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“Praise the LORD! I will give thanks to the LORD with my whole heart, in the company of the upright, in the congregation. Great are the works of the LORD, studied by all who delight in them. Full of honor and majesty is his work, and his righteousness endures forever.”  — Psalm 111:1-3    Celebrate 40 Years of CGSUSA    FAQs about the 40th    Submit a Podcast Listener Question HERE!    Patricia Coulter met Sofia Cavalletti in 1975, and their friendship and close collaboration lasted until Sofia's death in 2011. Patricia collaborated with Sofia in formation courses, in translations of her writings, and in coauthoring various books. Patricia's most recent words are a collection of Sofia's writings, All if Gift: Enjoying the Presence of God and letters, Look at the Light, Words of Loss and Love from Sofia Cavalletti. Dr. Coulter received her certification in the Franciscan Internship Program in Spiritual Direction and Directed Retreats and her doctorate in ministry from the University of St Michael's College, University of Toronto. She is the recipient of the Pro Ecclesia et Pontifice cross for her pastoral ministry with adults and children.    Help us prepare for the 40th Celebration:  We invite you to assist with our celebration:     Please tell us where the atrium you serve is, the names of your catechists, and the first names of the children you serve in the atrium, so we may include all their names on our prayer table when we gather next August. We ask that you email this information to Susan Stuhlsatz‑Reese at susansr@cgsusa.org   We are counting on you! We are also happy to share with you that our new and improved atrium locator is now up and running! As part of our “soft launch” to make sure all is working well we are inviting you to take a first look and add your atrium if it is not there yet: Find CGS Near Me – Atrium Locator. Please consider also listing your atrium in the atrium locator. Video for easy instructions HERE  We know many catechists have gone before us to share in the heavenly banquet. We want to remember each of them. If you know a catechist who has died, please send us their name, a small bio or obituary, the gifts they shared with our CGS community and if possible, a photo. Please share with Mary Heinrich at maryheinrich@cgsusa.org.   We have opportunities for sponsors to contribute to our event fund. Please let us know of any individuals, groups, businesses, or organizations you know who may be willing to contribute. We will have some wonderful opportunities for our sponsors, more information will be coming soon.    Patricia's Books:   Ways to Nurture the Relationship with God  Drinking from the Sources   Like Leaven: Accompanying Children on their Spiritual Journey   The Infinite Mercy of God   Look at the Light: Words on Loss and Love from Sofia Cavalletti    Podcast Episodes with Patricia-    Episode 89 – Background of Ways to Nurture the Relationship with God  Episode 90- Ch. 4 The Parable of the True Vine from Ways to Nurture the Relationship with God with Patricia Coulter  Episode 91- The Infinite Mercy of God with Patricia Coulter    Episode 110: Learning to Love    AUDIOBOOK:    Audiobook – Now Available on Audible  CGSUSA is excited to offer you the audio version of The Religious Potential of the Child – 3rd Edition by Sofia Cavalletti, read by Rebekah Rojcewicz!  The Religious Potential of the Child is not a “how-to” book, complete with lesson plans and material ideas. Instead it offers a glimpse into the religious life of the atrium, a specially prepared place for children to live out their silent request: “Help me come closer to God by myself.” Here we can see the child's spiritual capabilities and perhaps even find in our own souls the child long burdened with religious information. This book serves as a companion to the second volume, The Religious Potential of the Child 6 to 12 Years Old. The desire to have this essential text available in audio has been a long-held goal for many. The work of many hands has combined to bring this release to life as an audiobook.    Find out more about CGS:       Learn more about the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd at www.cgsusa.org     Follow us on Social Media-  Facebook at “The United States Association of the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd”  Instagram-  cgsusa  Twitter- @cgsusa  Pinterest- Natl Assoc of Catechesis of the Good Shepherd USA  YouTube- catechesisofthegoodshepherd 

1 Chronicles 15:25-16:36 Sunday Evening Service 06-09-24

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

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

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

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

Questions about how to explain what a personal relationship with God looks like on a practical level and whether it's okay to pray to Jesus and to the Holy Spirit. How do I explain to my 20-year-old son what a personal relationship with God looks like on a practical level? What are your thoughts on praying to Jesus and to the Holy Spirit?

