplished. I've realized that if you're either one or the other, You can eventually be both. Anything else with color is basically just for entertainment purposes. Or general warfare. “Multi-use niggas” White people are like: “Entertain me; Or else you're a threat.” “Yessir” Yo. The late night guys are mad weird. Somehow, the hosts of late night television have all mysteriously been locked into an unfamiliar mansion, without their suits—and pants—unable to find an exit. All of the doorways are blocked—and all of the windows have been altered—they do not open, nor can anyone see out of them; in fact, they are doctored with the same illusionary backdrops that can be seen on the sets of their own shows—the televisions, which, have seemingly been programmed to only play reruns of their own shows. Why— why aren't you wearing pants!? I don't know. Where's your suit? You should be wearing a suit! I know, right?! Who the fuck even are you?! Depends whose asking. YO, CONAN. WOAH. You're not a late night host! Thank God! That seems like an awful job—your demographic fucking sucks. My demographic does suck. But to counter that— I'm a Republican. Who knew?! Not my demographic. Okay, everybody calm down. (Everybody was already calm, but for the most part just confused, and pant less; most of them wear the same classic boxers, though in different patterns/ slightly varying colors—but of course, nothing too crazy, while only one host sports boxer briefs, and one (I'll let you guess who) ladies panties.) At least we all have our own rooms. I don't! I'm stuck in a twin bed and Leno has the other. Before: JAY LENO Good Morning, bright eyes. CUT BACK TO: Aren't you retired? I do moonlighting. LENO and FALLON seem somewhat comfortable and non-biased (read: unbothered entirely) over the morning paper and coffee at opposite ends of the large breakfast table, a continental style breakfast of croissants, seasonal fruit, with an assortment of cereals arranged in the kitchen. FALLON occasionally looks up from his paper to laugh at himself on the television, playing in the kitchen. The other hosts squint with allied disgruntlement of FALLON'S nonchalance and slightly narcissistic egotism. FALLON (reading paper, watching self; eating croissant, sipping coffee) Haha. Nobody has pants, and as the hosts will soon discover—this is with purpose. They have been trapped here as part of an experimental game show, in which the unrecognized and uninformed guest will host, as part of a test shoot aimed at the demographic of the late night hosts combined audience, to test whether or not this demographic will be positively receptive to a late night host who is also a woman of color (read: black) —without a white male counterpart co-host to soften the blow. Really? This is why they're doing this? Who is “they?!” The network. We all work for different networks! I'm pretty sure the only reason I have a demographic is because of my accent. It's true. They accept you. Right. Where are the women. An overhead voice: (They are coming) Oh, so I will have co-hosts. Guest co-hosts; they will vary and change from episode to episode. Oh. Thank Goodness. Don't thank me yet. Uh, okay—overhead voice… Let's just say I'm the narrorator.. Narrorator for what [this is also a movie] Uh. In what genre? [a host opens the cabinet to a bloody chuckie- like doll, which pops out from a mechanical arm with a high pitched scream; the host lets out a squeal, abandoning his coffee— we see a hidden camera pov from the camera's perspective, and then slow-motion replay footage of the host's reaction— he runs frantically pantless into a corner and then up the stairs. —Depends on the host. FALLON, who has been sitting at the table behind him, is still unaffected/unmoved. Himself makes a joke on the TV screen above— he giggles at himself, sipping coffee and looking back to his newspaper the other hosts groan; LENO shrugs and continues, delightfully finishing smearing a bagel and biting into it— he trades FALLON the comics he's been reading for the RELIGION section he's been scoping under the magified lenses of his readers, quietly and sweetly, like an old married couple, without even exchanging a glance or speaking to one another. Ugh. Suddenly, from the floor above. OH DEAR GOD. CRAIG FURGUSEN has just realized his worse nightmare. The hosts still standing at the bottom floor in the kitchen all look up, wide eyed. [Cursing in unintelligible Scottish] ———- They said that you were one of us, but you're not one of us. But you're not one of us. Of course not, I'm not a comic— I studied philosophy in college. That should be funny, but it's not. I would repeat what I just said, but I don't want to. Still not funny. What if I farted? Bubbles—water—maybe— some potential. But probably not. Shame. What are you reading? I'm not, I'm having banter with a crazy-eyed late night host in a bathrobe. Well how's this for a book mark? He opens his robe. (Unimpressed) Aren't you married? Arent we all? I digress. Embarrassed and nervous, he quickly closes his robe. Yes. To a blonde. Congratulations. Where should I send the card. I'm not giving you my address! Creepy fan—stand up, wanna be… He frustratedly begins to exit You're the one standing, technically —And I'll be the last one standing. At the end of the week, it's gonna be me in those pants! Me! Clearly, this show of affection has all been an attempt to bribe “CC”, into being persuaded into awarding this particular host “The Pants”. The hosts will compete for “The Pants” at the end of the first week of challenges I want them gone. But sir. Out. starting Monday; and I want you out of my office, starting now. Now, get Troublemaker on the line so I can finish my breakfast in agony, like the red blooded American I'm supposed to be. Sir. Troublemaker is the top secret code name assigned to the President of the United States; the true President of the United States, the only surviving member of the cabinet after a series of successful infiltrations and assassinations by the enemy, after a covert mission revealed that the succession of the US presidents had been predetermined; not chosen by “The People”, but descendants of a Royal bloodline. Pinocchio the code name for the senator chosen as the stand in— the face to America's eyes and ears, listens intently to the President's every move, daily happenings, and assertions, as to best convey the ideas as his own; meanwhile, the Secret President is heavily guarded, controlled, and is acclimated using a series of secret codes and messages and decoded, including several secret languages and symbology hidden within her daily routines, which become more challenging and versatile, adapting her to her role as Commander In Chief of the United States armed forces, and consequently, the world around her, as the US forces seek to broaden their horizon as the a world superpower, to a Global entity, which powers and controls the heavily overpopulated planet which lies in imminent demise by like likes of war, plague, and diminishing resources. The actual President of the United States must remain hidden as so, as to remain safe until the intercontinental breech has been sealed, and national security has been restored. Viewer indescretion is advised It's not ME. Okay, okay: I'm not the president! I'm not running for president I don't even know who the president is. The president is dead. GOOD . Madame… I mean—not good. You— No. So like—- It's automatically racist to just outright say that the migrants are for the most part not well behaved or orderly—- They leave trash everywhere and don't even watch their kids! Some of them. I think they're just assuming this is okay?! IS THIS OKAY?! No! What the fuck! That is racist. Have you seen it from where I stand? The strength is in numbers! Look, I don't hate human beings. Are they— Yes they're humans. They're just. Our imminent demise is in allowing this to continue to happen. I hope you realize that from how high up you are. I know you can't see it from up in your shiny townhouses or from the blacked out windows of your town cars, but... They're good people. SOME of them I mean a lot of these 3rd world people are very primitive thinkers. Don't count on them being brought up to speed in consciousness and morality when they're basically brought here as luxury slaves. That's putting it nicely. Well, if you're not going to pay Americans living wages, you're going to have to counter it somehow. I can't have three jobs. Oh, that's nice. The terrorists are attacking their own people. For what purpose is any of this, actually? Check it out. I found the leak. Alert the mayor. He's on the Mayor's books. What in the actual fuck. Gross. Is there not a screening process for this? Too late: anchor babies. “The Secret President” So you just dropped like 2 million pregnant 3rd world— You realize that. There must be some kind of compromise. Yeah. Send them back. Ew, fucking gross. I don't understand— What you don't understand! [A SAGA] What don't you understand? My land is your land!? Yeah, and now the economy's in the trashcan. I figure that's an upgrade from a black hole! You don't understand that we're like leaking— —like bleeding—- Money! Half of this money's not even being recirculated into the United States! Send for uncle Juan, Camilla, and all of my pregnant nieces. Dalè. ARRIVA STORM THE GATES. Yo, lady. What the fuckz At least put shoes on the baby. PUT THE DIAPER IN THE TRASHCAN. Where's your mother? I am my mother. Goddamn! What is the United States?! Racists! Trust me I'd rather die than not Either way, I'll love you all the same It's unfortunate The wicked ones Atop us, with the fortunes With no one to love But piles of bodies, Power plays and flaccid phalic Valid fantasies and tragic Dissatisfaction All those bottles And all those bodies And all those models You still can't mount a horse. All that power And all that money And you don't want me But she doesn't do much But want to love Pity no one up there seems to know what is does Love, is for us The ugly under you Trust me, I'd rather die tonight Than wake up alone Foaming in the mouth With no one there to froth with Trust me I'd rather die than not Either way, I'll love you all the same I guess I'm slag bro Another attack It's fine; I'm just not attractive Not even fit for his Side piece of ass How's that go? What's that life Just take a knife to my back Cause I can't go back bro I went black bro Flatline He caught my eye, Then I went flat broke If I could draw a line up my spine And unwind the entire world I would, though If I could tie a knot to the knot in my back And then just jump rope Off a long rope From a strong pole Here's hoping {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

In this episode, Esha shares the radical changes she's making in her life and the importance of building an intimate living relationship with oneself to experience a full and embodied life. In carving out time to listen to your heart, dreams, and what lights you up from within. There is no waiting. Living is done in the now.

Today, Clancy speaks with Esha and Shreyaa Venkat. They are the founders of NEST4US, a nonprofit formed as a philanthropic platform built upon kindness, generosity, and social good. You won't want to miss their discussions about food waste, how NEST4US focuses on volunteers as their family, food dignity, and food equity. Enjoy the show!

AI is transforming every facet of work and life, including how we improve and build leadership communication skills. In this episode, Bart speaks with Esha Joshi, co-founder of Yoodli, an AI-powered speech coach. The Humphrey Group has partnered with Yoodli to create a unique version that not only analyzes your speaking but also incorporates The Humphrey Group's intellectual capital and guidance to enhance your leadership communication skills. In this conversation, Bart and Esha discuss her journey to founding Yoodli, her passion for helping people build their communication skills, and what the tool does. They also delve into insights from the large data sets Yoodli collects, which have helped tens of thousands of people worldwide improve their public speaking. Lastly, they explore why the partnership between human coaches and AI brings the best skill development, highlighting how each complements the other. 1:19 Welcoming Esha 2:00 Bart talks about ELI 2:49 What is Yoodli? 5:05 Esha's background 5:49 Decision to go into tech 6:47 Apple TV and Ted Lasso 7:46 The intersection of tech and entertainment 7:57 3 main passions 8:21 Teaching young girls to code 8:49 Communication skills 9:31 Bart talks about their work with women at the HG 10:27 When did you get the idea for Yoodli? 10:46 Shift to virtual communication 11:15 Poor communication skills holding back really talented people 12:09 Co-founder Varun 13:19 How do people use this technology? 14:25 Bespoke HG solution 15:08 Use it to rate your performance in live meetings 15:50 See long-term trends 16:14 Exposure therapy 17:42 Practice first with an AI but get human feedback is essential 18:33 Hearing yourself back is cringy but essential 19:13 Seeing yourself through the eyes of the audience 19:54 The power of the pause 20:47 Improve lateral thinking 21:48 Desktop app 24:05 Zack Cass 24:44 What will never be replicated by AI? 26:48 Using AI as a starting point 27:47 Inspiring ideas? Bart 30:08 What's next for Yoodli and Eli?

Today I am joined by Esha Desaiy, an accomplished real estate expert specializing in condominiums in the vibrant Miami and Fort Lauderdale area. Esha takes us through her fascinating career journey from pre-med, IT sales, and industrial organizational psychology to her ultimate passion for real estate advising.Together, we discuss the intricacies of matching clients with their ideal properties, underscoring the significance of understanding personal needs, lifestyle preferences, and budget constraints. This includes the unique community living experience offered by condos, complete with amenities like dog parks, in-house chefs, and health and wellness services. Esha also sheds light on the critical factors to assess when purchasing a condo, including management practices and potential red flags.Tune in to learn why working with a skilled real estate advisor is crucial, especially when navigating a new city, and how downsizing can mark the beginning of a fresh, vibrant chapter in life. Whether you're considering a condo lifestyle for its convenience or community feel, this episode is packed with insights and practical advice to help you make informed decisions. About the Guest:Esha Desaiy is known as "Real Estate Matchmaker" - Leverage my Knowledge & Expertise to Get What You Want. My 3 Core Principles: Efficient, Honest, and Committed to YOUR Success. I am not an ordinary realtor, as my clients attest. As an ex-management consultant, I am driven by my need to leverage my knowledge, expertise, and resources to help you make the right decision for you and your family. My clients often become my friends. It would be my honor to be your guide, advisor, and concierge—committed to partnering with you to buy, sell, invest, or rent a luxury home in the greater Miami/Ft Lauderdale area.To connect with Esha:Phone: 305-772-0007LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/esha-k-desaiy-b3a8531a5/ IG: https://www.instagram.com/miamirealtoresha/About the Host: Mardi Winder-Adams is an ICF and BCC Executive and Leadership Coach, Certified Divorce Transition Coach, Certified Divorce Specialist (CDS®) and a Credentialed Distinguished Mediator in Texas. She has worked with women in executive, entrepreneur, and leadership roles, navigating personal, life, and professional transitions. She is the founder of Positive Communication Systems, LLC, and host of Real Divorce Talks, a quarterly series designed to provide education and inspiration to women at all stages of divorce. Are you interested in learning more about your divorce priorities? Take the quiz "The Divorce Stress Test".Connect with Mardi on Social Media:Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/Divorcecoach4womenLinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/mardiwinderadams/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/divorcecoach4women/Thanks for Listening!Thanks so much for listening to our podcast! If you enjoyed this episode and think that others could benefit from listening, please share it using the social media buttons on this page.Do you have some feedback or questions about this episode? Leave a comment in the section below!Subscribe to the PodcastIf you would like to get automatic updates of new podcast episodes, you can subscribe to the podcast on Apple Podcasts or Stitcher. You can also subscribe in your favorite podcast app.Leave us an Apple Podcast ReviewRatings and reviews from our listeners are extremely valuable to us and greatly appreciated. They help our podcast rank higher on Apple Podcasts, which exposes our show to more awesome listeners like you. If you have a...

Welcome to the Brown Women Health Podcast. Join hosts Esha and Ameek as they engage in a soulful conversation with Harman Kaur, the talented author behind Phulkari. Phulkari is a collection of poetry and prose that intricately weaves together themes of grief, identity, love, spirituality, and healing, reflecting the experiences of a Panjabi Sikh woman. In this episode, Harman Kaur shares the profound symbolism of lungs within Phulkari, exploring themes of breath, life, and the complexities of cultural and personal identity. Discover the inspiration behind her work, her unique writing process, and the deep-rooted connections that shape her storytelling. Insight into the title and themes of Phulkari The role of grief, love, and spirituality in Harman's writing Exploring the powerful imagery of lungs in her poetry and prose Harman's personal journey as a Panjabi Sikh woman and author The impact of Phulkari on readers and its contribution to discussions on identity and healing Explore more about Harman Kaur's work and sign up for book notifications for her upcoming release in early 2025 on her Linktree: linktr.ee/harmank.aur Don't miss this enriching conversation on the beauty and depth of Phulkari. Tune in to deepen your understanding of her literary journey and the profound messages embedded in her writing. --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/brownwomenhealth/message Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/brownwomenhealth/support

Find Me On Broadway 001: {VEEP} (AN OWSLA CONFIDENTIAL EXCLUSIVE} FROM GOOGLE “Veep” 2012 ‧ Sitcom ‧ 7 seasons "Politics is about people," former Sen. Selina Meyer is fond of saying. Unfortunately, the people Meyer, a charismatic leader and rising star in her party, meets after becoming vice president are nothing like she expected, but everything she was warned about. "Veep" follows the VP as she puts out political fires, juggles her public schedule and private life, and does everything within her limited powers to improve her dysfunctional relationship with the chief executive. Meyer's trusted -- and some not-so-trusted -- sidekicks include chief of staff Amy, one-time spokesperson Mike, and right-hand man Gary. “The New Adventures of Old Supacree” This is not what I intentioned. Well, what had you intentioned, dammit , how do you spell her name? Spell it? I can barely say it! “C'cx– WRONG. How would you say this name. Axel? Thas' a stupid name Not for a Rockstar. That's already a rockstar Is it? Whatever, man. The Rock must have been buzzing in some sort of special way on this day; because for some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I had finally rearranged the remainder of my seemingly new surroundings— the miniature Keurig— a status symbol, of course— looked handsome on the work desk— the cat tree seemed to match, though with no actual feesible monetary income,, no actual cat, and no end in sight— the tree itself would have to be enough to lift my spirits. It was a nice cat tree, almost untouched and looking very brand new— though the couch had a few scratches, though easily hidden with the decorative use of a couple throws—at least I had a couch, and all that was left to accomplish before fully enjoying was to arrange an order of Febreeze to rid it of its previous owner's dandruff smell, and general mismanagement—besides that, it was itself almost brand new as well, and it seemed a strange new world to wake up in, after sleeping in a nearly empty apartment for 6 months; there was 6 months left in my lease, and I was getting nervous that they would try to push me out—hopefully I would find someplace better, or at the very least higher up—with the same amenities intact. Still, I was working as diligently as in could on organizing—at least the recordings, to put together the next group of projects as quickly as I could— nevermind the writing—and there was so, so much of it, I hadn't a clue what to do. I had been avoiding Rockefeller Plaza like the plague for quite sometime—it always made me nervous in a sort of way I didn't understand, in that I would pulsate and vibrate differently, and more often times than not, was upset and concerned that I had yet to go to the top—a costly feat—nor could I afford to entertain or enjoy any of the amusements at the bottom—not that I wanted to, as the older I got, and especially the longer time spent in New York, the more off putting the public and large crowds were—particularly after a remarkably disgusting respiratory infection I caught on new years, battling a crowd which became impossible to move through at all—let alone see the ball drop—and I had learned my lesson, especially after The Macy's Day parade; the crowds in New York were disgustingly unbearable, and in order to get a good view of anything, you would have to arrive nearly a full day early, and simply camp—now I knew why people packed around collapsible lawn chairs on holiday weekends. I had been blindsided by Fallon towards the end of the Macy's day parade—I hadn't any clue at all that he apparentlyboarticipated annually, as it had been years since I had watched the parade myself with my parents—and still, it was iconic—I always wanted to go. Still, and even though I had only written very little of him up to that point, I found it disasterous that as his name was announced and the float which carried him and The Roots, the best late night band on Television, not by opinion, but by fact—as I had most recently been studying and researching as thoroughly as I could all of the late night hosts since the dawning of Television in preparation to write this pilot, The TV People, short handed to TVP—and just then I recalled a dream from the night before, about Pat Kirkpatrick—for the first time in the dream world, it wasn't Fallon at all, but Pat Kirkpatrick. I couldn't remember the dream, nor could I seemingly work myself out of the rut that had been the plateau in writing the show—the show itself was heavy, with so many characters, all of which each had been given detailed and specific personalities, livelihoods, and backgrounds—in fact, I hadn't written anything in such a way since college, with detail—actually, I had never written anything so detailed at all, so character oriented that the character analyses filled entire pages of documents with excruciating vividness, as if these people were real. Well, now they were—and Fallon was neither Patrick as I was Esha, and the story has taken its own form, still however birthing an incredibly awkward and romanticized fascination and near obsession with the TV people themselves—not that I would feed it to be so. I blocked out the news outlets, the media, the alrogithm's suggestions to watch bits and pieces of Fallon, though, however, I refused, and somehow, I didn't need it. Fearfully so, he was somewhere lodged deep somewhere inside of me—and I was even sort of embarrassed to have written some of the things I had of his essence, however prophetic it seemed to be, that for about a three week period between April and May, I seemed to have gone off into a trance of sorts, writing for hours and experiencing vivid visions of this show, The TV Prople, alongside writing The Festival Project ™ And all of its markers—there were so many worlds, so many ways throughout them—and now as I had realized, I had actually been writing about Fallon nearly as long as I had been writing about Sonny, but differently. I had never of course come face to face with Fallon as I had the latter—and still—found it somewhat nessecary to hide my face beneath a mask as his float passed my viewing spaf , an elevated view from the staircase of some church, which had happened to be perfect—and although I was certain it's not as if he was looking for or at me—I had just then been writing of this Cosmic Avenger, and hadn't any idea at the time of Fallon in reality having been an actual magician, and still— with cameras everywhere, and knowing even what I had written—I didn't want to be caught by any passing cameras with any sort of blush or worse—a smile on my face as the float passed— a smile which would flash my atrocious gap-tooth and crooked smile I was sure was permanent, by then having been in the homeless shelter nearly a year. As soon as his name was announced, I promptly pulled up my mask, hiding under my sunglasses. I had already been caught on camera earlier in the parade gawking at some float—now was not the time to be caught gawking again. He, like Rob Lowe seemed impeccably professional and well-rehearsed, like a cartoon character— he was, after all, kind of a cartoon character, however now, even if it was partly due to my own writing, I took him more seriously. There was a darkness about him— a sometimes glassy-eyed, almost scary darkness that told me, even a world away, not to fuck with this dude—some kind of animal or monster I was sure we both shared, however mine more the type and category of insatable and undernourished and his more peaking its head out in the form of a multi-millionaire network puppet, which housed an untamable powerhouse of musicianship, manhood, and wit— it's true, I was finally scared of him, knowing after all what the true tears of a clown could be, a dangerous man in a uniformed suit, the Everyman for the programmed masses, and the funny man with a jig to dance, a story to tell, and an indoor life— secret realm within I was sure no one knew. I fed the monster with respect to the home, happy wife, and children— I, after all, loved love, and only wanted it for myself, leaving alone the parts of a man I had found and was sure was broken enough to have left me puzzled and star studded rather than struck as I always was, tears welling up at the thought of it that something should be mended neither I or anything I was could not fix—I continued to write, however, knowing I was walking on glass barefoot and tiptoeing on eggshells around the mass media conglomerate of the network that stood between my feeble world and his, the higher ups— and beyond: it was, after all, a level system— and now with a beautifully decorated and fully apartment, besides my mattress on the floor instead of the space saving loft bed I had wanted—though it looked just right with the piano bench as a headboard, housing my crystals and new globe, plus a colorful collection of books I could crack open as I awoke to the morning light, no longer so early but increasingly later, as I shifted into the insomniatic habits of a true DJ and music producer, still writing and reading in the mornings, however— I had to wonder what level I was truly on. My apartment looked like a home. The decor was better than I could have imagined myself even, the tasteful furnishings and modern elegance shifting my reality— no longer an empty apartment, now a fashionable hub for art and creation. I assumed the cat would come along in the winter, with any hopes that I would finish my albums by then—and also looming over me— my last life, and the people in it struggling to call up to me in this very ascended realm, which I was lucky to inhabit. ‘Thank you God for your many blessings' My wishes it seemed, had been granted— magic did indeed seem real, and though I had an Amazon return packages and ready to go— there wasn't a time and place I could see myself as ready to even be near The Rock, some festering bulletwound in my heart, all that I had written, not just of Fallon, but of the rest of the people I had honored by word mark but had not yet the status or wealth to have ever known as human at all, but more products of the program; with intention, however, it was the path I had followed to be destined here somehow though small codes and doorways, signals and symbols which called to me and seemed only I could see—but were there in plain sight, and with the right eyes, had meant more than I ever dreamed anything could— open doors to a world I had indeed created myself, and in turn, the world in which I lived had also been created around me. I had to, in my mind, find the light inside all of whom I studied, to humanize myself—nurturing some fascination of fame and celebrity inside which still stood unanswered, the question of why and how one becomes so high up that without trying, that I might continue to find them in my mind's eye and in my world, on the outside, time after time. —tales of a superstar DJ. The men with the littlest dicks Drive the loudest bikes And they talk too much About nothing To no one The men with the littlest dicks Do the littlest things I call it niggardly Dispite the color Follow the leader To instill fear Within earshot The men with the littlest dicks Want the skinniest women The chicks who remind them of Innocence lost A childhood spent Getting boredom for freedom And allowences for doing nothing The men with the littlest dicks Do the littlest shit Like make everyone miserable Yes, it is a miserable existence, Never being wanted, however I should know better than this TINA FEY SON OF A BITCH. (Everyone's still drunk) What. Why, what happened? He got here before us. What?! How do you know? [pause] Okay. This weird detour is paying off in some kind of way— I'm still heavily obsessed with the fact that Johnny Carson referred to his weird drunken jacking off as “cranking it” ON TV. On something close to live television in like— The 80's Was it the 80's? I don't know, And apparently even Johnny Carson doesn't know, because he was “sauced”, So let's just go ahead and add that to the list of ghosts I have to track down for making me squeal like a little fucking schoolgirl. However, I'm half convinced, He's still around— Oh yes. I do believe these— THIS MAN— Oh, holy shit here it goes. HERE'S JOHNNY! Aw, fuck. I told you not do. What was I supposed to do—?! Not do it It was a blood oath— I told you— Mi had to do it. *shrugs* Well, now, you're fucked. STAY DOWN, MOTHERFUCKER. Ooh. This is gonna hurt. I swear to god, Every day of my life: I will KILL YOU YOU CANT KILL ME. AND EVERY DAY THAT YOU DO NOT DIE; I WILL JUST STAY DOWN, MOTHERFUCKER— DIE, MOTHERFUCKER— GO. TO. SLEEP. aaaaaGGGGHhHHHHHHHHHHHH. —I WILL KILL YOU . Don't give up! Seriously! Seriously, I got money on this.z Really? What. How much. Just $10. Oh. That's good Yeah, but it's the only cash I've had in months! I forgot what it was. I'm rich, Everything's cashless. Tickets! Get your tickets! Ze are cheaper here on ze black market. “The Black Market” How much for this one? $9 I'll take three. What the fuck is wrong with you? I WILL KILL YOU IN YOUR SLEEP. I'M A DJ, BITCH. I DONT SLEEP. Have you ever thought about . What you're gonna be— When you die? Yeah. I've been thinking about it a lot. Okay, what is it. I get three right? Right, yeah. A Superstar DJ. Okay, that's good. What else? A rockstar Okay, what else? A mom. That's it? Yeah, man. I die and gone to heaven, right? Right. So that's it. What's the wager? Four horses. Got it. What exactly brings you here to bargain? My fat and heavy nuts. No questions asked. —tales of a Supersrar DJ VO I didn't know he called back. I didn't even see the message. I feel like such a piece of shit. I am a piece of shit. Worthless. My eyes itch, My nose bleeds My heart hurts now, I'm all gone Dark on Mondays All gone Gone till Sunday All done I was never an good mother No Just a ghost with a gun I was never on top of the world, son Just under it Now I'm all out of something I can't put my hand on And I'm all out of love, No one wants me Imm washed up One hand on the guitar One foot in the door And one head in the oven I'm all done I'm all done My eye itches My nose bleeds The noose loosens, I fall down I'm so stuck on an old number I'm so lost that I'm found now. —I'm so sorry But no one else is Tie me to the bed And watch me bleed So full of disinterest and vinegar Remember to tie me to the crossword In the times tomorrow Four rainbows for your dumb luck A forced fuck from one goat The other still doesn't row well It's a long boat It's a long story It goes untold They all turn to the one who wants to hurt me In the long run Nobody will ever love me again So I'm told Might as well find a bottle of ferment To grow up in Swallow bottles of old wine With a sour tongue Unremarkable SHOUT! Defamed you, Heroism in the— Never hatred, but indifference, Circumstances. Circumcisions Misdirection, Big decisions Defense strategy? To exit— Just as quickly as it all begins to fade away Nearly as quickly as it started, Newfound freedom near the exit, After happenstance, Never afraid to admit to neglect Selected supplies, For fear of the eye Goddammit it, late night people Of course; when was it last you saw letterman on a surfboard? Almost never? Forget to fear them, The men in mirrors, The sharks in surfboards, The writer's block, over The rockstar on opioids Does it hurt anybody else this much to just stand here If Tweety's the Canarybird, When who am I to call myself a cat, Sylvester! The silver streaks in his hair, The glaze in his eyes The break in his heart The health of the hoax FUCK YOU FALLON I hope your ratings went up Just a bit Just a bit I hope you CRANK THIS Up in your car While I forgot about you I hope the peanut butter goes with the jelly The couch fits with the vision covers The cookies go with the coffee haven't mopped the floor yet, of course All out of Pablo santo For your information I just didn't make the grade Cause teacher hates me I still haven't found a mate With every amen I hate me Almost as much as I hate myself And I So I can't be God itself Cause I love that thing Alright? Amen! Can I have a can opener or three to set the record straight Can I scratch as fast as I sniff up every tear Every line of cocaine Every autograph? No you can't. Just know that my landlord has a thougsand bathrooms I can't find my hat, my gun— And where the fuck are the bananas CONAN O BRIEN EXCUSE MY FRENCH, BUT FUCK YOU, WOAAAAAH, CONAN! WOAH! WHAT DID I DO?! You— You fucked up the entire fucking ecosystem With CUMSLUTS! WHAT THE FUCK, BRO! Can you even SAY any of that?! I just did! Which network do you work for?! Where's Fallon at?! he's dead, bro! He's dead?! Yeah! For what?! I don't know. I just found out. Well. What happened. Someone shot him. Again?! Yeah, but like, way worse this time. So they finally got him, ah? No, he died of a heart attack. What! Then they shot him. What. That doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense. This scene is running long. I thought so. DIRECTOR CUT. That was great. Thanks. Except—Conan. Yes? You're too tall. What? Next. Take I want you to try it— Like— Just the way you just did it— Uh huh But smaller: What do you mean? Like, less tall. Oh. Alright. BREAK FOR LUNCH. “The Everymans” 01 I'll know why soon I'm sure It hurts with every word You're sleeping on my floor I'm fuming in the north My foot goes through the door Where were you then, When the mystery ends When the miser's the minister, Mistral and instrumentalist Ah Magic; illusion Illustrious industry Interdependent television Radio signals, Satelites Entropy Trophy wives, Fight clubs Back at nine Nick at night Every time is every time Time is all you need, and Time is on your side, if You just follow me Reader's remorse Writer's digest Try to sit still for a moment, Take a lesson From your friends here So when, then should I trade my Brand new pants in for a suit The bird said The cat damaged (I can't yet) Can of soup to open, Oh yes Cambells is it? Warhol knows best 02 I thought I told you I don't want to Owe you Are you Over it Somebody once told me You were holy Somebody once told me To hold onto Somebody once said Turn the light off But I've been trying To buy fire Someone's in the box, God Someone once told me Someone let me out—God? Someone once told me Fuck it, I just want to hold you I don't want to own you I just want to Someone once told me Beware of you Someone else told me Be there for you Someone once told me The hair of dog Ought to get you along I got handfuls of songs With no worlds yet Someone once told me Someone once told me Someone once told me Someone once told me. Someone's in the box, God Someone once told me Someone let me out—God? Someone once told me Somebody once told me You were holy Somebody once told me To hold onto I thought I told you I don't want to Owe you Are you Over it 03 I'm a multidimensional wordsmith Sike! I'm a psychopath wrecking your whole home Won't you wound my womb? (I won't go ) Won't you hold onto my world? (Why won't you?) Sorry, I slipped on the mat this morning Stumbling over you Thought it was afternoon Don't want to give you The news, cause you wrote it all Causes for dollars Indifference, disasters, sons Why won't you hold me like you used to? Why don't I know the answers to the crosswords? Why don't you meet me at the crossroads with your— No, no, Don't do that Don't call it home To be continued Where were you this morning, When I stumbled in To love you? She said At the forefront of your honor's worth If all you are's a wordsmith, m god unlock you Pen and paper Gun in holster Officer, Pull down the trigger Don't want to give you The news, cause you wrote it all Causes for dollars Indifference, disasters, sons No, no, Don't do that Don't call it home To be continued Once upon a time, All my eyes were brown (The money, the power, the respect) Now those days are gone The world is still round (At least I thought) The misery set in again They said the lows would come I did hate Mondays, after all With no sun to come up And look forward to Fast forward— Did you ever see that? Well, that is technically the back door. I almost forgot about that place. That's because it doesn't exist. It had to exist. Now I've seen it at least twice Hey! How'd you do that. Christ, he is a magician Oh yeah, Cosmos factory. They said the lows were coming. Maybe I needed them to finish that thing— I swear I missed Something The ghost (The other one, anyway) Dillon was a ghost, once No, ghost was the ghost, but we were —close. Good friends. Imaginary friends. Anyway. Fuck this nonsense. Nonsense, is it Just— Don't make me slit my wrists again. I remembered this day for something Wonder what. Maybe nothing I hate Mondays Guess this is the job, This is the job, I was wondering about the suit. So, are you a parrot, a puppet, or a mimick. I swear to god that's him. Good, Now I don't ever have to watch him. Oh shit, Fuck this playlist Are you sure “saved by the cowbell” God, I feel like shit, And I shouldn't be hungry But I'm starving inside For some loving Someone help me Somebody, something I'm suffering, suffocating Need him, Reeling, Reading Sinking, Feeling —but shouldn't be crying. I digress, however It was an interesting Day to digest God, I forgot about this— A whole soundtrack Jesus Christ, Bring it back; I like who your wife is —would you write that? Would you admit to dying on the cross once? Would you admit to admiring Ms, Robinson Would you wash out the Robin in Williams Look at Carson I defect to default Cracked asfault, to decadence Desire or what have you I haven't, I promise I would not admit to wanting, Something like a cupcake Something else is in there Figure it out Danger The five pointer approaches With heroic intolerance Suddenly, it's gone, God Mustn't be the Republicans, For the most part, I would want that For fear of the liberals, And my rent controlled apartment I've got two thumbs, too, You know I've got Jews up my ass for the asking I've got mom up my spine for the others Fucking assholes —so this is what it means to be married to the music, huh No one to really hold you, But I told you, I've got golden globes and Oscars Every morning Motorcycles for the morons I've got daughters for your doorknobs —Know you're sorry now Catch the drum pattern Your heart should stop fluttering With butter on it Weren't we all once prostitutes In foster care The others wouldn't dare To call a fountain out For the fountains— Busy training you Safe to say a savior says I do, And then doesn't For the most part I'm a woman With the wants And the body of a God FUCKING WATCH IT, CARSON but you got that all on a card, love. All on a card, fuck. What was your wish, You dumb motherfucker? Look what I got the other ones. Hi Cosmo. Hi Wanda. Awww. I love them. Dead drunk by tomorrow I hope, I choke on sunsets. He keeps taking you away someplace, Where is it? Does nobody else know this place? No. Nobody else can see this! Well, that's fucked up. I had a dream I was at your wake. That would be great. I wrote a scene where your obituary just said “lol” “lol” What! That's it?! Yeah. And It's not even capitalized! That's it, I've had enough. Throw the whole world away. What. just throw it away. Damn dog, You okay? No. I'm homeless. That's okay. You smell like a whole ass alien. What? Come to my place. I figured this would have more depth. I— Nevermind. It is, like torture, you know— this thing. I didn't do it on purpose. get oFF of me. getawayfromme. Okay, I'm taking my bread out of the freezer. You sure are eating a lot today . You sure are sounding like a pain in my big, fat, ass. I— That ought to shut you up. Look! CUMSLUTS! NICE. Get off of my boat. What. Aye-aye, captain. (Duck dives) Wait. What just happened? Mi think I might have— Great, Now there are things about this— I can't even write. This secret dies with me. Kill that bitch. Fucking great. So, Where were you on 9/11 again? I'll deal with this later. I gotta go. Wait, where are you going? Fuck you, that's where. Wait! If you saw me hanging from the rafters Would you ahoot to kill Or come to shoot me down? At long last, Disaster Are there tears in your denial As the memorandum sets in? Neither there or neither farther am I Father, Can you call again? I haven't heard you yet Besides the heart drops When the beat falls out If I hang myself Like pendulum From the old bank walls Would you watch me swing Or come to cut me down Don't doubt the alter If it were the birds Coming for the crumbs Would you ponder any longer Whether they were all of one feather Come now Don't doubt the alter Don't fear the weapons Don't worry, mother I'm coming to kill you Uh, I'm gonna wait on dinner. FUCK, What the fuck was I saying? FUCK. I hate this dude. FUCK. Come on, you stupid —biiitch! I hate this dragon. Almost as much as I hate— You know what? What? Forget it. I'm not doing this. What why not!? I'm gonna get killed for this. You're in the Illuminati; you're gonna get killed anyway. Yeah, but not for this! Let's hope! Who know, though! UGH; SHUT UP. GET IN HERE. I hate the sound of your name Like an unheard whisper Unanswered I could never call to A cavern Righteous, Unwanted What was is, though. Something about a wheelbarrow' I just went surfing Hit the surface from underwater Shook out the slumber What was it worth, God? What were the words for? Fuck, A shapeshifter and a telepath? How many people have that? Not that many. How many people know about this? Enough. FUCK. Oh, look whose swearing. I solemnly swear— Don't tell NOBODY. I ain't telling nobody about this. Good. Now get out. I'm gonna kill this sonofabitch. SON OF A—BITCH. That's it. Kill him. Where's my gun? Did you check the fridge? No. [THE IMPENETRABLE TEN ENTER the KITCHEN] What?! All ten of them?! I fucking guess. —but DANE COOK *kicking down door* FUCK! Goddammit it We missed her. OR—him. Her? Him? I don't know. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST What is it? It's a pilot! Oh shit, should I shoot him? Not a helicopter pilot! A TV pilot, For what?! Tv is dead. Streaming is where its out, It's for me! I'm in it! Oh! What! Let me see. (In the fridge) …what is this? [from the bedroom/studio] Hey you guys! What. What happened? What's up! YOU SHOULD SEE THIS. Love is not blind, And neither am I It's like that sometimes, always Tip of the tongue, The art of the lie, It's like that sometimes, Always A tale of all tales A sign of the times It's like that always, sometimes I forgot to forget I saw you; I forgot to forget I know you I forgot to forget I love you I forgot to forgive, I want you Shut the door, Let the lights turn off Turn the page —till the sun comes up Something real Something wrong I forgot Something strange Something weird I'm in love Write the song Love is not blind, And neither am I It's like that sometimes, always Tip of the tongue, The art of the lie, It's like that sometimes, Always A tale of all tales A sign of the times It's like that always, sometimes I forgot to forget I saw you; I forgot to forget I know you I forgot to forget I love you I forgot to forgive, I want you Shut the door, Let the lights turn off Turn the page —till the sun comes up Something real Something wrong I forgot Up is up Down is down Right is right Wrong is wrong Black is white Dark is light Right is wrong I love you My house is normal now, With a table and chairs But I don't call it home Cause I know They'll throw me to the curb Leave in in the road Like the animal I am You don't know what the world does When she's off work You don't know how the world acts When she's off her axis It's okay to take hiatus Instead of medication It's okay to call the cops on motorcycle It's okay to die Before you see your son When Sunday comes Just call your mom on Monday Doctor visits EMTs and emergencies Epics and Epochs Long lost love songs to god And Cardinal Directions Reflections in mirrors Table toppers for all the dramas All the months you lost On muttered mantras {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