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

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

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

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

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

In this sermon, Bryan Brammer preaches from 1 John 1:1-10 as we look at what it looks like to have fellowship with God.

A new MP3 sermon from Independence Reformed Bible Church is now available on SermonAudio with the following details: Title: Hell: What Does Separation from God Look Like? Speaker: Joel Saint Broadcaster: Independence Reformed Bible Church Event: Sunday Service Date: 4/7/2024 Bible: Numbers 16:16-34 Length: 53 min.

A new MP3 sermon from Independence Reformed Bible Church is now available on SermonAudio with the following details: Title: Hell: What Does Separation from God Look Like? Speaker: Joel Saint Broadcaster: Independence Reformed Bible Church Event: Sunday Service Date: 4/7/2024 Bible: Numbers 16:16-34 Length: 53 min.

Child of God, look at Christ's death at the cross and be assured of God's forgiveness1. God sacrified His Son.2. The benefits of the sacrifice.Time:AfternoonMinister:Rev. Faustin EmadjeuTexts:Heidelberg Catechism: Lord's Day 16Exodus 30:12–16Isaiah 53Canons of Dort: Second: Article 1

2 Corinthians 4:6   English Standard Version Anglicised   6 For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness”, has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.    

Guest: Ethan Severin   What does it mean for a young man to really trust in the Lord?    Proverbs 3:5-6 - Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.   When you trust in God, will that mean that you always get what you want from a good and loving God? No. God's ways are higher than our ways…sometimes love hurts or is disappointing or painful - we have to learn to trust the heart and plans of a good God will run counter to our own self-interests in many ways.   Psalm 23 - The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul. He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table for me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.   Jim Elliot - He is no fool to give what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose.   Men - you can't trust someone you don't know. You must know God personally to learn to trust Him. Can you know God? Yes. God reveals Himself through His creation, through His Word, and through His one and only Son Jesus Christ! God created us to be in an intimate and personal relationship with Him made possible by the work of Jesus Christ who lived the perfect life that we couldn't and gave His life as a ransom for many (Matt. 20:28).   T4M guys - just a reminder that Training4Manhood is a non-profit, 501(c)(3) ministry and you can make donations either via Zelle (info@training4manhood.com) or by visiting the Training4Manhood website.   Huge thank you to Jared Wood for allowing T4M to use his music in our intro and outro selections.

Today's Bible reading Psalm 84. Recommended reading 2 Chronicles 15:8-15; Psalm 73:23-26; Isaiah 26:1-9. We have heavenly citizenship ! Have Heaven on Earth! Store up treasures in Heaven! Much love to all of you prayers up!Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/jarvis-kingston--1517583/support.

SUPPORT YANKEE ARNOLD MINISTRIES WITH YOUR DONATION HERE https://yankeearnold.com/donate/ REGISTER FOR DR. ARNOLD'S ONLINE CLASSES AT FLORIDA BIBLE COLLEGE OF TAMPA HERE https://www.floridabiblecollege.us OR EMAIL BOB GILBERT registrar@floridabiblecollege.us EMAIL DR. ARNOLD HERE yankee@yankeearnold.com VISIT OUR BOOKSTORE HERE https://yankeearnold.com/store/ --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/pastor-yankee-arnold/support

SUPPORT YANKEE ARNOLD MINISTRIES WITH YOUR DONATION HERE https://yankeearnold.com/donate/ REGISTER FOR DR. ARNOLD'S ONLINE CLASSES AT FLORIDA BIBLE COLLEGE OF TAMPA HERE https://www.floridabiblecollege.us OR EMAIL BOB GILBERT registrar@floridabiblecollege.us EMAIL DR. ARNOLD HERE yankee@yankeearnold.com VISIT OUR BOOKSTORE HERE https://yankeearnold.com/store/ --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/pastor-yankee-arnold/support