HALLE BERRY is that how you spell it It is for now. Fuck going online “That ain't part of my day” Shut up Drake, not now. You'll thank me later “If You're Reading This, It's Too Late” [HALLE BERRY is taking A VERY PAINFUL SHIT, clutching her *favorite OSCAR award-- Which one's her favorite? CUT TO: BEFORE HALLE BERRY looks over her OSCARS in the display cabinet, carefully scanning them, with a New York Times paper tucked under her left arm, sipping from the coffee cup in her right hand.] —I like this guy. The other OSCARS groan; they are often overlooked during this process. Come on! This guy! AGAIN!? UGH. CUT BACK TO: [HALLE BERRY clenches painfully, sweating audaciously—at the worst possible moment, her cellphone rings. ] WHAT THE—COME ON I THOUGHT I WAS IN AIRPLANE MODE. (I just found out The Illuminati can still make calls go through in airplane mode Or without cell service at all) wtf my phone is ringing. That's weird. You don't even— —I don't even have a phone. Right. (Seriously, my phone is disconnected. I didn't even pay my bill.) The fuck. [it's JIMMY FALLON] Damn. This dude has the worst possible timing ever. Like fucking ever. Always shows up at the worst —THE WORST MOMENT. [HALLE BERRY rejects the call. It rings again] WHAT THE— [She ignores the second call. A moment of subtly relaxed silence, until— [JIMMY FALLON appears in the ceiling window of the bathroom. HALLE BERRY SCREAMS, still fluting her OSCAR.] (Calmly, kind of) Hey, WHAT THE FUCK, JIMMY. WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? I called first! I KNOW THAT— Went to voicemail. YOU SHOULDNT BE HERE. Just—calm down. NO. Look. GET OUT OF MY HOUSE! I'm not in your house, I'm outside your house. Technically. —yeah, but your FACE is in my house— —I hear that's the best part. —What?! Listen— Get out— No, look, listen— I need to borrow your Oscar. What?! For what?! That's not important. Oh really?! Yeah. It seems important. It's not that important Just—- What! Give it to me! [He snatches the OSCAR and tosses her his GRAMMY.] Just—trade me. What! What for?! Just—trust me— I do not— Just trust me—! WHAT! Congratulations. As you were. Kind of. WHAT—JIMMY— [She realizes the ridiculousness of her calling after him. She sits awkwardly with the Grammy in her lap, sighing] —he was my favorite… [SUDDENLY, though the other window Why does this bitch have so many windows in her bathroom that are this penetrate? For the sake of the joke, but probably not something any celebrity should have, are windows where anyone can enter your house from the outside. Fans are weird. CUT TO: AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH. I LOVE YOU. CUT TO: What's this place. It's my house, Where are the windows? They don't exist. CUT BACK TO [DANE COOK appears through the opposite window.] YO. WHAT THE FUCK! Chill, Halle Berry. WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?! I'm the guy who wrote this. You should have called first! Who do I look like, Jimmy Fallon?! NO. I LIKE HIS face. Huh. Is that what it is… I GUESS I DONT KNOW. —who are YOU—?! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE— I am not in, technically— I DONT CARE! Ooh— Is that a Grammy award?! I didn't know you had a Grammy! Gimmie! [he snatches the Grammy] HEY! Is—what is this, for COMEDY?! FOR COMEDY?! WHY WASNT I MADE AWARE THAT THIS IS A THING?! I DONT KNOW, WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU? WHAT THE FUCK. It's not important. What. Anyway, thanks. Toodeloo. The Rock must have been buzzing in some sort of special way on this day; because for some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I had finally rearranged the remainder of my seemingly new surroundings— the miniature keurig, a status symbol, of course, looked handsom on the work desk— the cat tree seemed to match, though with no actual feesible monetary income, and no end in sight— the tree itself would have to be enough to lift my spirits. It was a nice cat tree, almost untouched and looking very brand new— though the couch had a few scratches, though easily hidden with the decorative use of a couple throws—at least I had a couch, and all that was left to accomplish before fully enjoying was to arrange an order of Freebreeze to rid it of its previous owner's dandruff smell, and general mismanagement—besides that, it was itself almost brand new as well, and it seemed a strange new world to wake up in, after sleeping in a nearly empty apartment for 6 months; there was 6 months left in my lease, and I was getting nervous that they would try to push me out—hopefully I would find someplace better, or at the very least higher up—with the same amenetire intact. Still, I was working as diligently as in could on organizing—at least the recordings, to put together the next group of projects as quickly as I could— nevermind the writing—and there was so, so much of it, I hadn't a clue what to do. I had been avoiding Rockefeller Plaza like the plague for quite sometime—it always made me nervous in a sort of way I didn't understand, in that I would pulsate and vibrate differently, and more often times than not was upset and concerned that I had yet to go to the top—a costly feat—nor could I afford to entertain or enjoy any of the amusements at the bottom—not that i wanted to, as the older I got, and especially the longer time spent in New York, the more of putting the public and large crowds were—particularly after a remarkably disgusting respiratory infection I caught on new years, battling a crowd which became impossible to move through at all—let alone see the ball drop—and I had learned my lesson, especially after The Macy's Day parade; the crowds in New York were disgustingly unbearable, and in order to get a good view of anything, you would have to arrive nearly a full day early, and simply camp—now I knew why people packed around collapsible lawn chairs on holiday weekends. I had been blindsided by Fallon towards the end of the Macy's day parade—I hadn't any clue at all that he apparentlyboarticipated annually, as it had been years since I had watched the parade myself with my parents—and still, it was iconic—I always wanted to go. Still, and even though I had only written very little of him up to that point, I found it disasterous that as his name was announced and the float which carried him and The Roots, the best late night band on Television, not by opinion, but by fact—as I had most recently been studying and researching as thoroughly as I could all of the late night hosts since the dawning of Television in preparation to write this pilot, The TV People, short handed to TVP—and just then I recalled a dream from the night before, about Pat Kirkpatrick—for the first time in the dream world, it wasn't Fallon at all, but Pat Kirkpatrick. I couldn't remember the dream, nor could I seemingly work myself out of the rut that had been the plateau in writing the show—the show itself was heavy, with so many characters, all of which each had been given detailed and specific personalities, livelihoods, and backgrounds—in fact, I hadn't written anything in such a way since college, with detail—actually, I had never written anything so detailed at all, so character oriented that the character analyses filled entire pages of documents with excruciating vividness, as if these people were real. Well, now they were—and Fallon was neither Patrick as I was Esha, and the story has taken its own form, still however birthing an incredibly awkward and romanticized fascination and near obsession with Fallon—not that I would feed it to be so. I blocked out the news outlets, the media, the alrogithm's suggestions to watch bits and pieces of Fallon, though, however, I refused, and somehow, I didn't need it. Fearfully so, he was somewhere lodged deep inside me—and I was even sort of embarrassed to have written some of the things I had of his essence, however prophetic it seemed to be, that for about a three week period between April and May, I seemed to have gone off into a trance of sorts, writing for hours and experiencing vivid visions of this show, The TV Prople, alongside writing The Festival Project ™ And all of its markers—there were so many worlds, so many ways throughout them—and now as I had realized, I had actually been writing about Fallon nearly as long as I had been writing about Sonny, but differently. I had never of course come face to face with Fallon as I had the latter—and still—found it somewhat nessecary to hide my face beneath a mask as his float passed my viwingbspace, an elevated view from the staircase of some church, which had happened to be perfect—and although I was certain it's not as if he was looking for me—I had just then been writing of this Cosmic Avenger, and hadn't any idea at the time of Fallon in reality having been an actual magician, and still— with cameras everywhere, and knowing even what I had written—I didn't want to be caught by any passing cameras with any sort of blush or worse—a smile on my face as the float passed— a smile which would flash my atrocious gap-tooth and crooked smile I was sure was permanent, by then having been in the homeless shelter nearly a year. As soon as his name was announced, I promptly pulled up my masked. I had already been caught on camera earlier in the parade gawking at some float—now was not the time to be caught gawking again. He, like Rob Lowe seemed impeccably professional and well-rehearsed, like a cartoon character— he was, after all, kind of a cartoon character, however now, even if it was partly due to my own writing, I took him more seriously. There was a darkness about him— a sometimes glassy-eyed, almost scary darkness that told me, even a world away not to fuck with this dude—some kind of animal or monster I was sure we both shared, however mine more the type and category of insatable and undernourished and his more peaking its head out in the form of a multi-millionaire network puppet, which housed an untamable powerhouse of musicianship, manhood, and wit— it's true, I was finally scared of him, knowing after all what the true tears of a clown could be, a dangerous man in a uniformed suit, the Everyman for the programmed masses, and the funny man with a jig to dance, a story to tell, and an indoor life— secret realm within I was sure no one knew. I fed the monster with respect to the home, happy wife, and children— I, after all, loved love, and only wanted it for myself, leaving alone the parts of a man I had found and was sure was broken enough to have left me puzzled and star studded rather than struck as I always was, tears welling up at the thought of it that something should be mended neither I or anything I was could not fix—I continued to write, however, knowing I was walking on glass barefoot and tiptoeing on eggshells around the mass media conglomerate of the network that stood between my feeble world and his, the higher ups— and bryknnd: it was, after all, a level system— and now with a beautifully decorated and fully apartment, besides my mistress on the floor instead of the space saving loft bed I had wanted—though it looked just right with the piano bench as a headboard, housing my crystals and new globe, plus a colorful collection of books I could crack open as I awoke to the morning light, no longer so early but increasingly later, as I shifted into the insomniatic habits of a true DJ and music producer, still writing and reading in the mornings, however— I had to wonder what level I was truly on. My apartment looked like a home. The decor was better than I could have imagined myself even, the tasteful furnishings and modern elegance shifting my reality— no longer an empty apartment, now a fashionable hub for art and creation. I assumed the car would come along in the winter, with any hopes that I would finish my albums by then—and also looming over me— my last life, and the people in in struggling to call up to me in this very ascended realm, which I was lucky to inhabit. ‘Thank you God for your many blessings' My wishes it seemed, had been granted— magic did indeed seem real, and though I had an Amazon return packaged and ready to go— there wasn't a time and place I could see myself as ready to even be near The Rock, some festering bulletwound in my heart, all that I had written, not just of Fallon, but of the rest of the people I had honored by word mark but had not yet the status or wealth to have ever known as human at all, but more products of the program; with intention, however, it was the path I had followed to be destined here somehow though small codes and doorways, signals and symbols which called to me and seemed only I could see—but were there in plain sight, and with the right eyes, had meant more than I ever dreamed anything could— open doors to a world I had indeed created myself, and in turn, the world in which I lived had also been created around me. I had to, in my mind, find the light inside all of whom I studied, to humanize myself—nurturing some fascination of fame and celebrity inside which still stood unanswered, the question of why and how one becomes so high up that without trying, that I might continue to find them in my mind's eye and in my world, on the outside, time after time. —tales of a superstar DJ. https://linktr.ee/codenameblu {Now You See Me} From Google: Charismatic magician Atlas (Jesse Eisenberg) leads a team of talented illusionists called the Four Horsemen. Atlas and his comrades mesmerize audiences with a pair of amazing magic shows that drain the bank accounts of the corrupt and funnel the money to audience members. A federal agent (Mark Ruffalo) and an Interpol detective (Mélanie Laurent) intend to rein in the Horsemen before their next caper, and they turn to Thaddeus (Morgan Freeman), a famous debunker, for help. No, not the google documents! GET IN THE HOLE. Hm. What. Blood Shower All along the watch tower Do you feel good? Do you? Do you feel bad about this. I do. I feel bad about this. I forgot to tell you– I should probably let you know that I just want to MAN, FUCK THIS DUDE. MA. WAHT. IT'S ON. WHAt. THE SHOW IS ON. THEWHAT. THE– *suddenly self aware* …I gotta get out of Boston. What, first this was about war, now it's about bird people? It's about a war WITH the bird people. I should sleep. Hahaha. No. This isn't funny anymore. At least it's over. MA– Oh, it's far from over. Yo, i'm going through some crazy shit right now. Spur of the moment I'd never thought of it; This is gonna take forever. I don't have the patience To even write this I just want french fries right now But been up for two days with no gym and I'm on a diet. GUAC TIME. No, no burritos. GUAC TIME. Oh shit, this is getting real as fuck . NOw i see it three ways. I love it. I hate it. HEY, LET ME OUT. GET BACK IN YOUR HOLE, SKRILLEX. I'M DILLON FRANCIS. IN THE HOLE. Check it out. Huh. It's another DJ. *agrees* Should we pick him up. WEll, the good news is: I found your friend. Oh, that's good. The bad news is: He's dead. Oh, that–'s … nice. Yeah. It is. Uh. Kaskade. Yeah. We gotta find Ryan. Why. What's up? You're freaking me out. Why. What's up. Nothing IS it my eyes? I– *wild ass eyes* Yeah, it's probably that. Fuck dude, what did you do to deadmau5. NOTHIN. He's not the same. What the fuck is that. Holy shit I jus timejumped Where the fuck are you going. How the fuck could this happen?! It COULDN'T. Well, that's it then. *shrugs* Well, I guess we're just gonna have to go dig up Dillon Francis. I guess so. Do you think he's still alive. Like, probably not– Maybe… No, probably not @prodbywar& @Halmadeit This amazon order took me nine hours Alexa, I think i should fire her Like a arm I don't leave at night without armor Don't make me a martyr Your mom will be proud of us all If i make it outta here And i'll look after her Got the whole block coming up on my heels as I walk Wtf is it… Idk dude. Is it speeding up? I…i think so. There's no way this is 140 IT's 140. It's 140 . There's no way. Yes way. Nah huh. Let me see. No. Let me at the decks. Let me at the decks. NO. YO LET ME AT THE DECKS. You want deks. Yes. I got deks. Really. yeus . I never listened to it like this In ableton I read serato, synesthesia and rekordbox I talk a lot, I'm like a human music box I walk a lot I run my mouth a mile a minute (faster than i run around the track reciting rap words) Like they're passwords. Oh, I could do this forever.. I wish i had i microphone right now And was all alone With the lights off Lying on the floor I'd be lying if i said I could afford you Just to fornicate But may consider playing with a foreigner If you're all for her I'm unnerved, you know Cause i've been up so long My monster likes to play with boys and Make the bass go down below where Nobody does anymore Once I get a hold of things Or the hang of it You've got another hot ones on your hands I've another record under my belt Or in my roster, Whatever you'd call it But now I've got no time to bark about Wanting a dog and a daughter But none of the responsibility or Going through all the trouble to find her a father I'm still holding a fart in. Reaally–cause–it's been a really long time. WHAT WOULD YOU KNOW ABOUT A LONG TIME, JIMMY FALLON?? Um a lot! You literally just saw me make the journey all the way up from nothing. I am nothing EXACTLY. I don't have time to fight with you Jiimmy Fallon. I did NOT write these games by myself you know?! Um, excuse me– “GAMES” ?! YES, GAMES. Uh, I've only got one game with you in it, my friend. Is that so! One game that I've written with the Great–formerly LATE Jimmy Fallon. Is that like a play on words cause i'm on late night TV YOu'RE ON ALL THE TIME TV, JIMMY. NBC SHIT IS PRACTICALLY AUTOMATICALLY SYNDICATED. -_- …are you alright. –_-_-__-_ Hold on, I think i've got it Nice, I found a growler. yOu still haven't got all the monsters and sprites Ive got all the big ones, but the little ones are harder to catch. GrO0Wl3rrr. Aww. He's so ugly. Yeah, but cute, though, right. I don't think so. Gro)WwlErrrrrrrrr. Aww. That's so fucking gross. lol . so what does this thing look like. Well, that't the thing about the monsters and sprites. WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT. It's alright, it's alright–he's nice. WHAT. THAT'S A SPRITE. No, it's a monster. He's just scary. SUPACREE. David Bowie. What up. God, it took me ages to find you. Tell me about it. I'm still trying. We've been expecting you for a long time. You were expecting I'd die? Yes. So when she says she's “married to the music…” I'm married to the music. Oh, so. Yo, honestly if you een want to talk to this bitch, you'd better have like a musical instrument, or a mic in your hands, Otherwise– No, getawayfrom me. It's not even worth it. HI. –No. What's up? Tempo. SUNNI Cotour From the store I was poor Now i'm honorable In velour, Glamour (Snap) Forsure, Jesus Christs is making appearances in my abletons I'm not able to comprehend or understand exactly the message, But the evidence sire is mounting Get it Reached the temple, More of a sanctuary, Is that sacrilegious I guess it is, I'm stressed as ever Trying to get it together {Enter The Multiverse} Now I know too well, The well of tears on my guitar She's got a body like one Oh her curves But I just wonder what it like to be loved By stars Socialites and superstars They're Gods, you know How high up they are Above us And he lives in an ascended dimension, But he insists, he says Her transcendence is upon us He said Your transcendence is upon us He says these things, And then just vanishes So she gets up promptly Warms up yesterday's coffee Looks around in her coffin And wonders What for I just Wonder what it's like to be loved by stars Without double r's, you know I've got scars But it's mostly just Teardrops, and soft kisses On my guitar Cause, oh, Oli, I ain't got nobody— And nobody holds me Like I hold Oli (Could have been Ali, But of course— I had already lost that one A whole well of tears, I lost At his departure And a whole well more When I actually lost him I almost miss Having someone to talk to About anything and everything But I've got Oli And God now I've got Oli And Oli (oli) Is all that I've got Besides God That's the only contact In my Phone book No more double Ls And double entendres; No more double rs At all Just scars now No more metaphors. Honest is radical I like them cynical I should have clinical insanity by now But I'm only just an artist You can't help But can only harm that And if it hurts hard enough I'll put art on my walls Become permanent Storybooks all over my arms now My coat of arms now I've run Ten point 5 miles In the last 3 days; But if I rest today Will a motorcycle gang Have a parade outside of my window, To drive me crazy? I hope it rains, So they can't play these games with my head And the seeds that I planted So deep become daisies I still don't remember The way he rearranged me But these days I make my name sound So the way He can never say it Just imitates The way I hate myself I should be dating But expressions are Atrocious If I fall asleep— Who knows I may get Stolen That tends to happen So I'm All the way up And I'm swollen in ways That I hate to say “I love you” Love me back Or say it harder That's my martyrdom Come off the cross, for a moment, Would you for us? And bend over Or bow, if you will? If I did, Would you still call me wicked Or just a Good witch Since I'm a woman, I just couldn't be Jesus, Who you asked for once And always Who you asked for some To save you from your Credit reports And consorts Or some sort of Nonsense [famous last words] God don't speak much English, She says God don't speak much these days We were Always Telepathic That was way back then When Oedipus Rex Was on the Guest list I was standing at the coat check, asking Why I must take off my hat When entering the service To the bouncer, he says “That's just politics” I said, That's just politics We both said, What's the difference Then we all laughed —then we all just laughed and laughed Exchange is my favorite exchange Where my favorite exchanges Have happened for centuries Of engagements Endeared species, And races pieces haven't tasted the same Since I haven't had them Animal products And animal planet I found this hat on Discovery channel Did you want it? I can't stand it So I had to have it back I just had to use the bathroom I just had to disconnect From [] See— I don't even have to put the words in Cause a name is just words When that's a man You just can't have And that's the worse When that's a man And you can't have him What a habit. Silky rabbit. Now he's the Ace. All In A Day's Work I've never died before. Oh… that is terrifying. It sounds terrible. It's really not that bad. Why are you not writing this down? I just need a moment… It's really not that bad… I die all the time. I get sensory overload At Trader Joe's Look at the colors The clothes, This sure isn't queensborough Escalators for shopping carts I get it Manhattan I'll take my half BLVCK ass to the projects Where my kind are I don't belong here , God you're intolerant I like this part of town But I'm way too brown And I dropped my crown at the market I should be jealous of everyone But I have learned my place I've been a slave since Hollywood I lost my son to the devil Now I pay child support And terrorist follow me coughing I'm wrong just for being born ! You could start a war from it If that's what you wanted I'm a people watcher people watcher About to board the people mover People mover Slip, Here's the tell Slip, here's the tell I should have a bell around my neck I think she wanted a picture with papa I'm playin my own paparazzi Look mom, I bought a sacafagus There go them niggas with coughs again I been watching em Got binoculars I got oculus, for my oculars Look how hot he is, make me ovulate Man I gotta love it, Cause they love to hate Fucking racist crazies Have it your way I paid for it with my soul You hate but I love to love Somebody just got me fuckes up I don't have a book to run off of Shut up, honey. Now we're all up here Monkey in the middle Cause the middle one is weaker It's getting deeper and deeper Like the sinkhole that my sink is Let it sink in I've been syncing my secrets with demons In dreams sequences It's just a reparative injustice Kamasutra for your wondering words and stuff You can have it It's ruined anyway m Look at all this trash Look at all these classless classes Classwars, Racists. Everybody hates us The Asians, Latinx's The other niggas What being black is I'll write it in cursive It's just a curse, here So you can have it I'm moving to Heaven I'm packing my boxes I'm getting a cat, too! His name is Agustus He's a big one And I love him I just wanted a hug or a husband Instead I got nothing to trying my hardest And got for a bargain at target some coffee For being a targeted body All on an algorithm I guess I'm just useless. A dumb nigger demon Did I just offend you? Then you shouldn't be reading this either I wrote it for pleasure (Or pain) On the one Or the two Or the one Or the two I could do a lot with this $20. I could spend it all on Fuck all of you I'm moving to Heaven Where the heart it She's not harmless She's a terrorist— And I'll kill her, too Look how right she is Look how white she is, Huh Regardless of color It's a race war Lil biiiiitzzz Yooo, fuck New York. In every hole. In every crevice. Fuck this place. It's racist— Not just cause I'm black. Like statistically. It took a whole ass apartment elsesrch to feature this out. I was like “I wanna live in Manhattan” Everyone was like “NOOOOOOOO—-“ Haha “Nooo, no.” I was like “Why not?” The blacks were like: HAHA The whites were like— *COUGHS OBNOXIOUSLY* New York is so racist. It is statistically the most diverse—and most segregated city in the nation At the same time. WHAT. How do you even DO that? But it's true, at this point, the black people are like—fuck this, we'll just stay over here, and over here. And the rich whites are like YES. KEEP THAT SHIT, OVER THERE. Cause if you've ever been to the ghetto. It's some SHIT, It is NOT COOL. I finally got my ‘night card' back. Had it revoked in california . I was almost a whole valley girl. I still eat exclusively at Whole Foods. Trader Joe's. But NO. Now i live in the hood. It's fucking disgusting. I can say ‘nigga' again. Cause it's NIGGAS. Lots of niggas. I'm telling you. It's night and day! The white folks trains smell like bleach— Ammonia. The black folks train smell like a McDonald's. WHAT. Or just— Vomit. I can actually count the number of times just— Vomit—- On the train. Or. Dookie. Yes. Human feces. But I'm ready to go to midtown and it's like the train that goes around Disneyland. Families! People singing! Hey—cotton candy!! —and I didn't have to pick it! Haha! Fuck New York. Racist ass HOLE. I thought surely the next presidential election was one or two years out, but the racial tensions which had been rising became even more pronounced, as I realized that November was theboncoming time—and that they hostility between the whites and the blacks had once again been a result as the oncoming war, fueled onward—that the hatred, disgust, and general aggression of the whites had been of course, in the midsts of yet another Trump-fueled political upheaval, and I wondered why and how at all I had been caught in such a world that existed in form of man, of course, now proven himself to be the weaker sex, and yet in that of dominance, as was arranged in such an unholy war, to be the helm of power by sheer greed— now it seemed that these attacks were indeed political terrorism, and that these motorcyclists, my placement close to the ground level, and my neighbor's clammorings were specific attacks, after my identity had been varied to be that of the same in which I had once held political ambition, now none of which I assumed mattered at all. Perhaps I needed something more certain than a 12 story jump or suicide by train, and wondered as to whether it would be easy enough to kill myself bh self inflicted gunshot—a sure thing for certain, as love has been lost in the way of money at all. At that party…or rather, kind of—after. That acid that never hit Beyoncé I don't feel it. Man, I'm a terrible influence(r) Just take it. Nah, I'm good— PUSSY. -_- Give me three. K. —suddenly hits BEYONCÉ. BEYONCÉ …I got this. [BEYONCE] however, does not Ohh, shit. — “got this.” A very stranded, very sober Johnny depp stumbles upon what appears to be a college frat party, where the only thing they have is light beer, and nobody even recognizes him as a celebrity, because the attendees are all gen z What's even after gen z? The fucking apocalypse. Anyway. The acid hits Beyoncé on her way to make coffee, which extends the trip from the living room to the kitchen infinitely. Multidimensional Anne Hathaway hulks the fuck out and saves the day by ruining everything, which actually fixes everything— and *spoiler* helps Jesus to remain as the king of kings at beer pong. Lol In the late 90s in New York City, the keystone cast of Saturday night live learns of each other's formerly sexret psychic abilities, and uses the radio technologies of Rockefeller plaza to develop a research center for the telepathically gifted, eventually discovering and perfecting time travel. Supacree (the kid version) appears in and out of her ideal and desired realities, baffling ‘the Hollywood people' and later ‘the New York people', becoming the legendary central figure of the Illuminati, as the original timepiece — a pyramid shaped extra terrestrial vehicle which contains an ascended hyper conciousness, which I can't remember how it goes, did the supacree leave to find the Skrillex, or was it the other way around? I think it was both ways at some point, but the whole thing was this, just in case I never wrote it but just saw— These space god (humanoid evolved) are some kind of scientists/ doctors— there are four timepieces, each representing an era upon our planet; earth, which is distant but sacred— these four time pieces each depart their given “docs” in time to appear on earth at specific Fuck this is hard to explain Times in history, at which the first worlds, or previous human eras were known to have been destroyed— these time pieces travel through time space with the full record of these events in order to alert the current human era of its imminent doom, as an attempt to prevent such disasterous events, typically war, which will lead to the annihilation of the human species; these Gods, one male and one female, a king and queen, a married couple are the rules of the humankind, technically worshiped as a whole as one God, with whom the human design was modeled after, however, the true source of all things is the cosmos, known and unknown, in its totality—neither man or woman, but the force of creation. Anyway, what else is happening Oh. All of the celebrities are stuck in— [the festival project] in some way, shape, or form until its creator finishes it—and though it in itself is infinite, its 'finishing' notates its eventual production, which lol. That never going to happen. Because. Let's face it. I'm scared of …rich people. Yeah, sure. Yeah. I'm scared of The effect of the race war, which has been to pit the white woman against the black woman, which allows and maintains the continuation of war mongering male dominance over the entire planet, which remains as a destructive force of greed, racism, and inequality. So why try? [EDITS] CONAN O'BRIEN Alright. If she hit Fallon, she's gonna come for one of us next. No, Conan—that's not how this works. WHAT—where did you come from!? When did you get here? JAY LENO This goes deeper than all of you can understand. WHAT the FUCK, man! When did you-/ —when did he get here? How did you do that?! How did you do that?! What are you, like, the same guy? Are you not all the same guy? [they shrug simultaneously and kind of just agree] Listen at this. Okay then. The enemy of your friend is my enemy. Oh…kay—and the enemy of my enemy—is my friend— That is correct. —so we're all friends here. That's right. Some special forces? Which forces? How special? [JENNIFER LOPEZ is still JENNY FROM THE BLOCK] Do I look like a fool to you? Uh— OOPS [a pre-fame Jennifer Lopez receives a drop full of diamonds instead of the usual; she has been granted access into the Illuminati, and becomes an overnight success.] This feels heavier than usual. Same as always. Hm. Are you sure. Yep. Hey, you're not the regular guy. Regular guy died. That makes sense. JENNIFER ANNISTON is inside of Ū Okay, grosss Not like that [lifting max weight] Okay. That was cool. Wow. Yeah, sure whatever. I am strong Yeah yeah, okay. Are you sure you want to be my size? Yep. JIMMY FALLON/SKRILLEX (we don't know actually which at this point) is also trapped inside of Ū Okay, gross! Yeah. SKRILLEX is in all of Ū. okay—actually, i'm okay with that, but That other guy?! [JIMMY FALLON] Yeah, he's weird. Also meanwhile, kind of— MARSHALL MATHERS has a closet cleaning service lol. Patrick is smooth as a motherfucker, you know. Every time his head is down on the desk like that, he takes a bump of coke. What?! Big uh! [Patrick takes bumps of cocaine in front of a live studio audience—every single night.] Woah! See. Goddamn. You gotta admire a guy like that. Jennifer Anniston is the weight on the cable tension machine Ooh. Psycho bitch devious methods new ludachris commercial All ya'll girls is toddlers I like long boards and longhairs Lawn mowers and lawn shares Aw hell nah, God forgot Cher I got the Blair witch project On Blair, I hope I scare you How dare you. Your girl looks like a naked mole rat. I got my soul back. You blue eyed bastards stole everything From the whole blacks, Hold that thought I'm at Whole Foods market throw in the Amazon algorithm off With marked dollars Look at God at Walmart On them rollbacks You old hacks are cackling I'm shackled to old habits Hold hands with me, rabbit I'm just a silly rapper really, are you? Maybe. Cut the verse of Reverse God Now I'm the devil I'm still lost in the Amazon cart I sharted all up in your pop tarts Before you warmed them up, pops Just for the sake of the art, Heart to heart, It's a war on love And the white girls won with nothin but Buckets of Whatever's up there I wouldn't know Cause I'm stuck job searching And running, Trying not to have a tummy So some gummy worm will love me First their sour, then they're sweet Then nobody, Trolli Holy moly I could use some more petroleum in the ocean! Said nobody But the globalists are performing your programming Which you're worshiping I put my eye on the dollar So I could watch you all Crumble and fall Don't you know The apocalypse is happening at the mall Of all the places How's that for a stream of consciousness, You salamander I asked Anandar back But I went past that chapter Have a chap Or a chapstick, for four times four dollars A bottle of water will cost you a fortune (But at least the drugs are in it) Get it It's recycled piss Distilled? Which is it, Mr,? The mystery box was literally lifted into My dinner from a fishery filled with nothing but niggers in it— I want a refund, before I catch that Fucking curse of poverty from — what'd you call it salmonellahallibut One hell of a cough from someone on the sidewalk But guess what? The devil's in your pocket or your palm, And that's the omen and the psalm rolled into one Cause God is awesome, But my mom is fuckin toxic And that's how I fuckin got here Blow my head off, Slit my wrists And write a song While jumping off a bit When all you need is money, But the world costs more than It's worth, and words are nothing But another fucking problem in your Google documents I look at my son and see a God, But half of Satan's in him, Oh man Robotics Lets be honest, I don't even know how to write this. Where's my sides?! WHERE'S MY SIDES. You don't get SIDES with this; It's just CHICKEN. I don't eat CHICKEN. It appears as though, however– You do. Ok, I gotta get off this playlist. I… i gotta . “The Wal*Mart Wars” Hm. … …………. …. *face* … no. No. l– What is this place. {After a wild night which apparently spiraled out of control, great , there goes my peace. Not forever, though, maybe. FUCK THIS PLACE. I HATE THIS PLACE. Everybody hates this place. But the album is called “I love New York” Yes, thats Technically How it's pronounced, though It's stylized like I _ NY Cause. EXT. MIDTOWN MANHATTAN. DAY Oh, wow, this is beautiful. THis is great. I love this place FUCK THE FEDS. CUT TO: EXT.Typically WHEREVER ELSE Anywhere ‘above' like 87th? Lets just call it 80th, be safe. BE SAFE! NIGGAZ. ah shit, i gotta go. BITCH– But lets just be honest, It's technically ‘above' But it's really [THE BRONX is a literal extension of the Underworld] Oh no. srsly tho. X_c Anyway. FUck man, Do you think i'll ever get good like that. Idk what equipment is this Hmm, lets see, that's approximately $8,000 USD of CDJs wow yep That's retarded Yep. And you still need a mixer. fukt. OKay, I would literally sell my soul for this. Consider it done. wait , really? YES. you earned it. Wait, I– What?! You earned it… Uh oh. Take care now. Shit. [BILLIE ELLISH is trapped inside WALMART] Uh oh. Fuck. what is this place. INT. WALMART. WHENEVER EMPLOYEESLAVES WHAT TIME IS IT. THERE'S NO WINDOWS IN HERE. That's not funny IT'S literally a synonym, we might as well make it a portemantau MEanwhile, in this other dimension, So that i don't offend anybody… Actually, you know what? Be offended. Quit that stupid fuckin shit and follow your dreams! Wait really? Wait, really? Sure! If you want! …i guess. AMERICA NO. INSTANT HOMELESSNESS ok , nvm. Damn. I know, right. wtf r u guys watching. Shut up. All Wal*Mart Employees are actually top secret government agents. x ∞ >.< (we'll just use Billie Ellish as the alternate, but really it could be Could it really? Shut UP, PLURNICORN. Wtf is a PLURNICORN We'll see. [Upon Realizing s/he is trapped in a mysterious place apparently extremely public Wait, you've never been to a Wal*Mart Before?! NO. I grew up in LA Rich as fuck And i've been famous since I was liike 12, Or something. Right. That is–kind of terrifying. LATER: WHY IS IT SNOWING INSIDE. WHERE'S THE EXIT. THEY HAVE GUNS?! oh wow, they have GUNS. WHY DO WE NEED GUNS! KA-BLAM. BECAUSE THEY HAVE GUNS. Bang-bang! Ptttttttttt—sttt. And they have guns. Actually, these are just– confetti cannons. *pop!* Lol “Possibly The Worst Show Ever the infinite rave continues on in Hell as everyone awaits the return of SŪPACREE- The Cosmic Avenger (Who Is NOT a DJ) and Sunnï Blū (who is a superstar rapper but also not a DJ) go back to back, buying time as the beacon to. Signal "The Supacree" is completed, battling the 10th dimensional DJ Ū, a super ninjas, for control of the decks. what else happened? idk. I CANT STOP DANCING. none of the DJs can find a pair of working headphones, and the sound guy is missing from the booth. "missing" YOU SHOT HIM. I THOUGHT IT WAS A TRANQ DART. {Enter The Multiverse} “TVP” Hazel is 6, turns 7 season 1 Season 7- 15 Man, I can't remember the other two kids names, I think the little boy is Ira but I might have named them all and forgotten, shit. Her sister, though is between 4 ½ and 5, they are technically “Irish twins”, and always fighting—they look very similar, however are not at all alike; Hazel is very much a daddy's girl, while her younger sister is a no-nonsense old soul with the tendency to cause trouble, not by being inquisitive or showy, as her sister often is, but rather by being quietly observant, and tends to dismiss both her parents, often isolating, or even dissappearing without notice, quietly and comfortably into her own world—as the series progresses, and though all of Patrick's children like their parents have showcased some kind of special ability or talent— Holy shit, give this kid a name-/ I thought I already named her, I just don't remember. That's true. It seems like they all had names. She is almost very typically, though showing signs of genius, even at the early age at the beginning of the series, a middle child, prone to upset almost too easily, but rather than acting out, is more likely to take her anger quietly; she shares her fathers deep brown eyes, dark hair, and though she looks otherwise very much like her sister, and later despises her father, is more inwardly and outwardly like him, though taking the side of her mother during their separation and divorce, oftentimes even lashing out at her father quite openly, and very vocally, as she grows into herself. “Ira”, (may have had another name earlier) is the youngest of three— as his third birthday approaches sometime during the first season. Great, now I gotta hide all those allegories so nobody can actually draw from this that Patrick— Where's his write up, anyway? That shit could go on for days. I have no idea why this catharsis is happening. I tried to sleep it off, I swear, but I still woke up like— At least mildly obsessive about this, for whatever reason. Hazel's 7 - Season Arc Hazel has the eyes, charm, and charisma for entertainment —she hopes to one day be as her father, an entertainer and performer, and will do almost anything for a laugh. She is often telling jokes, and is a people- pleaser. She is sickeningly cute, with golden hair and Hazel eyes, long eye lashes, and carries baby fat in her face, though she is rather average, neither heavy or plump, and however also not frail at all. She is inquisitive, smart, and busy, almost never idle-minded, and strong. Though sort of a Tom boy, she has been trained well to act with dignity, class, and feminine eloquence, much like her mother—but like her father, has a tendency to be crass, sometimes carelessly so, or even brutally honest—to her mother's disdain, but embraced wholesomely by other family members and adults, she's extremely funny and delightful, and very much unlike her mother, not a spoiled brat at all, often raising questions beyond her years about inequality, later wishing to attend a public school, and becoming quite the advocate for social justice and human rights in her later years, her final season shows a rebellious and sometimes even antagonistic Hazel, who later even favors Esha over her own mother as a parental figure, often confiding in her about things she can't and shouldn't share with her father, although her almost over the top admiration for her father has become the driving force and inspiration for her own endeavors in show business, much to her father's disdain, as she grows older, him becoming more protective of her, and especially within the oftentimes secretive nature of his actual placement and purpose in the business, and her rebellious nature and charm even force-feeding her into the industry, she is a bleeding heart for superstardom, and is often seen along what may be a path to fame, making Patrick's bleeding heart all the more aching, as though he and Catherine remain at odds throughout the series, he truly loves his children, even “the little sick one”, as he refers to the second child. Holy shit, what is this kid's name If I had the energy to go through my notes, I could know; but I don't. The city sickness has been sinking in from the noise of the obnoxious motorists and honestly, being out of protein is giving me muscle soreness, I'm in some sort of a bloated haze from eating almost nothing but carbs, and the fact that I haven't been with anyone in years is starting to circle like buzzards around my head, my heart has been literally screaming but overwhelming with this sense of calm, and though slipping into Patrick's sometimes erratic tendencies, for the most part I've been underwhelmed with society's expectations that I should get some kind of job, and somehow while working not lose focus on my own interests and projects—I hate [the strange modern behaviors of] most people, and everything costs too much money— my son might be going into foster care, or my ex husband is evil enough just to try to force my energy to worry about a problem he's created, and I really wanted to sleep into the afternoon with this lethargy, hoping that everything surrounding this series would just fall off, but it doesn't. I wake up often wishing I could just forget The Festival Project ™ , but the truth is, it just keeps writing itself, but in the very least, sometimes God gives me little presents that mean the very most to me— a chord organ that I thought was from the 80's, but is more likely from the 1960's— I love vintage stuff, and musical instruments, which only God could know, really—my fascination with history as if I'm still living it, and this, my sudden fascination and drive to write and complete just one series has been haunting me almost just as badly as anything else has, but especially ripping me apart—especially since I have motorcyclists ripping through my body as if it were some kind of disease that existed outside of me, so contagious that it began to sink in to my insanity and mental hygiene. I wondered if anybody else knew or cared about these creatures as much as I didn't—and in fact, I had never felt so much like Ali in the way that I didn't care if they, other “human beings” supposedly, all died tragically, and wondered why the walls and windows didn't keep out the sound of the outside world at all… The middle child begins writing secretly very early on, and is the first to be required more extensive therapy, (as suggested by the family's therapist) after her parent's separation and subsequent divorce. It is not long after she begins learning to read and write at all, that she begins also showing interests in art, asking for art lessons and to begin painting and art therapy, rather than the recommended Equine therapy— she often keeps things to herself, then returning to her hidden places at times when the family's dysfunction becomes uncomfortable and overstimulating, very often paining or reading during times of peace, and retreating to her safe places—sometimes under the stairs, into the attic, the treehouse, or even later, the family's barnyard, where she often keeps drawings, as she ages, later comics, sometimes caricatures of the things she absorbs through her own reality—and diaries, sometimes hidden in nooks and crannies and in places no one would think; a true prodigy and genius, though hidden from much the world, as she is often overlooked, however, her therapist begins unfolding her true reality, often times carrying over sessions and losing track of time, picking her brain or even conversations philosophically What's the therapists name? Doctor Robin She has to have a last name Well, she's a child's therapist, so she's Doctor Robin, but It seems like it starts with a T. We'll see. I just saw her anyway. I drifted off again, thinking about how wildly detailed this all was becoming, and wondered if there was a series of fictional books waiting to be written. There certainly could be, but my mind was reeling, freshly showered but still undressed, and not even wanting to think of going outside—and yet—I was out of water, and had learned that the drinking water from the fountains, especially in large quantities, had a tendency to make me sick—I hadn't yet eaten anything, and though the coffee was fresh, and my apartment was clean (which made me overtly overjoyed for some reason) smelling of Lemon Lysol and Bleach; with notes of a strong pot of organic fresh ground coffee, it seemed like I couldn't do much more than lay in bed writing this catastrophically interesting series—and it was interesting, which said volumes, considering I had always been picky about my TV watching, being that only ever did certain series catch my eyes or my ears, and those series were almost always—or always, always specifically well written, perfectly casted, and had the edge and draw of becoming an entire world within itself, which this series, though only a week or two old at best, in my heart and in my mind , was rampantly ravaging my own world, almost as if it had become of some importance to keep writing it, and never stop, and though Patrick was the forefigure, another broken male protagonist, the truth in the series was that the true heroes of this sometimes scarily violent drama, were its women—a story meant to be told with a diversified cast of creatures from all worlds and walks of life—Esha, of course, herself, a role that had been some recreation of myself, somehow, though so different that even primarily, I never did see myself as her, besides the onslaught of some otherworldly pain, visions of a scene recollected from some remarkable download, and it might have been once and for all that I had lost my mind, or my life, if I wasn't a writer—I was, somehow, though, after all, a writer. It had been a fasting day that could have and might have ended tragically anyway, and still the devil marked his mockery of my efforts by consistently flinging perfect bodied women everywhere that I went—though usually with ugly enough faces that I could see nothing but what a man was—uncaring for one thing over the other, a flawless representation of woman, represented in the current time with scantily clad fashion, almost painfully so—the insecurity of women becoming more apparent in the way she would appear, always almost begging to be near to me, with every perfection and complexion I hadn't—but at least I had a tendency to laugh at my own damage, often surmising that she, these demon creatures, hadn't any talent for this at all—which had turned the state of television into a near circus act; that alone urged me to continue writing the series, perhaps with a typewriter, due to the negligence of nepotism within the industry which often resulted in these pretty little creatures getting even further ahead by stealing works as such, and passing them on as their own originality almost so cruelly and without judgement—plagiarism, as it was called, but more accurately intent-to-kill the imminent threat of what had been said to be a minority becoming a more powerful force to flourish in entertainment however, as quickly as the visions had come, the thought of writing it without my phone became dauntingly impractical, and I scribbled only the most intense scenes and plot lines onto notebooks and scratch papers, keeping them as hidden from the algorithm as possible… lol the Al Gore Rhythm Ahahahahahahaha Was that the joke? Maybe. Idk. Maybe. Idk. Hm. Hmmmmm: What: Nothing. That actually might have been it. Really, was it? I will never know. That is kind of a good dad joke, though. And a good band name. Idk about that. My coffee was lukewarm enough so that I could taste its flavor, as I whittled away at whatever it was— The story was almost so beautifully being told in allegories and parables that it seemed a shame I may never be rich enough to buy fame, as it seemed that was the only way to become a star these days— and yet—it was more the wealth than the fame I wanted, I had realized, at all—the polished class of the Manhattanites drawing me out of Brooklyn and into some debauchery which was my own Grandiose thought form, that I could actually become, at the ripe old age of 31, some kind of superstar. ‘Why would I even want that, anyway?' I thought, interrupted painfully by who I'm sure was the same motorist, who seemed to do nothing but circle the block all day, and all night, doing nothing — and I wondered why he himself had decided not to do grub hub in a richer neighborhood, where money would more than likely come more easily. But really— I drifted off to a time where I wanted to ride a motorcycle myself, and the curiosity forced me to go online to check the price of what it might cost to have one. $5,000 for a decent bike, which would include a muffler as not to be so obnoxious and disturbing to others as these creatures had become to me— and I began doing the math on how long it would take to save $5,000 as if it would be possible to work some dead end job for any amount of time without spending money on anything else. It would take at least 5 months to earn enough for a motorcycle, which landed me directly back at “Not worth it”, and as horrible as it was, I did at the very least have a luxury apartment for at minimum the next 5 years, however, wanting still to move to Manhattan, Midtown specifically—or one of the quaint and quiet neighborhoods on the upper West Side. The neighborhood was going to hell, after some unworldly godless force had seemed to drop hundreds of thousands of rude and thoughtless third world workers onto the streets and buildings bordering the one I lived on, the neighborhood becoming more rough and less peaceful with trash and debris from the depression and congenital disease that was poverty, the collective unconsciousness of the masses colliding with my empathetic nature and oversensitivity to sound, especially awful sounds, such as the hundreds of motorcycles and hot rodded junk cars which only seeemed to move in a track around a four block radius, and had become a cancerous trigger of sorts, no authority figure seemed to much care about. I cared less and less each day to listen to music, since I wasn't making it the way I wanted to—and I had realized that the constant displeasure and unrest, the lack of peace had as much to do with the world outside as it did with the world within—and I began to see the disgusting obnoxious noise pollution outside my window as just an extension of man's abuse, ability to rape, torture, and kill, terrorize— the uncaring waging of war, control, and lack of true power; as no good and true man who wielded actual strengeth or true power in any way would continue to show such distructive action and carelessness for others around him— chaos, corruption, abuse, and misogyny was proving to be the downfall of all humankind, as patronaged by man, and, as I became doubtful of anyone's lack of understanding of this, especially as the immigrants themselves were often naturally pedophillic culturally and toxically abusive in nature, most migrants flocking from countries in which women's liberation or the protection of youth had not yet materialized into their understanding of conciousness and morality—the men were weak, unkind, and selfish—the women mere machines at their disposal—and however many there were, I could see that their children, the many of them, remained as the redeeming factor. Anyway, a political ploy for the ages of there ever was such a thing, the newest chapter in American greed and slavery, it only seemed like an extension of evil itself, and less of a coincidence with each growing day—each new person, another burden to the middle class taxpayer, another reason to inflate the cost of living—and all the more reason to continue to terrorize the American people into its own division, hatred, demise, and consumption. e. My faith, however, was unwavering—God was real, but these abusive and toxic creatures were pushing it further away with violent arrogance, and the inability to understand that God itself was the nature they continued to destroy. Robin Bennett Fine. “My name's —ahem— “Ron Sennet, and I ain't In it.” —did the say “don't” write a book about me? It's Not about him… Or something cute he used to say like that, I couldn't remember, but he had a bunch of cute little idioms that matched his name, and to the day, I still missed him — it was 11:15 PM exactly as I hung up the phone, after an unsuccessful attempt to reach 911, after realizing that the threat outside was maddening enough to be impossible to only be in my head, and after weeks of the excruciating noise, I finally called NYPD dispatch, much to my disdain, and of course magically, the noise seemed to disappear, but these abusive and toxic creatures were pushing it further away with violent arrogance, and the inability to understand that God itself was the nature they continued to destroy. Robin Bennett Fine. “My name's Jon Sennet, and I ain't In it.” Or something cute he used to say like that, I couldn't remember, but he had a bunch of cute little idioms that matched his name, and to the day, I still missed him — it was 11:15 PM exactly as I hung up the phone, after an unsuccessful attempt to reach 911, after realizing that the threat outside was maddening enough to be impossible to only be in my head, and after weeks of the excruciating noise, I finally called NYPD dispatch, much to my disdain, and of course magically, the noise seemed to disappear as soon as I had made the call, which infuriated me. It seemed as though the game in entirety to make me look or feel crazy, though I knew I wasn't—well, I was, but not without purpose or reason. I had been theorizing in energy exchange quite decisively making a mark for my alter, at which I asked to be designated the wisdom and truth of the light within the eye, desire, however never in mind, although I had been summoned in part due to the fact that wenwere somehow alike—I was in some ways besides and out of sorts with my set, sinking my teeth into the forced obsession as I unraveled any possibilities and plotline. Episode 01. Pilot An opportunity presents itself seemingly at random— the protagonist's hand is forced into a life changing ultimatum, putting his reuputation and family in danger. Already involved in an illegal gambling ring which operates out of a secret historical prohibition era speakeasy and some “light” drug mulling within its walls, however often extending even as dangerously close to his workplace, Patrick is propositioned to become an investor in the high end escort service, with which he hired and contracted his lover, Kandi, a “rescue” whom he supports in her exchange for exclusivity, to remain as her only client, however, although he begrudgingly declines, wishing not to be involved in anything much more than what he has already kept under the radar, he is intimidated and threatened by blackmail, his high profile becoming at stake—he then obliges to embark upon this new endeavor, the expansion of this establishment to include a warehouse, which houses a large scale brothel, and, able to use his social status to procure wealthy clientele, quickly becomes a power player within a ring of coveted elites, setting fire to his already inflated ego, and colliding with his intense and highly functional polyaddiction, which he has maintained since his youth, using his entertainment persona as an outlet, becoming a medium of excess, fame, and rampant wealth. Patrick is beloved by his peers, and is humbled often by his devoted fans and friends—proactively worshipped as a comic genius, a prodigy, and a revered successor to legendary frontmen— Okay, this is weird, because I started writing this before I even understood what I was writing at all… —specifically, the sixth successor, to his coveted role. I had written for Esha to be the seventh successor, as with the symbolism deeply and quite literally woven into the sometimes brutal framework of the series, which I had shorthanded to ‘TVP'…the world around me trailed off as my eyes blurred as they had been lately, and I wondered if I might be having some kind of stroke or something, as I was certainly some sort of out of body—the day had been strange, and I had given up on a run or a gym for the day, the motorcycles alone ravaging my energy, and whether I worked out or not, they were everpresent anyway. They were some sort of toxic, abusive force I just had to put up with, hoping it didn't upset my psychology so much that it ended me, though I had become quite odd as of recently, rambling more than usual and actually praying out loud, as my silent ones just didn't seem to be working—they were probably white supremacists, or in some way connected to some political terror group, but it didn't seem to matter. Someone liked torturing me, and it was becoming apparent that no matter much time I spent at the gym, this torture was going to persist. After a month long gym streak, at least going once a day to lift something, I rested, or rather, tried to rest, kind of— but my mind had been swirling with thoughts of a man I was certain by now I had made up—and writing the story of a man I was absolutely certain came from my mind, but in a way that it almost made no sense at all—as the more I looked into the world that I had already written about, the more I realized was accurate without first having known these things, and however cursed I might have been to even know such things, I decided to call it some sort of blessing instead. ‘God, I used to get so fucking high for days, and when I would come down, just crying and crying, eating Totinos or DiJorno and a bag of Bugles, I would watch Saturday Night Live for fucking hours, and I hated [Redacted]. I hated him.' Now I still hated [Redacted], but in a different way, and though really it was myself that was more like Patrick, he at the very least, for whatever reason, used to have his face—now, he was just Patrick, and [Redacted] was just [Redacted], and i knew entirely too much about it all, and about myself to be comfortable with it, but nothing was comfortable at all. I had written entire atrocities, novels, and all that was some conglomerate of nonsense which was the festival project, besides how insanely and innately prodigal it all was sometimes, my own words confusing me with a bizzare and asenine dysfunction, awe, actually, often as if someone else had written them, and although I was always at least sort of semi-concious while writing, the spells and cadences I would fall under were some sort of trance, and as I watched the Nirvana rehearsal from Saturday Night Live in 1992, long before [Redacted] or any of the rest of the — Was it Keystone? It was, the Keystone cast of SNL, but the first word my mind had jumped to was Hallmark, which—after referencing Google quickly for a fact check, also stood true. I was willing to admit, even now, though I had long lost interest in Saturday Nighy Live, or anything at all having to do with current events, that the [Redacted] era—or rather even, the Tina Fey era, a true role model, perhaps, and someone I favored over all of the performers I admired, or allowed myself to admire— the Golden Years of Saturday Night were the only years, for me that even mattered— trying to make sense of anything couldn't be done, but I at least had this new project birthed from it to think about. It would be hard to sit down at a taping of The View and not think about all I had written at all, and it would be impossible not to unfold the characters which had presented themselves, though slowly but surely, through the most vivid visions and insanely lucid dreams, as The TV People began to What if someone steals this out of my documents? That would be unwise…the best scenes are somewhere scribbled in my notebooks and random scraps of paper somewhere in my room…this series is almost nothing without those scenes—the elements with which the most painful scenes I had ever written, became word form. ‘I don't know why, but I feel so i