SUPPORT YANKEE ARNOLD MINISTRIES WITH YOUR DONATION HERE https://yankeearnold.com/donate/ REGISTER FOR DR. ARNOLD'S ONLINE CLASSES AT FLORIDA BIBLE COLLEGE OF TAMPA HERE https://www.floridabiblecollege.us OR EMAIL BOB GILBERT registrar@floridabiblecollege.us EMAIL DR. ARNOLD HERE yankee@yankeearnold.com VISIT OUR BOOKSTORE HERE https://yankeearnold.com/store/ --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/pastor-yankee-arnold/support

SUPPORT YANKEE ARNOLD MINISTRIES WITH YOUR DONATION HERE https://yankeearnold.com/donate/ REGISTER FOR DR. ARNOLD'S ONLINE CLASSES AT FLORIDA BIBLE COLLEGE OF TAMPA HERE https://www.floridabiblecollege.us OR EMAIL BOB GILBERT registrar@floridabiblecollege.us EMAIL DR. ARNOLD HERE yankee@yankeearnold.com VISIT OUR BOOKSTORE HERE https://yankeearnold.com/store/ --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/pastor-yankee-arnold/support

Giving? DavidHeavener.givevirtuous.org/donate 1.14.24

Giving? DavidHeavener.givevirtuous.org/donate 1.14.24

Commentary In 2 Kings 17:7-29 when Israel and the kings did evil in the sight of The LORD and how they went into captivity in Assyria ! Let's keep the fear of the LORD and to keep His laws, statues, and commandments. Obedience matters people stay faithful and please Him forever! Amen !Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/show/jarvis-kingstons-tracks/support.

Scripture Reading: Acts 3 Now Peter and John were going up to the temple at the time for prayer, at three o'clock in the afternoon. 2 And a man lame from birth was being carried up, who was placed at the temple gate called “the Beautiful Gate” every day so he could beg for money from those going into the temple courts. 3 When he saw Peter and John about to go into the temple courts, he asked them for money. 4 Peter looked directly at him (as did John) and said, “Look at us!” 5 So the lame man paid attention to them, expecting to receive something from them. 6 But Peter said, “I have no silver or gold, but what I do have I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ the Nazarene, stand up and walk!” 7 Then Peter took hold of him by the right hand and raised him up, and at once the man's feet and ankles were made strong. 8 He jumped up, stood and began walking around, and he entered the temple courts with them, walking and leaping and praising God. 9 All the people saw him walking and praising God, 10 and they recognized him as the man who used to sit and ask for donations at the Beautiful Gate of the temple, and they were filled with astonishment and amazement at what had happened to him.11 While the man was hanging on to Peter and John, all the people, completely astounded, ran together to them in the covered walkway called Solomon's Portico. 12 When Peter saw this, he declared to the people, “Men of Israel, why are you amazed at this? Why do you stare at us as if we had made this man walk by our own power or piety? 13 The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the God of our forefathers, has glorified his servant Jesus, whom you handed over and rejected in the presence of Pilate after he had decided to release him. 14 But you rejected the Holy and Righteous One and asked that a man who was a murderer be released to you. 15 You killed the Originator of life, whom God raised from the dead. To this fact we are witnesses! 16 And on the basis of faith in Jesus' name, his very name has made this man—whom you see and know—strong. The faith that is through Jesus has given him this complete health in the presence of you all. 17 And now, brothers, I know you acted in ignorance, as your rulers did too. 18 But the things God foretold long ago through all the prophets—that his Christ would suffer—he has fulfilled in this way. 19 Therefore repent and turn back so that your sins may be wiped out, 20 so that times of refreshing may come from the presence of the Lord, and so that he may send the Messiah appointed for you—that is, Jesus. 21 This one heaven must receive until the time all things are restored, which God declared from times long ago through his holy prophets. 22 Moses said, ‘The Lord your God will raise up for you a prophet like me from among your brothers. You must obey him in everything he tells you. 23 Every person who does not obey that prophet will be destroyed and thus removed from the people.' 24 And all the prophets, from Samuel and those who followed him, have spoken about and announced these days. 25 You are the sons of the prophets and of the covenant that God made with your ancestors, saying to Abraham, ‘And in your descendants all the nations of the earth will be blessed.' 26 God raised up his servant and sent him first to you, to bless you by turning each one of you from your iniquities.”Main ThemesThe MiracleThe SettingWe learn in chapter 2 that believers pray daily in the temple. (This means they prayed in the temple courts, not literally inside the temple.) So, chapter 3 opens with a predictable scene—Peter and John find themselves going to the temple to pray (3:1). We can safely assume they were going to participate in a corporate prayer meeting (as opposed to a time of personal prayer).We are aware that at some point synagogues established three prayer times during the day. We have evidence from early Christian writers that Christians continued this practice for a while. Even in Acts we read of three times of prayer: 9:00 AM (Acts 2:15), noon (Acts 10:9), and 3:00 PM (Acts 3:1). There is some doubt that the synagogue tradition was firmly in place at the time of Acts chapter 3, but most agree that was the case.We might ask ourselves: What did these times of corporate prayer look like? It may have included corporate singing of Psalms and other worship, a person leading everyone in prayer, and everyone praying differently but simultaneously.We might also ask ourselves: How long did the miracle and Peter's preaching (which we are about to discuss) take? We learn at the beginning of chapter 4 that Peter and John are arrested towards evening, and recall that Peter and John head towards the temple around 3 PM. So, the miracle and subsequent preaching probably lasted about 3 hours. Although this may be obvious to the reader already, we should note that the speeches we read in Acts are obviously summaries. Luke records the main points made by Peter.The Lame Man and the GateAs the believers head to the temple to pray, they run across a lame man who was placed at the temple gate daily. As a quick historical note, we are not certain at which gate he was placed. Ancient sources do not specify which gate was popularly called “the Beautiful Gate.” We are able to ascertain that it referred to either the Nicanor Gate (which led from the Court of the Gentiles into the Court of Women) or the Shushan Gate at the eastern wall. Since the fifth century, the tradition has been that “the Beautiful Gate” referred to the Shushan Gate, but that tradition may not be reliable.Of more relevance than which gate is being described is the fact that the lame man was at a gate. Because of his defect, he may not have been allowed to go any further into the temple. Also, temple gates were useful for begging since they were frequented by many people. Moreover, one may assume that people