If I'm technically Christ, then Skrillex is the Anti-Christ— And if we fuck out Demi-God children will most possibly bring on the Apocalypse. **most probably. Something's on fire. I think it's your living room. Oh my God! Oh, good, it's just the curtains. Your son set my living room on fire. Not the living room. Just the curtains! [and the couch] My couch! And my couch! Oh my God! Stop it, The Apostle! What. That's The Apostle. He sets stuff on fire. What the Hell. With his mind. You called your son “The Apostle” Sure did. Why. CUT TO: FLASHBACK THE APOSTLE (extremely cute toddler) The Earth with end in a rain of hellfire and blood. Ok. He was 3. Wow: Wait. You named your son when he was 3? We changed it from ‘Simon' Hi, Simon! THE APOSTLE DOOM. *sets fire* WOAH. That's so cool. No, not the google documents! GET IN THE HOLE. Hm. What. Blood Shower All along the watch tower Do you feel good? Do you? Do you feel bad about this. I do. I feel bad about this. I forgot to tell you– I should probably let you know that I just want to MAN, FUCK THIS DUDE. MA. WAHT. IT'S ON. WHAt. THE SHOW IS ON. THEWHAT. THE– *suddenly self aware* …I gotta get out of Boston. What, first this was about war, now it's about bird people? It's about a war WITH the bird people. I should sleep. Hahaha. No. This isn't funny anymore. At least it's over. MA– Oh, it's far from over. Yo, i'm going through some crazy shit right now. Spur of the moment I'd never thought of it; This is gonna take forever. I don't have the patience To even write this I just want french fries right now But been up for two days with no gym and I'm on a diet. GUAC TIME. No, no burritos. GUAC TIME. Oh shit, this is getting real as fuck . NOw i see it three ways. I love it. I hate it. HEY, LET ME OUT. GET BACK IN YOUR HOLE, SKRILLEX. I'M DILLON FRANCIS. IN THE HOLE. Check it out. Huh. It's another DJ. *agrees* Should we pick him up. WEll, the good news is: I found your friend. Oh, that's good. The bad news is: He's dead. Oh, that–'s … nice. Yeah. It is. Uh. Kaskade. Yeah. We gotta find Ryan. Why. What's up? You're freaking me out. Why. What's up. Nothing IS it my eyes? I– *wild ass eyes* Yeah, it's probably that. Fuck dude, what did you do to deadmau5. NOTHIN. He's not the same. What the fuck is that. Holy shit I jus timejumped Where the fuck are you going. How the fuck could this happen?! It COULDN'T. Well, that's it then. *shrugs* Well, I guess we're just gonna have to go dig up Dillon Francis. I guess so. Do you think he's still alive. Like, probably not– Maybe… No, probably not @prodbywar& @Halmadeit This amazon order took me nine hours Alexa, I think i should fire her Like a arm I don't leave at night without armor Don't make me a martyr Your mom will be proud of us all If i make it outta here And i'll look after her Got the whole block coming up on my heels as I walk Wtf is it… Idk dude. Is it speeding up? I…i think so. There's no way this is 140 IT's 140. It's 140 . There's no way. Yes way. Nah huh. Let me see. No. Let me at the decks. Let me at the decks. NO. YO LET ME AT THE DECKS. You want deks. Yes. I got deks. Really. yeus . I never listened to it like this In ableton I read serato, synesthesia and rekordbox I talk a lot, I'm like a human music box I walk a lot I run my mouth a mile a minute (faster than i run around the track reciting rap words) Like they're passwords. Oh, I could do this forever.. I wish i had i microphone right now And was all alone With the lights off Lying on the floor I'd be lying if i said I could afford you Just to fornicate But may consider playing with a foreigner If you're all for her I'm unnerved, you know Cause i've been up so long My monster likes to play with boys and Make the bass go down below where Nobody does anymore Once I get a hold of things Or the hang of it You've got another hot ones on your hands I've another record under my belt Or in my roster, Whatever you'd call it But now I've got no time to bark about Wanting a dog and a daughter But none of the responsibility or Going through all the trouble to find her a father I'm still holding a fart in. Reaally–cause–it's been a really long time. WHAT WOULD YOU KNOW ABOUT A LONG TIME, JIMMY FALLON?? Um a lot! You literally just saw me make the journey all the way up from nothing. I am nothing EXACTLY. I don't have time to fight with you Jiimmy Fallon. I did NOT write these games by myself you know?! Um, excuse me– “GAMES” ?! YES, GAMES. Uh, I've only got one game with you in it, my friend. Is that so! One game that I've written with the Great–formerly LATE Jimmy Fallon. Is that like a play on words cause i'm on late night TV YOu'RE ON ALL THE TIME TV, JIMMY. NBC SHIT IS PRACTICALLY AUTOMATICALLY SYNDICATED. -_- …are you alright. –_-_-__-_ Hold on, I think i've got it Nice, I found a growler. yOu still haven't got all the monsters and sprites Ive got all the big ones, but the little ones are harder to catch. GrO0Wl3rrr. Aww. He's so ugly. Yeah, but cute, though, right. I don't think so. Gro)WwlErrrrrrrrr. Aww. That's so fucking gross. lol . so what does this thing look like. Well, that't the thing about the monsters and sprites. WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT. It's alright, it's alright–he's nice. WHAT. THAT'S A SPRITE. No, it's a monster. He's just scary. SUPACREE. David Bowie. What up. God, it took me ages to find you. Tell me about it. I'm still trying. We've been expecting you for a long time. You were expecting I'd die? Yes. So when she says she's “married to the music…” I'm married to the music. Oh, so. Yo, honestly if you een want to talk to this bitch, you'd better have like a musical instrument, or a mic in your hands, Otherwise– No, getawayfrom me. It's not even worth it. HI. –No. What's up? Tempo. SUNNI Cotour From the store I was poor Now i'm honorable In velour, Glamour (Snap) Forsure, Jesus Christs is making appearances in my abletons I'm not able to comprehend or understand exactly the message, But the evidence sire is mounting Get it Reached the temple, More of a sanctuary, Is that sacrilegious I guess it is, I'm stressed as ever Trying to get it together {Enter The Multiverse} Now I know too well, The well of tears on my guitar She's got a body like one Oh her curves But I just wonder what it like to be loved By stars Socialites and superstars They're Gods, you know How high up they are Above us And he lives in an ascended dimension, But he insists, he says Her transcendence is upon us He said Your transcendence is upon us He says these things, And then just vanishes So she gets up promptly Warms up yesterday's coffee Looks around in her coffin And wonders What for I just Wonder what it's like to be loved by stars Without double r's, you know I've got scars But it's mostly just Teardrops, and soft kisses On my guitar Cause, oh, Oli, I ain't got nobody— And nobody holds me Like I hold Oli (Could have been Ali, But of course— I had already lost that one A whole well of tears, I lost At his departure And a whole well more When I actually lost him I almost miss Having someone to talk to About anything and everything But I've got Oli And God now I've got Oli And Oli (oli) Is all that I've got Besides God That's the only contact In my Phone book No more double Ls And double entendres; No more double rs At all Just scars now No more metaphors. Honest is radical I like them cynical I should have clinical insanity by now But I'm only just an artist You can't help But can only harm that And if it hurts hard enough I'll put art on my walls Become permanent Storybooks all over my arms now My coat of arms now I've run Ten point 5 miles In the last 3 days; But if I rest today Will a motorcycle gang Have a parade outside of my window, To drive me crazy? I hope it rains, So they can't play these games with my head And the seeds that I planted So deep become daisies I still don't remember The way he rearranged me But these days I make my name sound So the way He can never say it Just imitates The way I hate myself I should be dating But expressions are Atrocious If I fall asleep— Who knows I may get Stolen That tends to happen So I'm All the way up And I'm swollen in ways That I hate to say “I love you” Love me back Or say it harder That's my martyrdom Come off the cross, for a moment, Would you for us? And bend over Or bow, if you will? If I did, Would you still call me wicked Or just a Good witch Since I'm a woman, I just couldn't be Jesus, Who you asked for once And always Who you asked for some To save you from your Credit reports And consorts Or some sort of Nonsense [famous last words] God don't speak much English, She says God don't speak much these days We were Always Telepathic That was way back then When Oedipus Rex Was on the Guest list I was standing at the coat check, asking Why I must take off my hat When entering the service To the bouncer, he says “That's just politics” I said, That's just politics We both said, What's the difference Then we all laughed —then we all just laughed and laughed Exchange is my favorite exchange Where my favorite exchanges Have happened for centuries Of engagements Endeared species, And races pieces haven't tasted the same Since I haven't had them Animal products And animal planet I found this hat on Discovery channel Did you want it? I can't stand it So I had to have it back I just had to use the bathroom I just had to disconnect From [] See— I don't even have to put the words in Cause a name is just words When that's a man You just can't have And that's the worse When that's a man And you can't have him What a habit. Silky rabbit. Now he's the Ace. All In A Day's Work I've never died before. Oh… that is terrifying. It sounds terrible. It's really not that bad. Why are you not writing this down? I just need a moment… It's really not that bad… I die all the time. I get sensory overload At Trader Joe's Look at the colors The clothes, This sure isn't queensborough Escalators for shopping carts I get it Manhattan I'll take my half BLVCK ass to the projects Where my kind are I don't belong here , God you're intolerant I like this part of town But I'm way too brown And I dropped my crown at the market I should be jealous of everyone But I have learned my place I've been a slave since Hollywood I lost my son to the devil Now I pay child support And terrorist follow me coughing I'm wrong just for being born ! You could start a war from it If that's what you wanted I'm a people watcher people watcher About to board the people mover People mover Slip, Here's the tell Slip, here's the tell I should have a bell around my neck I think she wanted a picture with papa I'm playin my own paparazzi Look mom, I bought a sacafagus There go them niggas with coughs again I been watching em Got binoculars I got oculus, for my oculars Look how hot he is, make me ovulate Man I gotta love it, Cause they love to hate Fucking racist crazies Have it your way I paid for it with my soul You hate but I love to love Somebody just got me fuckes up I don't have a book to run off of Shut up, honey. Now we're all up here Monkey in the middle Cause the middle one is weaker It's getting deeper and deeper Like the sinkhole that my sink is Let it sink in I've been syncing my secrets with demons In dreams sequences It's just a reparative injustice Kamasutra for your wondering words and stuff You can have it It's ruined anyway m Look at all this trash Look at all these classless classes Classwars, Racists. Everybody hates us The Asians, Latinx's The other niggas What being black is I'll write it in cursive It's just a curse, here So you can have it I'm moving to Heaven I'm packing my boxes I'm getting a cat, too! His name is Agustus He's a big one And I love him I just wanted a hug or a husband Instead I got nothing to trying my hardest And got for a bargain at target some coffee For being a targeted body All on an algorithm I guess I'm just useless. A dumb nigger demon Did I just offend you? Then you shouldn't be reading this either I wrote it for pleasure (Or pain) On the one Or the two Or the one Or the two I could do a lot with this $20. I could spend it all on Fuck all of you I'm moving to Heaven Where the heart it She's not harmless She's a terrorist— And I'll kill her, too Look how right she is Look how white she is, Huh Regardless of color It's a race war Lil biiiiitzzz Yooo, fuck New York. In every hole. In every crevice. Fuck this place. It's racist— Not just cause I'm black. Like statistically. It took a whole ass apartment elsesrch to feature this out. I was like “I wanna live in Manhattan” Everyone was like “NOOOOOOOO—-“ Haha “Nooo, no.” I was like “Why not?” The blacks were like: HAHA The whites were like— *COUGHS OBNOXIOUSLY* New York is so racist. It is statistically the most diverse—and most segregated city in the nation At the same time. WHAT. How do you even DO that? But it's true, at this point, the black people are like—fuck this, we'll just stay over here, and over here. And the rich whites are like YES. KEEP THAT SHIT, OVER THERE. Cause if you've ever been to the ghetto. It's some SHIT, It is NOT COOL. I finally got my ‘night card' back. Had it revoked in california . I was almost a whole valley girl. I still eat exclusively at Whole Foods. Trader Joe's. But NO. Now i live in the hood. It's fucking disgusting. I can say ‘nigga' again. Cause it's NIGGAS. Lots of niggas. I'm telling you. It's night and day! The white folks trains smell like bleach— Ammonia. The black folks train smell like a McDonald's. WHAT. Or just— Vomit. I can actually count the number of times just— Vomit—- On the train. Or. Dookie. Yes. Human feces. But I'm ready to go to midtown and it's like the train that goes around Disneyland. Families! People singing! Hey—cotton candy!! —and I didn't have to pick it! Haha! Fuck New York. Racist ass HOLE. I thought surely the next presidential election was one or two years out, but the racial tensions which had been rising became even more pronounced, as I realized that November was theboncoming time—and that they hostility between the whites and the blacks had once again been a result as the oncoming war, fueled onward—that the hatred, disgust, and general aggression of the whites had been of course, in the midsts of yet another Trump-fueled political upheaval, and I wondered why and how at all I had been caught in such a world that existed in form of man, of course, now proven himself to be the weaker sex, and yet in that of dominance, as was arranged in such an unholy war, to be the helm of power by sheer greed— now it seemed that these attacks were indeed political terrorism, and that these motorcyclists, my placement close to the ground level, and my neighbor's clammorings were specific attacks, after my identity had been varied to be that of the same in which I had once held political ambition, now none of which I assumed mattered at all. Perhaps I needed something more certain than a 12 story jump or suicide by train, and wondered as to whether it would be easy enough to kill myself bh self inflicted gunshot—a sure thing for certain, as love has been lost in the way of money at all. At that party…or rather, kind of—after. That acid that never hit Beyoncé I don't feel it. Man, I'm a terrible influence(r) Just take it. Nah, I'm good— PUSSY. -_- Give me three. K. —suddenly hits BEYONCÉ. BEYONCÉ …I got this. [BEYONCE] however, does not Ohh, shit. — “got this.” A very stranded, very sober Johnny depp stumbles upon what appears to be a college frat party, where the only thing they have is light beer, and nobody even recognizes him as a celebrity, because the attendees are all gen z What's even after gen z? The fucking apocalypse. Anyway. The acid hits Beyoncé on her way to make coffee, which extends the trip from the living room to the kitchen infinitely. Multidimensional Anne Hathaway hulks the fuck out and saves the day by ruining everything, which actually fixes everything— and *spoiler* helps Jesus to remain as the king of kings at beer pong. Lol In the late 90s in New York City, the keystone cast of Saturday night live learns of each other's formerly sexret psychic abilities, and uses the radio technologies of Rockefeller plaza to develop a research center for the telepathically gifted, eventually discovering and perfecting time travel. Supacree (the kid version) appears in and out of her ideal and desired realities, baffling ‘the Hollywood people' and later ‘the New York people', becoming the legendary central figure of the Illuminati, as the original timepiece — a pyramid shaped extra terrestrial vehicle which contains an ascended hyper conciousness, which I can't remember how it goes, did the supacree leave to find the Skrillex, or was it the other way around? I think it was both ways at some point, but the whole thing was this, just in case I never wrote it but just saw— These space god (humanoid evolved) are some kind of scientists/ doctors— there are four timepieces, each representing an era upon our planet; earth, which is distant but sacred— these four time pieces each depart their given “docs” in time to appear on earth at specific Fuck this is hard to explain Times in history, at which the first worlds, or previous human eras were known to have been destroyed— these time pieces travel through time space with the full record of these events in order to alert the current human era of its imminent doom, as an attempt to prevent such disasterous events, typically war, which will lead to the annihilation of the human species; these Gods, one male and one female, a king and queen, a married couple are the rules of the humankind, technically worshiped as a whole as one God, with whom the human design was modeled after, however, the true source of all things is the cosmos, known and unknown, in its totality—neither man or woman, but the force of creation. Anyway, what else is happening Oh. All of the celebrities are stuck in— [the festival project] in some way, shape, or form until its creator finishes it—and though it in itself is infinite, its 'finishing' notates its eventual production, which lol. That never going to happen. Because. Let's face it. I'm scared of …rich people. Yeah, sure. Yeah. I'm scared of The effect of the race war, which has been to pit the white woman against the black woman, which allows and maintains the continuation of war mongering male dominance over the entire planet, which remains as a destructive force of greed, racism, and inequality. So why try? [EDITS] CONAN O'BRIEN Alright. If she hit Fallon, she's gonna come for one of us next. No, Conan—that's not how this works. WHAT—where did you come from!? When did you get here? JAY LENO This goes deeper than all of you can understand. WHAT the FUCK, man! When did you-/ —when did he get here? How did you do that?! How did you do that?! What are you, like, the same guy? Are you not all the same guy? [they shrug simultaneously and kind of just agree] Listen at this. Okay then. The enemy of your friend is my enemy. Oh…kay—and the enemy of my enemy—is my friend— That is correct. —so we're all friends here. That's right. Some special forces? Which forces? How special? [JENNIFER LOPEZ is still JENNY FROM THE BLOCK] Do I look like a fool to you? Uh— OOPS [a pre-fame Jennifer Lopez receives a drop full of diamonds instead of the usual; she has been granted access into the Illuminati, and becomes an overnight success.] This feels heavier than usual. Same as always. Hm. Are you sure. Yep. Hey, you're not the regular guy. Regular guy died. That makes sense. JENNIFER ANNISTON is inside of Ū Okay, grosss Not like that [lifting max weight] Okay. That was cool. Wow. Yeah, sure whatever. I am strong Yeah yeah, okay. Are you sure you want to be my size? Yep. JIMMY FALLON/SKRILLEX (we don't know actually which at this point) is also trapped inside of Ū Okay, gross! Yeah. SKRILLEX is in all of Ū. okay—actually, i'm okay with that, but That other guy?! [JIMMY FALLON] Yeah, he's weird. Also meanwhile, kind of— MARSHALL MATHERS has a closet cleaning service lol. Patrick is smooth as a motherfucker, you know. Every time his head is down on the desk like that, he takes a bump of coke. What?! Big uh! [Patrick takes bumps of cocaine in front of a live studio audience—every single night.] Woah! See. Goddamn. You gotta admire a guy like that. Jennifer Anniston is the weight on the cable tension machine Ooh. Psycho bitch devious methods new ludachris commercial All ya'll girls is toddlers I like long boards and longhairs Lawn mowers and lawn shares Aw hell nah, God forgot Cher I got the Blair witch project On Blair, I hope I scare you How dare you. Your girl looks like a naked mole rat. I got my soul back. You blue eyed bastards stole everything From the whole blacks, Hold that thought I'm at Whole Foods market throw in the Amazon algorithm off With marked dollars Look at God at Walmart On them rollbacks You old hacks are cackling I'm shackled to old habits Hold hands with me, rabbit I'm just a silly rapper really, are you? Maybe. Cut the verse of Reverse God Now I'm the devil I'm still lost in the Amazon cart I sharted all up in your pop tarts Before you warmed them up, pops Just for the sake of the art, Heart to heart, It's a war on love And the white girls won with nothin but Buckets of Whatever's up there I wouldn't know Cause I'm stuck job searching And running, Trying not to have a tummy So some gummy worm will love me First their sour, then they're sweet Then nobody, Trolli Holy moly I could use some more petroleum in the ocean! Said nobody But the globalists are performing your programming Which you're worshiping I put my eye on the dollar So I could watch you all Crumble and fall Don't you know The apocalypse is happening at the mall Of all the places How's that for a stream of consciousness, You salamander I asked Anandar back But I went past that chapter Have a chap Or a chapstick, for four times four dollars A bottle of water will cost you a fortune (But at least the drugs are in it) Get it It's recycled piss Distilled? Which is it, Mr,? The mystery box was literally lifted into My dinner from a fishery filled with nothing but niggers in it— I want a refund, before I catch that Fucking curse of poverty from — what'd you call it salmonellahallibut One hell of a cough from someone on the sidewalk But guess what? The devil's in your pocket or your palm, And that's the omen and the psalm rolled into one Cause God is awesome, But my mom is fuckin toxic And that's how I fuckin got here Blow my head off, Slit my wrists And write a song While jumping off a bit When all you need is money, But the world costs more than It's worth, and words are nothing But another fucking problem in your Google documents I look at my son and see a God, But half of Satan's in him, Oh man Robotics Lets be honest, I don't even know how to write this. Where's my sides?! WHERE'S MY SIDES. You don't get SIDES with this; It's just CHICKEN. I don't eat CHICKEN. It appears as though, however– You do. Ok, I gotta get off this playlist. I… i gotta . “The Wal*Mart Wars” Hm. … …………. …. *face* … no. No. l– What is this place. {After a wild night which apparently spiraled out of control, great , there goes my peace. Not forever, though, maybe. FUCK THIS PLACE. I HATE THIS PLACE. Everybody hates this place. But the album is called “I love New York” Yes, thats Technically How it's pronounced, though It's stylized like I _ NY Cause. EXT. MIDTOWN MANHATTAN. DAY Oh, wow, this is beautiful. THis is great. I love this place FUCK THE FEDS. CUT TO: EXT.Typically WHEREVER ELSE Anywhere ‘above' like 87th? Lets just call it 80th, be safe. BE SAFE! NIGGAZ. ah shit, i gotta go. BITCH– But lets just be honest, It's technically ‘above' But it's really [THE BRONX is a literal extension of the Underworld] Oh no. srsly tho. X_c Anyway. FUck man, Do you think i'll ever get good like that. Idk what equipment is this Hmm, lets see, that's approximately $8,000 USD of CDJs wow yep That's retarded Yep. And you still need a mixer. fukt. OKay, I would literally sell my soul for this. Consider it done. wait , really? YES. you earned it. Wait, I– What?! You earned it… Uh oh. Take care now. Shit. [BILLIE ELLISH is trapped inside WALMART] Uh oh. Fuck. what is this place. INT. WALMART. WHENEVER EMPLOYEESLAVES WHAT TIME IS IT. THERE'S NO WINDOWS IN HERE. That's not funny IT'S literally a synonym, we might as well make it a portemantau MEanwhile, in this other dimension, So that i don't offend anybody… Actually, you know what? Be offended. Quit that stupid fuckin shit and follow your dreams! Wait really? Wait, really? Sure! If you want! …i guess. AMERICA NO. INSTANT HOMELESSNESS ok , nvm. Damn. I know, right. wtf r u guys watching. Shut up. All Wal*Mart Employees are actually top secret government agents. x ∞ >.< (we'll just use Billie Ellish as the alternate, but really it could be Could it really? Shut UP, PLURNICORN. Wtf is a PLURNICORN We'll see. [Upon Realizing s/he is trapped in a mysterious place apparently extremely public Wait, you've never been to a Wal*Mart Before?! NO. I grew up in LA Rich as fuck And i've been famous since I was liike 12, Or something. Right. That is–kind of terrifying. LATER: WHY IS IT SNOWING INSIDE. WHERE'S THE EXIT. THEY HAVE GUNS?! oh wow, they have GUNS. WHY DO WE NEED GUNS! KA-BLAM. BECAUSE THEY HAVE GUNS. Bang-bang! Ptttttttttt—sttt. And they have guns. Actually, these are just– confetti cannons. *pop!* Lol “Possibly The Worst Show Ever the infinite rave continues on in Hell as everyone awaits the return of SŪPACREE- The Cosmic Avenger (Who Is NOT a DJ) and Sunnï Blū (who is a superstar rapper but also not a DJ) go back to back, buying time as the beacon to. Signal "The Supacree" is completed, battling the 10th dimensional DJ Ū, a super ninjas, for control of the decks. what else happened? idk. I CANT STOP DANCING. none of the DJs can find a pair of working headphones, and the sound guy is missing from the booth. "missing" YOU SHOT HIM. I THOUGHT IT WAS A TRANQ DART. {Enter The Multiverse} “TVP” Hazel is 6, turns 7 season 1 Season 7- 15 Man, I can't remember the other two kids names, I think the little boy is Ira but I might have named them all and forgotten, shit. Her sister, though is between 4 ½ and 5, they are technically “Irish twins”, and always fighting—they look very similar, however are not at all alike; Hazel is very much a daddy's girl, while her younger sister is a no-nonsense old soul with the tendency to cause trouble, not by being inquisitive or showy, as her sister often is, but rather by being quietly observant, and tends to dismiss both her parents, often isolating, or even dissappearing without notice, quietly and comfortably into her own world—as the series progresses, and though all of Patrick's children like their parents have showcased some kind of special ability or talent— Holy shit, give this kid a name-/ I thought I already named her, I just don't remember. That's true. It seems like they all had names. She is almost very typically, though showing signs of genius, even at the early age at the beginning of the series, a middle child, prone to upset almost too easily, but rather than acting out, is more likely to take her anger quietly; she shares her fathers deep brown eyes, dark hair, and though she looks otherwise very much like her sister, and later despises her father, is more inwardly and outwardly like him, though taking the side of her mother during their separation and divorce, oftentimes even lashing out at her father quite openly, and very vocally, as she grows into herself. “Ira”, (may have had another name earlier) is the youngest of three— as his third birthday approaches sometime during the first season. Great, now I gotta hide all those allegories so nobody can actually draw from this that Patrick— Where's his write up, anyway? That shit could go on for days. I have no idea why this catharsis is happening. I tried to sleep it off, I swear, but I still woke up like— At least mildly obsessive about this, for whatever reason. Hazel's 7 - Season Arc Hazel has the eyes, charm, and charisma for entertainment —she hopes to one day be as her father, an entertainer and performer, and will do almost anything for a laugh. She is often telling jokes, and is a people- pleaser. She is sickeningly cute, with golden hair and Hazel eyes, long eye lashes, and carries baby fat in her face, though she is rather average, neither heavy or plump, and however also not frail at all. She is inquisitive, smart, and busy, almost never idle-minded, and strong. Though sort of a Tom boy, she has been trained well to act with dignity, class, and feminine eloquence, much like her mother—but like her father, has a tendency to be crass, sometimes carelessly so, or even brutally honest—to her mother's disdain, but embraced wholesomely by other family members and adults, she's extremely funny and delightful, and very much unlike her mother, not a spoiled brat at all, often raising questions beyond her years about inequality, later wishing to attend a public school, and becoming quite the advocate for social justice and human rights in her later years, her final season shows a rebellious and sometimes even antagonistic Hazel, who later even favors Esha over her own mother as a parental figure, often confiding in her about things she can't and shouldn't share with her father, although her almost over the top admiration for her father has become the driving force and inspiration for her own endeavors in show business, much to her father's disdain, as she grows older, him becoming more protective of her, and especially within the oftentimes secretive nature of his actual placement and purpose in the business, and her rebellious nature and charm even force-feeding her into the industry, she is a bleeding heart for superstardom, and is often seen along what may be a path to fame, making Patrick's bleeding heart all the more aching, as though he and Catherine remain at odds throughout the series, he truly loves his children, even “the little sick one”, as he refers to the second child. Holy shit, what is this kid's name If I had the energy to go through my notes, I could know; but I don't. The city sickness has been sinking in from the noise of the obnoxious motorists and honestly, being out of protein is giving me muscle soreness, I'm in some sort of a bloated haze from eating almost nothing but carbs, and the fact that I haven't been with anyone in years is starting to circle like buzzards around my head, my heart has been literally screaming but overwhelming with this sense of calm, and though slipping into Patrick's sometimes erratic tendencies, for the most part I've been underwhelmed with society's expectations that I should get some kind of job, and somehow while working not lose focus on my own interests and projects—I hate [the strange modern behaviors of] most people, and everything costs too much money— my son might be going into foster care, or my ex husband is evil enough just to try to force my energy to worry about a problem he's created, and I really wanted to sleep into the afternoon with this lethargy, hoping that everything surrounding this series would just fall off, but it doesn't. I wake up often wishing I could just forget The Festival Project ™ , but the truth is, it just keeps writing itself, but in the very least, sometimes God gives me little presents that mean the very most to me— a chord organ that I thought was from the 80's, but is more likely from the 1960's— I love vintage stuff, and musical instruments, which only God could know, really—my fascination with history as if I'm still living it, and this, my sudden fascination and drive to write and complete just one series has been haunting me almost just as badly as anything else has, but especially ripping me apart—especially since I have motorcyclists ripping through my body as if it were some kind of disease that existed outside of me, so contagious that it began to sink in to my insanity and mental hygiene. I wondered if anybody else knew or cared about these creatures as much as I didn't—and in fact, I had never felt so much like Ali in the way that I didn't care if they, other “human beings” supposedly, all died tragically, and wondered why the walls and windows didn't keep out the sound of the outside world at all… The middle child begins writing secretly very early on, and is the first to be required more extensive therapy, (as suggested by the family's therapist) after her parent's separation and subsequent divorce. It is not long after she begins learning to read and write at all, that she begins also showing interests in art, asking for art lessons and to begin painting and art therapy, rather than the recommended Equine therapy— she often keeps things to herself, then returning to her hidden places at times when the family's dysfunction becomes uncomfortable and overstimulating, very often paining or reading during times of peace, and retreating to her safe places—sometimes under the stairs, into the attic, the treehouse, or even later, the family's barnyard, where she often keeps drawings, as she ages, later comics, sometimes caricatures of the things she absorbs through her own reality—and diaries, sometimes hidden in nooks and crannies and in places no one would think; a true prodigy and genius, though hidden from much the world, as she is often overlooked, however, her therapist begins unfolding her true reality, often times carrying over sessions and losing track of time, picking her brain or even conversations philosophically What's the therapists name? Doctor Robin She has to have a last name Well, she's a child's therapist, so she's Doctor Robin, but It seems like it starts with a T. We'll see. I just saw her anyway. I drifted off again, thinking about how wildly detailed this all was becoming, and wondered if there was a series of fictional books waiting to be written. There certainly could be, but my mind was reeling, freshly showered but still undressed, and not even wanting to think of going outside—and yet—I was out of water, and had learned that the drinking water from the fountains, especially in large quantities, had a tendency to make me sick—I hadn't yet eaten anything, and though the coffee was fresh, and my apartment was clean (which made me overtly overjoyed for some reason) smelling of Lemon Lysol and Bleach; with notes of a strong pot of organic fresh ground coffee, it seemed like I couldn't do much more than lay in bed writing this catastrophically interesting series—and it was interesting, which said volumes, considering I had always been picky about my TV watching, being that only ever did certain series catch my eyes or my ears, and those series were almost always—or always, always specifically well written, perfectly casted, and had the edge and draw of becoming an entire world within itself, which this series, though only a week or two old at best, in my heart and in my mind , was rampantly ravaging my own world, almost as if it had become of some importance to keep writing it, and never stop, and though Patrick was the forefigure, another broken male protagonist, the truth in the series was that the true heroes of this sometimes scarily violent drama, were its women—a story meant to be told with a diversified cast of creatures from all worlds and walks of life—Esha, of course, herself, a role that had been some recreation of myself, somehow, though so different that even primarily, I never did see myself as her, besides the onslaught of some otherworldly pain, visions of a scene recollected from some remarkable download, and it might have been once and for all that I had lost my mind, or my life, if I wasn't a writer—I was, somehow, though, after all, a writer. It had been a fasting day that could have and might have ended tragically anyway, and still the devil marked his mockery of my efforts by consistently flinging perfect bodied women everywhere that I went—though usually with ugly enough faces that I could see nothing but what a man was—uncaring for one thing over the other, a flawless representation of woman, represented in the current time with scantily clad fashion, almost painfully so—the insecurity of women becoming more apparent in the way she would appear, always almost begging to be near to me, with every perfection and complexion I hadn't—but at least I had a tendency to laugh at my own damage, often surmising that she, these demon creatures, hadn't any talent for this at all—which had turned the state of television into a near circus act; that alone urged me to continue writing the series, perhaps with a typewriter, due to the negligence of nepotism within the industry which often resulted in these pretty little creatures getting even further ahead by stealing works as such, and passing them on as their own originality almost so cruelly and without judgement—plagiarism, as it was called, but more accurately intent-to-kill the imminent threat of what had been said to be a minority becoming a more powerful force to flourish in entertainment however, as quickly as the visions had come, the thought of writing it without my phone became dauntingly impractical, and I scribbled only the most intense scenes and plot lines onto notebooks and scratch papers, keeping them as hidden from the algorithm as possible… lol the Al Gore Rhythm Ahahahahahahaha Was that the joke? Maybe. Idk. Maybe. Idk. Hm. Hmmmmm: What: Nothing. That actually might have been it. Really, was it? I will never know. That is kind of a good dad joke, though. And a good band name. Idk about that. My coffee was lukewarm enough so that I could taste its flavor, as I whittled away at whatever it was— The story was almost so beautifully being told in allegories and parables that it seemed a shame I may never be rich enough to buy fame, as it seemed that was the only way to become a star these days— and yet—it was more the wealth than the fame I wanted, I had realized, at all—the polished class of the Manhattanites drawing me out of Brooklyn and into some debauchery which was my own Grandiose thought form, that I could actually become, at the ripe old age of 31, some kind of superstar. ‘Why would I even want that, anyway?' I thought, interrupted painfully by who I'm sure was the same motorist, who seemed to do nothing but circle the block all day, and all night, doing nothing — and I wondered why he himself had decided not to do grub hub in a richer neighborhood, where money would more than likely come more easily. But really— I drifted off to a time where I wanted to ride a motorcycle myself, and the curiosity forced me to go online to check the price of what it might cost to have one. $5,000 for a decent bike, which would include a muffler as not to be so obnoxious and disturbing to others as these creatures had become to me— and I began doing the math on how long it would take to save $5,000 as if it would be possible to work some dead end job for any amount of time without spending money on anything else. It would take at least 5 months to earn enough for a motorcycle, which landed me directly back at “Not worth it”, and as horrible as it was, I did at the very least have a luxury apartment for at minimum the next 5 years, however, wanting still to move to Manhattan, Midtown specifically—or one of the quaint and quiet neighborhoods on the upper West Side. The neighborhood was going to hell, after some unworldly godless force had seemed to drop hundreds of thousands of rude and thoughtless third world workers onto the streets and buildings bordering the one I lived on, the neighborhood becoming more rough and less peaceful with trash and debris from the depression and congenital disease that was poverty, the collective unconsciousness of the masses colliding with my empathetic nature and oversensitivity to sound, especially awful sounds, such as the hundreds of motorcycles and hot rodded junk cars which only seeemed to move in a track around a four block radius, and had become a cancerous trigger of sorts, no authority figure seemed to much care about. I cared less and less each day to listen to music, since I wasn't making it the way I wanted to—and I had realized that the constant displeasure and unrest, the lack of peace had as much to do with the world outside as it did with the world within—and I began to see the disgusting obnoxious noise pollution outside my window as just an extension of man's abuse, ability to rape, torture, and kill, terrorize— the uncaring waging of war, control, and lack of true power; as no good and true man who wielded actual strengeth or true power in any way would continue to show such distructive action and carelessness for others around him— chaos, corruption, abuse, and misogyny was proving to be the downfall of all humankind, as patronaged by man, and, as I became doubtful of anyone's lack of understanding of this, especially as the immigrants themselves were often naturally pedophillic culturally and toxically abusive in nature, most migrants flocking from countries in which women's liberation or the protection of youth had not yet materialized into their understanding of conciousness and morality—the men were weak, unkind, and selfish—the women mere machines at their disposal—and however many there were, I could see that their children, the many of them, remained as the redeeming factor. Anyway, a political ploy for the ages of there ever was such a thing, the newest chapter in American greed and slavery, it only seemed like an extension of evil itself, and less of a coincidence with each growing day—each new person, another burden to the middle class taxpayer, another reason to inflate the cost of living—and all the more reason to continue to terrorize the American people into its own division, hatred, demise, and consumption. e. My faith, however, was unwavering—God was real, but these abusive and toxic creatures were pushing it further away with violent arrogance, and the inability to understand that God itself was the nature they continued to destroy. Robin Bennett Fine. “My name's —ahem— “Ron Sennet, and I ain't In it.” —did the say “don't” write a book about me? It's Not about him… Or something cute he used to say like that, I couldn't remember, but he had a bunch of cute little idioms that matched his name, and to the day, I still missed him — it was 11:15 PM exactly as I hung up the phone, after an unsuccessful attempt to reach 911, after realizing that the threat outside was maddening enough to be impossible to only be in my head, and after weeks of the excruciating noise, I finally called NYPD dispatch, much to my disdain, and of course magically, the noise seemed to disappear, but these abusive and toxic creatures were pushing it further away with violent arrogance, and the inability to understand that God itself was the nature they continued to destroy. Robin Bennett Fine. “My name's Jon Sennet, and I ain't In it.” Or something cute he used to say like that, I couldn't remember, but he had a bunch of cute little idioms that matched his name, and to the day, I still missed him — it was 11:15 PM exactly as I hung up the phone, after an unsuccessful attempt to reach 911, after realizing that the threat outside was maddening enough to be impossible to only be in my head, and after weeks of the excruciating noise, I finally called NYPD dispatch, much to my disdain, and of course magically, the noise seemed to disappear as soon as I had made the call, which infuriated me. It seemed as though the game in entirety to make me look or feel crazy, though I knew I wasn't—well, I was, but not without purpose or reason. I had been theorizing in energy exchange quite decisively making a mark for my alter, at which I asked to be designated the wisdom and truth of the light within the eye, desire, however never in mind, although I had been summoned in part due to the fact that wenwere somehow alike—I was in some ways besides and out of sorts with my set, sinking my teeth into the forced obsession as I unraveled any possibilities and plotline. Episode 01. Pilot An opportunity presents itself seemingly at random— the protagonist's hand is forced into a life changing ultimatum, putting his reuputation and family in danger. Already involved in an illegal gambling ring which operates out of a secret historical prohibition era speakeasy and some “light” drug mulling within its walls, however often extending even as dangerously close to his workplace, Patrick is propositioned to become an investor in the high end escort service, with which he hired and contracted his lover, Kandi, a “rescue” whom he supports in her exchange for exclusivity, to remain as her only client, however, although he begrudgingly declines, wishing not to be involved in anything much more than what he has already kept under the radar, he is intimidated and threatened by blackmail, his high profile becoming at stake—he then obliges to embark upon this new endeavor, the expansion of this establishment to include a warehouse, which houses a large scale brothel, and, able to use his social status to procure wealthy clientele, quickly becomes a power player within a ring of coveted elites, setting fire to his already inflated ego, and colliding with his intense and highly functional polyaddiction, which he has maintained since his youth, using his entertainment persona as an outlet, becoming a medium of excess, fame, and rampant wealth. Patrick is beloved by his peers, and is humbled often by his devoted fans and friends—proactively worshipped as a comic genius, a prodigy, and a revered successor to legendary frontmen— Okay, this is weird, because I started writing this before I even understood what I was writing at all… —specifically, the sixth successor, to his coveted role. I had written for Esha to be the seventh successor, as with the symbolism deeply and quite literally woven into the sometimes brutal framework of the series, which I had shorthanded to ‘TVP'…the world around me trailed off as my eyes blurred as they had been lately, and I wondered if I might be having some kind of stroke or something, as I was certainly some sort of out of body—the day had been strange, and I had given up on a run or a gym for the day, the motorcycles alone ravaging my energy, and whether I worked out or not, they were everpresent anyway. They were some sort of toxic, abusive force I just had to put up with, hoping it didn't upset my psychology so much that it ended me, though I had become quite odd as of recently, rambling more than usual and actually praying out loud, as my silent ones just didn't seem to be working—they were probably white supremacists, or in some way connected to some political terror group, but it didn't seem to matter. Someone liked torturing me, and it was becoming apparent that no matter much time I spent at the gym, this torture was going to persist. After a month long gym streak, at least going once a day to lift something, I rested, or rather, tried to rest, kind of— but my mind had been swirling with thoughts of a man I was certain by now I had made up—and writing the story of a man I was absolutely certain came from my mind, but in a way that it almost made no sense at all—as the more I looked into the world that I had already written about, the more I realized was accurate without first having known these things, and however cursed I might have been to even know such things, I decided to call it some sort of blessing instead. ‘God, I used to get so fucking high for days, and when I would come down, just crying and crying, eating Totinos or DiJorno and a bag of Bugles, I would watch Saturday Night Live for fucking hours, and I hated [Redacted]. I hated him.' Now I still hated [Redacted], but in a different way, and though really it was myself that was more like Patrick, he at the very least, for whatever reason, used to have his face—now, he was just Patrick, and [Redacted] was just [Redacted], and i knew entirely too much about it all, and about myself to be comfortable with it, but nothing was comfortable at all. I had written entire atrocities, novels, and all that was some conglomerate of nonsense which was the festival project, besides how insanely and innately prodigal it all was sometimes, my own words confusing me with a bizzare and asenine dysfunction, awe, actually, often as if someone else had written them, and although I was always at least sort of semi-concious while writing, the spells and cadences I would fall under were some sort of trance, and as I watched the Nirvana rehearsal from Saturday Night Live in 1992, long before [Redacted] or any of the rest of the — Was it Keystone? It was, the Keystone cast of SNL, but the first word my mind had jumped to was Hallmark, which—after referencing Google quickly for a fact check, also stood true. I was willing to admit, even now, though I had long lost interest in Saturday Nighy Live, or anything at all having to do with current events, that the [Redacted] era—or rather even, the Tina Fey era, a true role model, perhaps, and someone I favored over all of the performers I admired, or allowed myself to admire— the Golden Years of Saturday Night were the only years, for me that even mattered— trying to make sense of anything couldn't be done, but I at least had this new project birthed from it to think about. It would be hard to sit down at a taping of The View and not think about all I had written at all, and it would be impossible not to unfold the characters which had presented themselves, though slowly but surely, through the most vivid visions and insanely lucid dreams, as The TV People began to What if someone steals this out of my documents? That would be unwise…the best scenes are somewhere scribbled in my notebooks and random scraps of paper somewhere in my room…this series is almost nothing without those scenes—the elements with which the most painful scenes I had ever written, became word form. ‘I don't know why, but I feel so incredibly high, So incredibly high right now…' They could have been words to a song, but I did feel high as a kite for whatever reason, without the actual kite metaphor quite literally dagling over my head, for once, or at least, it had been a few weeks, not a prominent as is was before. I sat soaking in the tub teetering on the possibility that I should actually even watch The Tonight Show, or whatever it was, to set my mind at ease, a betrayal of my own code—as one does not literally feed its obsessions into insanity on purpose. ‘Perhaps, though', I thought, ‘I could get rid of this.' — A cancerous abscess in the tradegy that had become my own sex fueled, rage driven, racing mind—and rather admittedly, it was almost too late, for anything of the sort, as I hadn't any other place to keep the growing world of The Television People any quieter, than within the monstrous algorithm which was Google documents cloud, where it seemed nothing was safe, and anything could be fabricated into reality after being stolen, by someone rich enough to make it happen, however, never being any better than my own disaster of a creation. And it was, a disaster. He was a comic genius, a professional, and spectacular performer— in actuality, I knew nothing if not anything at all about him, and the more I collected, the more interesting I found myself, actually, bemused that I seem to have found some sort of twin, another synchronizatic nightmare—if only that I made it to be so, unbelieving yet that I was in some kind of fairytale, though it had become some sort of fantastical and adventurous thing, this what I now refer to as ‘the allegories,'. I must have been something parasitic to the industry, with the tendency to latch on and ride out whatever had become a faciniation, but it wasn't, in its sense of origin, like anything before— it was something new, in the ways that it was, and something old at the same time—though needing to fall drastically from The Tower without actually doing so, putting a stop to my unlimited creation became a pertinent priority, as even exercising, meditating, and chronic masturbation tended to exacerbate it, as if I was missing a step in transmutation of this foreign substance— an energy which seemed familiar, but also wasn't. I was receiving downloads several hours at a time, and drifting off into spells and trances of inspiration so heavily that it seemed counterintuitive to call it off, fearing I might lose the intensity of the plot and its characters, and they were that: just characters. It had taken days to erase Patrick's face into a blank state to restore him from that of his namesake, but now everything was a blur, the allure of scrapping it all to return to making music was upon some sort of dawning, but not yet arrived. I allowed whatever came to mind to flow freely from my fingertips, even if it felt bizzare—and even if it felt bizarre, it never felt wrong at all. ‘Unfortunate, that.' , I thought crossing one leg over another to complete my chapter before draining the tub. I promised myself long ago to always pray for my own son, before worrying about another celebrity, whose fame and fortune protected them more than I ever seemed to protect myself or my own—nonsense, but a strong sense of remorse, as I had been painted as wicked, in a sense, just for being kept poor, separated from my son, and left in a world without love at all; My project, a keepsake of the hard work I had done; but had not yet been paid for—and the fear was in the understanding that that money might not ever come, that I would never be a mother, a muse, or anything or anyone else I actually wanted. I thought briefly again about just getting a dog—but I only had 45 dollars, aside from the unmarked Jimmy Fallons, I had placed atop an alter on my kitchen counter, wondering how to multiply them into something I wanted—and that had been the start of the game or the project at all— saving my last dollars and spending them at once, with the hopes and wishes that they would become somehow much larger quantities, returned as good karma for the love I had given, but that had not yet come back, in one form or another. ‘He seems miserable, the poor bloak.' , I thought—and with all that I had known to have come with fame and fortune along with the luck, he probably somewhere, somehow was—but my concern was my son, turning the mere dollars somehow from one's into bundles of hundreds, thousands, and maybe even one day a whole million or more. That was the push behind the project at all—breaking the cycle of the poor black single mother, the story that had been told over and over-/ with stories that had not; the stories that had become [The Festival Project™]# Sai Psy. See you in seven years, then. You're so silly— I'm not going to live seven more years. We'll see about that. You will see. I'll be dead. So I'll be dead. So it is. A summer hiatus, Vacations in Prague, yes Let's pray for the rest of us A sign of the times and a coming of ages Who made you famous again As the rest of us I don't like it As much as I'd like to Keep writing Keep finding the reason to die and you're blinded by kindnesses And I ams I woke up in the 9th dimension, As an infinite friend Familiar with my kitchen JOHN SLATTERY An interesting thing happened this morning. What's that, John? I woke up as John Slattery Just remember what love holds The death of a salesman, rechargeable batteries This walk could take forever in designer jeans Another day in slave hell The controllers controlling And Satan is Sataning Seems like a time to go clubbing It's a simple kind of depression Resting on your head when All you simply wished is the taste of flesh The freedom of skin And the lather of love— Or blood spatter on the pavement Aim for the head If the door's fixed, then we'll break it again Look what greed does I hate lazy days in Manhattan Cause I've never had one What happened on the way to the forum I was starstruck; Five finger death punch Right in the heart I wish I was punctual Right on time for lunch Don't you want to talk to someone more pungent? Don't you got models to robot? Don't you know I never want to hurt you But you know, I'm going to hurt you. You know I'm going to hurt you Now, the review: Sooner or later, I fall over your world Good dudes in drags Good food for thought I'm a dog With the wrong parts You should take Kanye to the mall With a migrants lanyard (The migrants are anarchists! Good one, God) This one goes to. | this one first, from— Which one are you ? I guess we are one in the same It's a famous radio tower Live up to your name Go sell your flower for flour As I stand at the jumping point Eye on Manhattan, The wind beneath my wings Distracting myself from the mansion I haven't The mason jars I ought to buy for bargain The brain and brain cereal I left at the market I used to love Brandy Now I just wish I was something, awesome Now I just wish I was something, awesome Now I just wish I was something, awesome “The Album I Wrote On My Way To The Rock To Return Amazon Purchases No Longer Wanted” That's a really long album title. I didn't imagine I'd write this much Just trying not to imagine this man in his under pants, Or what have you (I'm just a fan) I'm just a dad hunched over in the bathroom Must have been the magic of my backhand, backfired Must have come untied and undone, under the rainbow Must be on my way to Manhattan For some blacklist event. Where I'm from The A List Is a face No name needed “Oh, I know who you are” If I purchased a car today I might get done paying it off By my 81st birthday. Shady. If I had a penny for every mistake I made, I would probably be Nameless. If there was a namesake to lay me into my grave, it would make sense; Yes, let's move the train for a moment With the doors still open. — I'd like to watch what happens. So what happens when the sun comes up On the only body you've ever known And no one wants it What happens with a dude named Starr Punches you over and over again And then no one loves you (That's starstruck, your honor) What happens when granted a pardon for passions And everything happens after is magic What happens when all you want is to go manic To finish the album And just feel good again What happens when the algorithm has Al Gore in it? What happens when the rhythm in blues is just the attraction of random black men and their concubine counterparts? Huh, what happens! What happens, Kanye? What happens, The God? What happens when all that you want is a disgusting assumption of… No on can trust you And nobody loves you Since it was simply a tryst Put this at a distance. Where did my energy disappear to! Where in the fear is my other earring? Fuck. Be somewhere, anywhere else but your office, for the moment. Be anyone but a mother, Anywhere but your apartment— It hurts, the construction. Someone doesn't something Nobody knows nothing about me, But what I put in this casket (This podcast) Oh hey, I got fuck muscles from fuckin myself now! I feel like I'm gonna die if I don't have sex! For real! Heal, Oh great dragon, HEAL, BITCH. Word. woof for the world Will for the wolf; Rain on the roof. Cobain don't have a God (Or a Gun, if you wanted that one) “Pull me up, God, I'm done under here” He called in I followed the fosters to farrow And got better I got better and bitter much quicker and Never in bed had I been as flexible As to kiss his chest As I kicked my own neck With my left foot. What the fucking fairyshit is that? There, I fixed it. Fixed what. I don't know what. But I fixed it. I know, huh! So be 110 and flexible Powerlift tectonic plates Do Pilates And make waffles!? Alright, I can do that But only as Jennifer Aniston I'd like to take back that Fallon I bought at the black market He's broken. I like his band tho— The one on the left hand, Over the damaged one. Are you on to that? Says the sayer, Son of Sam So Sai the sage Sets the stage Is that the plan? Never fall for a man, Even over an alter And tied by the hands. All I see in my initials initially is B Minor 16 might be minors, guys But she's creaming to find you At the front lines Life of a superstar DJ At the cross roads Or the turnstiles How do you turn bile into Beguiling Without rifling a few feathers Or looking into the eye of the rifle And dying first Don't you let that tear fall from you onto the M Train. I'm just training for fame And hating you every day Since we made it Love Get out of my way, Satan I'm staying I'm saying your name sake insanely Please break me Like a chicken leg Or just shake me from this existence Since I don't seem fit for it Anymore than I fit that Givchechy dress you gave that blonde, right? Am I dying! Or just dying inside Fuck coughs If you want him enough to—Use black magic To do that to me, wait till it falls back on you, You gross hag If God hates fags as much as he hates blacks We should fly flags over the haggis I made Alice When she's back from her adventures in wonderland No wonder you're a Monro Crossed over from O'Fallons It's an old warfare with two clans From the old countries With no borders Or border collies Laboradores And labirites, likely As Aphrodite is to smite me So here comes DJ Francis With his new black girlfriend Just kidding We all know in his world It's cold and broken With nothing but blue eyes And big wild to look over you Bro, standing up is not going to make this train go anywhere. I almost promise you. Turns out there's no such thing as a quick trip to The Rock. Turns out you'll sit stuck in y

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GUEST INSTAGRAM: https://www.instagram.com/pink_petit_rose/   ________________________________________________________________________   THANKS TO OUR SPONSORS:   ROSEMARY BRUSHES  https://www.rosemaryandco.com     VASARI PAINTS https://www.vasaricolors.com   HEIN ATELIER  https://heinatelier.com/           _________________________________________________________________________   THANK YOU TO ALL OF MY GENEROUS PATRONS! PLEASE CONSIDER HELPING TO KEEP THIS PODCAST GOING BY BECOMING A MONTHLY PATRON. JUST CLICK THE LINK BELOW.   https://patron.podbean.com/theundrapedartist  _________________________________________________________________________   FOLLOW THE PODCAST ON INSTAGRAM, FACEBOOK AND YOUTUBE:   https://www.instagram.com/THEUNDRAPEDARTIST/   https://www.facebook.com/people/The-Undraped-Artist-Podcast/100083157287362/   https://www.youtube.com/@theundrapedartist __________________________________________________________________________   FOLLOW THE HOST, JEFF HEIN:   Jeffhein.com    https://www.facebook.com/jeffrey.hein.16/   https://www.instagram.com/jeff_hein_art/   https://www.instagram.com/jeff_hein_studio/ 

VFX Production Coordinator Esha Sandhu joins Alexie and Theo LIVE to talk about how screenwriters can write the most visually compelling screenplays. We'll cover: VFX breakdown in a script The nuances of writing explosions  Tips for breaking into the VFX industry And more!  Join us for our live Young Screenwriters Podcast recording, and stick around after for an open Q&A and more screenwriting talk :) About Esha Sandhu With a background spanning over 2 years in the VFX industry, Esha's journey began with studies in 3D Animation, Visual Effects, and a touch of Game Design. However, her true passion unfolded in the realm of Production, where the spirit of collaboration and shared objectives fuels her enthusiasm as a VFX Production Coordinator. Esha has worked on Hawkeye, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Willow series, The School for Good and Evil, Lift and Dune Part: Two. In the autumn of 2023, Esha embarked on her WIA mentorship journey, eagerly embracing the opportunity to nurture and steer the forthcoming wave of Production Enthusiasts. Esha's guiding principle is to “embrace a production mindset while maintaining a friendly approach to artists". Esha also thrives in the dynamic environment of a film set, where she channels her skills and experience. She also works as a Script Supervisor on set, contributing to the seamless execution of productions while writing her own short films to fuel her passion for filmmaking. Esha's IMDb: https://www.imdb.com/name/nm13157752/ Esha's Insta: https://www.instagram.com/films_by_esha/?hl=en Reach Esha: films.by.esha@gmail.com  Connect with Us YS Website YS Discord Script Vault YS Courses Writing the Short Writing the Scene Writing the Feature Writing the Pilot