at the temple were a more charitable audience than elsewhere. Finally, we must keep in mind the lame man's dismal situation. Begging (considered highly shameful) would have been his only way to provide for himself. There was no other social safety net. As a scholar points out, the poor in ancient cities were “ill-fed, housed in slums or not at all, ravaged by sickness,” and with little hope of social betterment.The ExchangeThe lame man begins the exchange with the apostles on the basis of his need—he requests money. Truly, he requested alms—money given to the poor as an act of charity—but our translation uses money because the term alms is unfamiliar to current readers. Giving alms was viewed as honorable by Judaism.The lame man's request opens the door for a dramatic demonstration of the gospel. The Old Testament strongly emphasized the charitable treatment of the disabled. Consider, for example:You must not curse a deaf person or put a stumbling block in front of a blind person. You must fear your God; I am the Lord. Leviticus 19:14“Cursed is the one who misleads a blind person on the road.” Then all the people will say, “Amen!” Deuteronomy 27:18Like I have pointed out many times before, the gospels are replete with commands to help the poor.Most importantly, according to the Old Testament, healing of the sick would be a sign of the messianic era. Consider Isaiah:Tell those who panic, “Be strong! Do not fear! Look, your God comes to avenge; with divine retribution he comes to deliver you.” Then blind eyes will open, deaf ears will hear. Then the lame will leap like a deer, the mute tongue will shout for joy; for water will burst forth in the wilderness, streams in the arid rift valley. Isaiah 35:4-6)In the Old Testament, the lame also work as a type for the mistreated people of God:Look, at that time I will deal with those who mistreated you. I will rescue the lame sheep and gather together the scattered sheep. I will take away their humiliation and make the whole earth admire and respect them. Zephaniah 3:19So, Peter healing a lame man works on a literal level—it is an astonishing miracle that validates his credentials as one sent by God—and on a narrative level—the story of redemption has reached the messianic era in which the people of God will be gathered.The Disclaimer—No MoneyUpon the lame man's request, Peter and John clarify that they do not have any money. (The phrase “silver and gold” simply means money, “minted coins.”) Although this is nothing but a footnote in the story, we should notice that as the believers shared all their possessions with one another (see chapter 2), the apostles do not seem to have been enriched. Also, this distinguishes Peter and John from magicians of that time, who took payment for their services.The MiracleJesus' NamePeter begins the miracle by giving credit to Jesus Christ. Jesus's name is a key element that recurs throughout this section. It is repeated many times in chapter 3, and its mention continues into chapter 4. This leaves no doubt that the apostles are acting only as agents for the one who sent them—Jesus.We should notice that Peter specifies that he speaks of Jesus “the Nazarene.” This shows a reference to a real, historical figure, and it operates as defiance to popular expectations of greatness. Being from Nazareth was certainly nothing to brag about.How should we understand the use of Jesus' name? For example, in the context of prayer, calling God's name generally means one is addressing God. For example:Now Jesus was praying in a certain place. When he stopped, one of his disciples said to him, “Lord, teach us to pray, just as John taught his disciples.” 2 So he said to them, “When you pray, say: “‘Father, may your name be honored; may your kingdom come. . . .” Luke 11:1-2But in prayer, one is also calling on the Lord himself to act. Consider how the Lord's prayer continues:Give us each day our daily bread, and forgive us our sins, for we also forgive everyone who sins against us. And do not lead us into temptation. Luke 11:3-4Invocations of God's name could be directed at people or at least with people as the intended audience to prove who is acting. Consider Elijah challenging the prophets of Baal:“Then you will invoke the name of your god, and I will invoke the name of the Lord. The god who responds with fire will demonstrate that he is the true God.” All the people responded, “This will be a fair test.” 1 Kings 18Consider also David's blessing of the people of God in the name of the Lord. This probably means he was calling on the Lord to the bless them.When David finished offering burnt sacrifices and peace offerings, he pronounced a blessing over the people in the Lord's name. 1 Chronicles 16:2So, when Peter asks the lame man to walk “in the name of Jesus Christ,” he may be pointing to who is doing the miracle.We could also understand calling on the Lord's name slightly differently. Both in Jewish and Gentile tradition, we can find brokers (i.e., representatives or messengers) using the name of their patron to denote on whose authority they speak or act. So, to say “in the name of Jesus Christ” is to say, “as a representative of Jesus Christ.” We find this (or a very similar) use of the expression in the Gospel of John when praying in Jesus' name (John 14:13; 15:16; 16:23-24). In John, praying “in one's name” evokes praying “on the merits of,” or because of, another's status before the one entreated (much like Israel seeking favor before God on account of their ancestors' favor).Notice that under either interpretation of using the Lord's name, it is Jesus or through the power of Jesus that the miracle happens. The difference is whether the apostle works as an announcer of what Jesus is doing or as the agent through whom Jesus acts.We should also notice that Peter does not use a particular ritual. For pagans, God's favor could be sought by using very specific rituals that needed perfect execution. Jewish ritual was less particular, but correctly implementing the ritual remained important, leading to conflicts between, for example, Pharisees and Sadducees. Peter also does not employ techniques or ingredients that would lend themselves to be interpreted as magic. The only ingredient, so to speak, is the power and authority of Jesus.The HealingPeter clasps the lame man's right hand—typically a sign of agreement or covenant in the ancient world. Given the man's low social status, this denotes acceptance and kindness on Peter's part. Peter helps him up.The miracle is emphatically evident. The man jumps up and immediately walks. Then we are told repeatedly that he “walks around,” walks and leaps,” and all saw him “walking.” The miracle works as a sign that draws attention to the message about to be preached.Why is the miracle so effective? Those at the temple recognized this man as the one “who used to sit and ask for donations.” Since he had been lame from birth, we can conclude he had been placed there daily for a very long time.Moreover, if we are correct in concluding that the lame man could venture no further into the temple due to his disability, the fact that the man enters the temple courts to praise God is significant. His barrier to experience God has been removed by the power and grace of Jesus.The SpeechThe SettingPetter delivers his speech at Solomon's Portico. It was a long outdoor hallway supported by pillars on the east of a pre-Herodian structure, which overlooked the steep Kidron Valley. Apparently Solomon's Portico was a traditional place for Christians to meet and preach; we read about it in Acts (Acts 3:11; 5:12) and in John 10:23.The MessageWhodunit?Peter begins his sermon by correcting an apparent misunderstanding by the crowd. He makes clear that the cause of the healing is Jesus, not himself.Wonder-workers were common at the time, and they were often understood as sorcerers. Clarifying that Jesus was the source of the miracle, along with other passages in Acts (e.g., Acts 8:7-13, 18-24; 19:11-20) work as an antimagical apologetics. These are miracles done by God, Peter is pointing out, not magical works done by Peter's power or cunning. Moreover, Peter is separating himself from certain Jewish traditions that held holy men had power to make certain things happen. (Pagans had a similar notion, believing that piety could lead to spiritual power. For example, Romans believed that their sacrifices could expiate the gods and that their continued worship could even make the gods embarrassed to continue in anger against Rome.)Unlike a sorcerer or a man acting by his own piety-fueled power, Peter points to Jesus and immediately says the following::The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the God of our forefathers, has glorified his servant Jesus, whom you handed over and rejected in the presence of Pilate after he had decided to release him.In other words, the main proposition of the speech is that the God of Israel who acted to resurrect Jesus is continuing to act.The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob“The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob” was a familiar Jewish expression, derived from the biblical revelation to Moses recorded in the book of Exodus. It appears multiple times in Exodus and the Old Testament, but probably the most memorable mention is in the scene of the burning bush.Now Moses was shepherding the flock of his father-in-law Jethro, the priest of Midian, and he led the flock to the far side of the desert and came to the mountain of God, to Horeb. The angel of the Lord appeared to him in a flame of fire from within a bush. He looked, and the bush was ablaze with fire, but it was not being consumed! So Moses thought, “I will turn aside to see this amazing sight. Why does the bush not burn up?” When the Lord saw that he had turned aside to look, God called to him from within the bush and said, “Moses, Moses!” And Moses said, “Here I am.” God said, “Do not approach any closer! Take your sandals off your feet, for the place where you are standing is holy ground.” He added, “I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.” Then Moses hid his face, because he was afraid to look at God. Exodus 3:1-6This title for God was common in Jesus' time, appearing in Jewish prayers and benedictions, making it one of the most familiar titles for God. Someone who had read both of Luke's works would remember that Jesus had used this title before—once before. Jesus defended the resurrection of the dead with this very title and the very scene of the burning bush, concluding:But even Moses revealed that the dead are raised in the passage about the bush, where he calls the Lord the God of Abraham and the God of Isaac and the God of Jacob. Now he is not God of the dead, but of the living, for all live before him.” Then some of the experts in the law answered, “Teacher, you have spoken well!” For they did not dare any longer to ask him anything. Luke 20:37-40There seems to be no coincidence that Peter uses that same title for God to preach about restoration as Jesus did to preach about resurrection. The God who demonstrated his faithfulness to the patriarchs in the exodus would be faithful to his promise to raise them from the dead; God demonstrated that faithfulness in raising Jesus from the dead; so, one can expect God to deliver on his promises of restoration as well.The Servant, the Holy and Righteous One, the Originator of LifeBecause I have discussed some of these Old Testament allusions in many occasions, I will provide only a brief summary of what the titles used for Jesus are meant to evoke in the listeners' minds.The term servant along with the theme of glorification almost inarguably points to Isaiah' servant.Look, my servant