What is regenerative business? How can we create a business mindset that addresses social, economic and environmental issues?Esha Chhabra has written for national and international publications over the last 15 years, focusing on global development, the environment, and the intersection of business and impact. Her work has been featured in The New York Times, The Economist, The Guardian, and other publications. She is the author of Working to Restore: Harnessing the Power of Business to Heal the Earth.“There's a lot of greenwashing that's going on these days. It is great marketing. And that was really the reason why I wrote this book. I had started to see the patterns. You can start to tell them the companies that are genuinely doing it versus the companies that are just talking about it. So that was one indicator, you know, a company that would send out a press release about their goals and what they anticipated to do in the next 5 to 10 years was very different from companies who had said, you know what, this is what we've achieved. Regenerative started coming into the lexicon, the term in 2017, 2018. And regenerative means to regenerate, means to bring life into something. To sustain means to keep the status quo. And regenerative looks at things from a very holistic lens. You know, it's like if you're going to run a regenerative farm, it's all the different components of the farm and the ecosystem ideally come within the ecosystem.”www.eshachhabra.comwww.beacon.org/Working-to-Restore-P2081.aspxwww.creativeprocess.infowww.oneplanetpodcast.orgIG www.instagram.com/creativeprocesspodcast

“There's a lot of greenwashing that's going on these days. It is great marketing. And that was really the reason why I wrote this book. I had started to see the patterns. You can start to tell them the companies that are genuinely doing it versus the companies that are just talking about it. So that was one indicator, you know, a company that would send out a press release about their goals and what they anticipated to do in the next 5 to 10 years was very different from companies who had said, you know what, this is what we've achieved. Regenerative started coming into the lexicon, the term in 2017, 2018. And regenerative means to regenerate, means to bring life into something. To sustain means to keep the status quo. And regenerative looks at things from a very holistic lens. You know, it's like if you're going to run a regenerative farm, it's all the different components of the farm and the ecosystem ideally come within the ecosystem.”Esha Chhabra has written for national and international publications over the last 15 years, focusing on global development, the environment, and the intersection of business and impact. Her work has been featured in The New York Times, The Economist, The Guardian, and other publications. She is the author of Working to Restore: Harnessing the Power of Business to Heal the Earth.www.eshachhabra.comwww.beacon.org/Working-to-Restore-P2081.aspxwww.creativeprocess.infowww.oneplanetpodcast.orgIG www.instagram.com/creativeprocesspodcast

“The circular economy is a really interesting space because the reality is that these waste streams are an opportunity for these companies to rethink how they can build a product out of it…Do we need to move away from single-use plastic? Absolutely. There's no need for it. Paper has its cons, but at the same time, the recycling rate on paper is better than plastic. So you have to look at the pros and cons of every single one of these and then see what works for your business and your situation.I'm inspired by a lot of young people who are in their early twenties. They're very interested in these topics. They love thrifting because it is trendy, cool, and affordable. And it's also really good for the environment. I hope that they continue to fight for what is right. I think that what's needed in today's world is that we do create more equitable models, whether it's in business or elsewhere. And that we do have some kind of respect for the planet because the reality is, if we don't, we're the ones that are going to suffer at the end of the day. It's only going to become harder for us, whether it's getting food to eat, whether it's having an environment that's comfortable and hospitable, whether it's having the supply chains we need for all the products in the world. I hope that there is a business model and a path forward, and I hope they're the trailblazers who sort of make it happen. We need to encourage that. We need to create policies that also allow for some of this stuff to flourish.”Esha Chhabra has written for national and international publications over the last 15 years, focusing on global development, the environment, and the intersection of business and impact. Her work has been featured in The New York Times, The Economist, The Guardian, and other publications. She is the author of Working to Restore: Harnessing the Power of Business to Heal the Earth.www.eshachhabra.comwww.beacon.org/Working-to-Restore-P2081.aspxwww.creativeprocess.infowww.oneplanetpodcast.orgIG www.instagram.com/creativeprocesspodcast

What is regenerative business? How can we create a business mindset that addresses social, economic and environmental issues?Esha Chhabra has written for national and international publications over the last 15 years, focusing on global development, the environment, and the intersection of business and impact. Her work has been featured in The New York Times, The Economist, The Guardian, and other publications. She is the author of Working to Restore: Harnessing the Power of Business to Heal the Earth.“The circular economy is a really interesting space because the reality is that these waste streams are an opportunity for these companies to rethink how they can build a product out of it…Do we need to move away from single-use plastic? Absolutely. There's no need for it. Paper has its cons, but at the same time, the recycling rate on paper is better than plastic. So you have to look at the pros and cons of every single one of these and then see what works for your business and your situation.I'm inspired by a lot of young people who are in their early twenties. They're very interested in these topics. They love thrifting because it is trendy, cool, and affordable. And it's also really good for the environment. I hope that they continue to fight for what is right. I think that what's needed in today's world is that we do create more equitable models, whether it's in business or elsewhere. And that we do have some kind of respect for the planet because the reality is, if we don't, we're the ones that are going to suffer at the end of the day. It's only going to become harder for us, whether it's getting food to eat, whether it's having an environment that's comfortable and hospitable, whether it's having the supply chains we need for all the products in the world. I hope that there is a business model and a path forward, and I hope they're the trailblazers who sort of make it happen. We need to encourage that. We need to create policies that also allow for some of this stuff to flourish.”www.eshachhabra.comwww.beacon.org/Working-to-Restore-P2081.aspxwww.creativeprocess.infowww.oneplanetpodcast.orgIG www.instagram.com/creativeprocesspodcast

What is regenerative business? How can we create a business mindset that addresses social, economic and environmental issues?Esha Chhabra has written for national and international publications over the last 15 years, focusing on global development, the environment, and the intersection of business and impact. Her work has been featured in The New York Times, The Economist, The Guardian, and other publications. She is the author of Working to Restore: Harnessing the Power of Business to Heal the Earth.“There's a lot of greenwashing that's going on these days. It is great marketing. And that was really the reason why I wrote this book. I had started to see the patterns. You can start to tell them the companies that are genuinely doing it versus the companies that are just talking about it. So that was one indicator, you know, a company that would send out a press release about their goals and what they anticipated to do in the next 5 to 10 years was very different from companies who had said, you know what, this is what we've achieved. Regenerative started coming into the lexicon, the term in 2017, 2018. And regenerative means to regenerate, means to bring life into something. To sustain means to keep the status quo. And regenerative looks at things from a very holistic lens. You know, it's like if you're going to run a regenerative farm, it's all the different components of the farm and the ecosystem ideally come within the ecosystem.”www.eshachhabra.comwww.beacon.org/Working-to-Restore-P2081.aspxwww.creativeprocess.infowww.oneplanetpodcast.orgIG www.instagram.com/creativeprocesspodcast

“There's a lot of greenwashing that's going on these days. It is great marketing. And that was really the reason why I wrote this book. I had started to see the patterns. You can start to tell them the companies that are genuinely doing it versus the companies that are just talking about it. So that was one indicator, you know, a company that would send out a press release about their goals and what they anticipated to do in the next 5 to 10 years was very different from companies who had said, you know what, this is what we've achieved. Regenerative started coming into the lexicon, the term in 2017, 2018. And regenerative means to regenerate, means to bring life into something. To sustain means to keep the status quo. And regenerative looks at things from a very holistic lens. You know, it's like if you're going to run a regenerative farm, it's all the different components of the farm and the ecosystem ideally come within the ecosystem.”Esha Chhabra has written for national and international publications over the last 15 years, focusing on global development, the environment, and the intersection of business and impact. Her work has been featured in The New York Times, The Economist, The Guardian, and other publications. She is the author of Working to Restore: Harnessing the Power of Business to Heal the Earth.www.eshachhabra.comwww.beacon.org/Working-to-Restore-P2081.aspxwww.creativeprocess.infowww.oneplanetpodcast.orgIG www.instagram.com/creativeprocesspodcast

“There's a lot of greenwashing that's going on these days. It is great marketing. And that was really the reason why I wrote this book. I had started to see the patterns. You can start to tell them the companies that are genuinely doing it versus the companies that are just talking about it. So that was one indicator, you know, a company that would send out a press release about their goals and what they anticipated to do in the next 5 to 10 years was very different from companies who had said, you know what, this is what we've achieved. Regenerative started coming into the lexicon, the term in 2017, 2018. And regenerative means to regenerate, means to bring life into something. To sustain means to keep the status quo. And regenerative looks at things from a very holistic lens. You know, it's like if you're going to run a regenerative farm, it's all the different components of the farm and the ecosystem ideally come within the ecosystem.”Esha Chhabra has written for national and international publications over the last 15 years, focusing on global development, the environment, and the intersection of business and impact. Her work has been featured in The New York Times, The Economist, The Guardian, and other publications. She is the author of Working to Restore: Harnessing the Power of Business to Heal the Earth.www.eshachhabra.comwww.beacon.org/Working-to-Restore-P2081.aspxwww.creativeprocess.infowww.oneplanetpodcast.orgIG www.instagram.com/creativeprocesspodcast

What is regenerative business? How can we create a business mindset that addresses social, economic and environmental issues?Esha Chhabra has written for national and international publications over the last 15 years, focusing on global development, the environment, and the intersection of business and impact. Her work has been featured in The New York Times, The Economist, The Guardian, and other publications. She is the author of Working to Restore: Harnessing the Power of Business to Heal the Earth.“There's a lot of greenwashing that's going on these days. It is great marketing. And that was really the reason why I wrote this book. I had started to see the patterns. You can start to tell them the companies that are genuinely doing it versus the companies that are just talking about it. So that was one indicator, you know, a company that would send out a press release about their goals and what they anticipated to do in the next 5 to 10 years was very different from companies who had said, you know what, this is what we've achieved. Regenerative started coming into the lexicon, the term in 2017, 2018. And regenerative means to regenerate, means to bring life into something. To sustain means to keep the status quo. And regenerative looks at things from a very holistic lens. You know, it's like if you're going to run a regenerative farm, it's all the different components of the farm and the ecosystem ideally come within the ecosystem.”www.eshachhabra.comwww.beacon.org/Working-to-Restore-P2081.aspxwww.creativeprocess.infowww.oneplanetpodcast.orgIG www.instagram.com/creativeprocesspodcast

What is regenerative business? How can we create a business mindset that addresses social, economic and environmental issues?Esha Chhabra has written for national and international publications over the last 15 years, focusing on global development, the environment, and the intersection of business and impact. Her work has been featured in The New York Times, The Economist, The Guardian, and other publications. She is the author of Working to Restore: Harnessing the Power of Business to Heal the Earth.“I'm inspired by a lot of young people who are in their early twenties. They're very interested in these topics. They love thrifting because it is trendy, cool, and affordable. And it's also really good for the environment. I hope that they continue to fight for what is right. I think that what's needed in today's world is that we do create more equitable models, whether it's in business or elsewhere. And that we do have some kind of respect for the planet because the reality is, if we don't, we're the ones that are going to suffer at the end of the day. It's only going to become harder for us, whether it's getting food to eat, whether it's having an environment that's comfortable and hospitable, whether it's having the supply chains we need for all the products in the world. I hope that there is a business model and a path forward, and I hope they're the trailblazers who sort of make it happen. We need to encourage that. We need to create policies that also allow for some of this stuff to flourish.”www.eshachhabra.comwww.beacon.org/Working-to-Restore-P2081.aspxwww.creativeprocess.infowww.oneplanetpodcast.orgIG www.instagram.com/creativeprocesspodcast

“I'm inspired by a lot of young people who are in their early twenties. They're very interested in these topics. They love thrifting because it is trendy, cool, and affordable. And it's also really good for the environment. I hope that they continue to fight for what is right. I think that what's needed in today's world is that we do create more equitable models, whether it's in business or elsewhere. And that we do have some kind of respect for the planet because the reality is, if we don't, we're the ones that are going to suffer at the end of the day. It's only going to become harder for us, whether it's getting food to eat, whether it's having an environment that's comfortable and hospitable, whether it's having the supply chains we need for all the products in the world. I hope that there is a business model and a path forward, and I hope they're the trailblazers who sort of make it happen. We need to encourage that. We need to create policies that also allow for some of this stuff to flourish.”Esha Chhabra has written for national and international publications over the last 15 years, focusing on global development, the environment, and the intersection of business and impact. Her work has been featured in The New York Times, The Economist, The Guardian, and other publications. She is the author of Working to Restore: Harnessing the Power of Business to Heal the Earth.www.eshachhabra.comwww.beacon.org/Working-to-Restore-P2081.aspxwww.creativeprocess.infowww.oneplanetpodcast.orgIG www.instagram.com/creativeprocesspodcast

What is regenerative business? How can we create a business mindset that addresses social, economic and environmental issues?Esha Chhabra has written for national and international publications over the last 15 years, focusing on global development, the environment, and the intersection of business and impact. Her work has been featured in The New York Times, The Economist, The Guardian, and other publications. She is the author of Working to Restore: Harnessing the Power of Business to Heal the Earth.“I'm inspired by a lot of young people who are in their early twenties. They're very interested in these topics. They love thrifting because it is trendy, cool, and affordable. And it's also really good for the environment. I hope that they continue to fight for what is right. I think that what's needed in today's world is that we do create more equitable models, whether it's in business or elsewhere. And that we do have some kind of respect for the planet because the reality is, if we don't, we're the ones that are going to suffer at the end of the day. It's only going to become harder for us, whether it's getting food to eat, whether it's having an environment that's comfortable and hospitable, whether it's having the supply chains we need for all the products in the world. I hope that there is a business model and a path forward, and I hope they're the trailblazers who sort of make it happen. We need to encourage that. We need to create policies that also allow for some of this stuff to flourish.”www.eshachhabra.comwww.beacon.org/Working-to-Restore-P2081.aspxwww.creativeprocess.infowww.oneplanetpodcast.orgIG www.instagram.com/creativeprocesspodcast

“I'm inspired by a lot of young people who are in their early twenties. They're very interested in these topics. They love thrifting because it is trendy, cool, and affordable. And it's also really good for the environment. I hope that they continue to fight for what is right. I think that what's needed in today's world is that we do create more equitable models, whether it's in business or elsewhere. And that we do have some kind of respect for the planet because the reality is, if we don't, we're the ones that are going to suffer at the end of the day. It's only going to become harder for us, whether it's getting food to eat, whether it's having an environment that's comfortable and hospitable, whether it's having the supply chains we need for all the products in the world. I hope that there is a business model and a path forward, and I hope they're the trailblazers who sort of make it happen. We need to encourage that. We need to create policies that also allow for some of this stuff to flourish.”Esha Chhabra has written for national and international publications over the last 15 years, focusing on global development, the environment, and the intersection of business and impact. Her work has been featured in The New York Times, The Economist, The Guardian, and other publications. She is the author of Working to Restore: Harnessing the Power of Business to Heal the Earth.www.eshachhabra.comwww.beacon.org/Working-to-Restore-P2081.aspxwww.creativeprocess.infowww.oneplanetpodcast.orgIG www.instagram.com/creativeprocesspodcast

"At the end of 2019, I started a tea company. It's called Alaya Tea. We do loose leaf organic tea, and we source as regeneratively as possible, but the packaging was a real headache. We didn't want to do glass because it's too difficult to ship. Aluminum has its own challenges, and the other option is plastic stand up pouches, and you can get a lot of them that are made out of recycled plastics. But we decided to go down the compostable route. Now, even compostable is not a hundred percent solution at the moment. The supply chain of compostables is also very complex. And there's some good compostables, and there's some not so good compostables. And it was a real experience to see what it's like for businesses when they're trying to figure out these solutions. You start to empathize and you really start to understand that this is not easy stuff to figure out because, yes, the materials can exist out there. And yes, there are innovations happening with seaweed and mushrooms and all these other things, but does it work for a business?"Esha Chhabra has written for national and international publications over the last 15 years, focusing on global development, the environment, and the intersection of business and impact. Her work has been featured in The New York Times, The Economist, The Guardian, and other publications. She is the author of Working to Restore: Harnessing the Power of Business to Heal the Earth.www.eshachhabra.comwww.beacon.org/Working-to-Restore-P2081.aspxwww.creativeprocess.infowww.oneplanetpodcast.orgIG www.instagram.com/creativeprocesspodcast

What is regenerative business? How can we create a business mindset that addresses social, economic and environmental issues?Esha Chhabra has written for national and international publications over the last 15 years, focusing on global development, the environment, and the intersection of business and impact. Her work has been featured in The New York Times, The Economist, The Guardian, and other publications. She is the author of Working to Restore: Harnessing the Power of Business to Heal the Earth.“There's a lot of greenwashing that's going on these days. It is great marketing. And that was really the reason why I wrote this book. I had started to see the patterns. You can start to tell them the companies that are genuinely doing it versus the companies that are just talking about it. So that was one indicator, you know, a company that would send out a press release about their goals and what they anticipated to do in the next 5 to 10 years was very different from companies who had said, you know what, this is what we've achieved. Regenerative started coming into the lexicon, the term in 2017, 2018. And regenerative means to regenerate, means to bring life into something. To sustain means to keep the status quo. And regenerative looks at things from a very holistic lens. You know, it's like if you're going to run a regenerative farm, it's all the different components of the farm and the ecosystem ideally come within the ecosystem.”www.eshachhabra.comwww.beacon.org/Working-to-Restore-P2081.aspxwww.creativeprocess.infowww.oneplanetpodcast.orgIG www.instagram.com/creativeprocesspodcast

“There's a lot of greenwashing that's going on these days. It is great marketing. And that was really the reason why I wrote this book. I had started to see the patterns. You can start to tell them the companies that are genuinely doing it versus the companies that are just talking about it. So that was one indicator, you know, a company that would send out a press release about their goals and what they anticipated to do in the next 5 to 10 years was very different from companies who had said, you know what, this is what we've achieved. Regenerative started coming into the lexicon, the term in 2017, 2018. And regenerative means to regenerate, means to bring life into something. To sustain means to keep the status quo. And regenerative looks at things from a very holistic lens. You know, it's like if you're going to run a regenerative farm, it's all the different components of the farm and the ecosystem ideally come within the ecosystem.”Esha Chhabra has written for national and international publications over the last 15 years, focusing on global development, the environment, and the intersection of business and impact. Her work has been featured in The New York Times, The Economist, The Guardian, and other publications. She is the author of Working to Restore: Harnessing the Power of Business to Heal the Earth.www.eshachhabra.comwww.beacon.org/Working-to-Restore-P2081.aspxwww.creativeprocess.infowww.oneplanetpodcast.orgIG www.instagram.com/creativeprocesspodcast

“There's a lot of greenwashing that's going on these days. It is great marketing. And that was really the reason why I wrote this book. I had started to see the patterns. You can start to tell them the companies that are genuinely doing it versus the companies that are just talking about it. So that was one indicator, you know, a company that would send out a press release about their goals and what they anticipated to do in the next 5 to 10 years was very different from companies who had said, you know what, this is what we've achieved. Regenerative started coming into the lexicon, the term in 2017, 2018. And regenerative means to regenerate, means to bring life into something. To sustain means to keep the status quo. And regenerative looks at things from a very holistic lens. You know, it's like if you're going to run a regenerative farm, it's all the different components of the farm and the ecosystem ideally come within the ecosystem.”Esha Chhabra has written for national and international publications over the last 15 years, focusing on global development, the environment, and the intersection of business and impact. Her work has been featured in The New York Times, The Economist, The Guardian, and other publications. She is the author of Working to Restore: Harnessing the Power of Business to Heal the Earth.www.eshachhabra.comwww.beacon.org/Working-to-Restore-P2081.aspxwww.creativeprocess.infowww.oneplanetpodcast.orgIG www.instagram.com/creativeprocesspodcast

What is regenerative business? How can we create a business mindset that addresses social, economic and environmental issues?Esha Chhabra has written for national and international publications over the last 15 years, focusing on global development, the environment, and the intersection of business and impact. Her work has been featured in The New York Times, The Economist, The Guardian, and other publications. She is the author of Working to Restore: Harnessing the Power of Business to Heal the Earth.“There's a lot of greenwashing that's going on these days. It is great marketing. And that was really the reason why I wrote this book. I had started to see the patterns. You can start to tell them the companies that are genuinely doing it versus the companies that are just talking about it. So that was one indicator, you know, a company that would send out a press release about their goals and what they anticipated to do in the next 5 to 10 years was very different from companies who had said, you know what, this is what we've achieved. Regenerative started coming into the lexicon, the term in 2017, 2018. And regenerative means to regenerate, means to bring life into something. To sustain means to keep the status quo. And regenerative looks at things from a very holistic lens. You know, it's like if you're going to run a regenerative farm, it's all the different components of the farm and the ecosystem ideally come within the ecosystem.”www.eshachhabra.comwww.beacon.org/Working-to-Restore-P2081.aspxwww.creativeprocess.infowww.oneplanetpodcast.orgIG www.instagram.com/creativeprocesspodcast

Esha'An Michealson chops it up with the POSTCOVIDWZRD --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/postcovidwrld-podcast/message Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/postcovidwrld-podcast/support

"Sustainability has become more marketing than action," says environmental business journalist Esha Chhabra. Challenging conventional business models solely focused on profit, she shares how regenerative companies that embed purpose into every facet of their operations can drive real change — and make things better for people and the planet. After the talk, Modupe reflects on what it means to run a regenerative business.

It's tax season at Queerly Recommended and Kris and Tara are comparing notes (and stamps!). Kris also talks about her upcoming trip to Earp Division Expo and Tara shares about a recent trip to Vancouver. Official Recommendations From Kris: Maestro (2023) This week, Kris recommends Maestro (2023), the Bradley Cooper-directed feature film about American composer Leonard Bernstein and his wife Felicia Montealegre. Kris was especially taken by how completely Bradley Cooper disappeared into the role and the emotions of the storytelling.  From Tara: Dulhaniyaa by Talia Bhatt This week, Tara recommends the sapphic romance Dulhaniyaa by Talia Bhatt. It's about how Esha, an American-raised Indian woman, is pressured into learning a special dance for her wedding to a man she's never met and falls for her dance instructor, Billu, instead. Tara adored this book, describing it as an amazing translation of a Bollywood film into a book. You should definitely check out a few Bollywood romance films before reading this one to truly understand the achievement that was made with this book. Works/People Discussed One Last Stop by Casey McQuiston  9-1-1 (Fox) The Resident (Fox) Fallout (Amazon Prime Video) RuPaul's Drag Race, season 16 (MTV) Blown Away (Makeful/Netflix) Colstead & Andie by Olivia Janae A Sweet Sting of Salt by Rose Sutherland (find out if the ending is happy by opening the spoiler tag on this page) Support & follow the show Buy us a Ko-fi Sign up for our newsletter on Substack Twitter: @queerlyrec Facebook: @QueerlyRecommended Instagram: @queerlyrecommended Blusky: @queerlyrec.bsky.social Get all our links on Linktr.ee Support local animal shelters by joining Kris's Patreon

**Check our website for upcoming events such as book clubs, RP Live webinars, and the Tuesday evening discussion group, Macro ‘n Chill. https://realprogressives.org/This week's episode is the audio track of a recent webinar with historian Esha Krishnaswamy. Esha is now living in Russia to research and write a people's history of the Soviet Union.The discussion begins with the story of the First World War and the Bolshevik Revolution. The formation of the USSR as a proletarian state shook the capitalist nations of the West to their core. As a result, the Soviet Union was regularly under threat economically, militarily, as well as propaganda warfare.Esha talks about the history of the Soviet Union and its ultimate dissolution against the will of the majority. She delves into the impact of its fall on various countries and the global economy. She looks at the shock doctrine years of Boris Yeltsin in the 1990s and the effects of such extreme austerity and privatization on the average citizens. She then goes into the Putin era and the move towards social democracy.Finally, she touches upon NATO, the IMF, and the war in Ukraine.Esha Krishnaswamy is a writer and media critic, whose focus is on history, foreign policy, and Modern Monetary Theory. She hosts Historic.ly and Late Nights with Lenin.Find her work at historicly/substack.com@eshaLegal on Twitter

In this episode, we are joined by co-founder of The Mark & Grether Group and land specialist, Russell Grether, for a dive into the complex world of Malibu land. Land in the Malibu coastal zone is not as simple as it would appear, and having a basic understanding of the factors that make a lot desirable is essential for any buyer or seller. We get into key attributes to look for, pricing, ESHA, and more! | Each parcel in Malibu offers unique attributes. If you would like help evaluating a specific property, please get in touch with our team at (310) 230-5771 or russellandtony@compass.com.*Disclaimer: always consult the appropriate professionals including, but not limited to, biologists, geologists, Malibu City, LA County, architects, engineers, and expeditors.*

"Sustainability has become more marketing than action," says environmental business journalist Esha Chhabra. Challenging conventional business models solely focused on profit, she shares how regenerative companies that embed purpose into every facet of their operations can drive real change — and make things better for people and the planet.

"Sustainability has become more marketing than action," says environmental business journalist Esha Chhabra. Challenging conventional business models solely focused on profit, she shares how regenerative companies that embed purpose into every facet of their operations can drive real change — and make things better for people and the planet.

"Sustainability has become more marketing than action," says environmental business journalist Esha Chhabra. Challenging conventional business models solely focused on profit, she shares how regenerative companies that embed purpose into every facet of their operations can drive real change — and make things better for people and the planet.