will succeed! He will be elevated, lifted high, and greatly exalted—(just as many were horrified by the sight of you) he was so disfigured he no longer looked like a man; his form was so marred he no longer looked human—so now he will startle many nations. Kings will be shocked by his exaltation, for they will witness something unannounced to them, and they will understand something they had not heard about. Who would have believed what we just heard? When was the Lord's power revealed through him? He sprouted up like a twig before God, like a root out of parched soil; he had no stately form or majesty that might catch our attention, no special appearance that we should want to follow him. He was despised and rejected by people, one who experienced pain and was acquainted with illness; people hid their faces from him; he was despised, and we considered him insignificant. But he lifted up our illnesses, he carried our pain; even though we thought he was being punished, attacked by God, and afflicted for something he had done. He was wounded because of our rebellious deeds, crushed because of our sins; he endured punishment that made us well; because of his wounds we have been healed. Isaiah 52:13 – 53-5“The Holy One” was especially a title for God himself in both the Old Testament and in early Judaism. In a context that draws heavily on Isaiah, the “holy one” title could imply deity (“Holy One” appears thirty times in Isaiah, including for God as Israel's savior and “redeemer” in the servant contexts). The title could also function as an acceptable title for one of God's servants when conjoined with “of God.” In the case of Acts 3, that seems like a difficult interpretation to hold.“Righteous one” is not a common expression for Christ later in the New Testament. (Although we see some uses, such as in 1 John 1-2. It says, “But if anyone does sin, we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the Righteous One, and he himself is the atoning sacrifice for our sins, and not only for our sins but also for the whole world.”) So why is this title for Jesus used in Acts?In Acts, the title of righteous one is used exclusively when preaching to Jerusalem audiences, which is perhaps a clue as to its intended meaning. Calling Jesus the “righteous one” heightens both the contrast with Barabbas the “murderer” and the guilt of those who denied Jesus. It also fits one of Luke's central themes: Jesus was innocent. Moreover, the term “righteous servant” appears in the servant song of Isaiah (Isaiah 53:11), solidifying the connection between the term “servant” and Isaiah's servant.“Prince of life,” “Founder of life,” or as our translation puts it, “Originator of life” is antonomasia—a title that substitutes the name of a person. Examples in other contexts would be referring to Shakespeare as the Bard or to Lebron James as the GOAT.In Peter's speech, we see a recurring contrast between life and death, including between he who raised to life and those who kill. Calling Jesus the Originator of life is a great rhetorical device to emphasize that contrast. Also, a biblically literate listener would probably recall Deuteronomy 30:“Look! I have set before you today life and prosperity on the one hand, and death and disaster on the other. What I am commanding you today is to love the Lord your God, to walk in his ways, and to obey his commandments, his statutes, and his ordinances. Then you will live and become numerous and the Lord your God will bless you in the land that you are about to possess. However, if you turn aside and do not obey, but are lured away to worship and serve other gods, I declare to you this very day that you will certainly perish! You will not extend your time in the land you are crossing the Jordan to possess. Today I invoke heaven and earth as witnesses against you that I have set life and death, blessing and curse, before you. Therefore choose life so that you and your descendants may live! I also call on you to love the Lord your God, to obey him and be loyal to him, for he gives you life and enables you to live continually in the land the Lord promised to give to your ancestors Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.” Deuteronomy 30:15-20There is much debate about exactly to interpret the word translated as prince, founder, or originator (ἀρχηγός). The term appears frequently in the Septuagint to refer to heads of clans—hence the translations prince and founder. The term could apply to authors or originators of something, or the “initiator” of something. However, for readers steeped more in biblical Greek than in Greek tradition, the image of leadership would be dominant. Jesus is thus the hero leading the way to the historic goal of achieving eternal life, and as such fulfills the promises and inaugurates the opportunity for the eschatological era of blessing. In the words of other New Testament passages, he is the “firstborn” from the dead, who thereby guarantees life to the rest of his people. Perhaps a great translation of ἀρχηγός is “pioneer,” but modern scholars find “pioneer” to be on the list of icky words (for reasons I am sure you could guess).Believe, Repent, and Then . . . The Messiah's ReturnVerses 15 through 21 sounds quite similar to the speech in chapter 2, so I will not discuss them in detail except for the conspicuous differences. By differences, I do not mean inconsistencies. I mean the two speeches are not identical and we learn some distinct information.As in the prior chapter, Peter tells the Jewish audience that they killed Jesus, their divine king sent by God, yet God raised him from the dead, a fact to which the apostles are witnesses. In chapter 2 Peter points to the audience as witnesses of God's miracles (as opposed to the apostles). But in chapter 3 Peter quickly points out that the audience has now witnessed a miracle. The crowd was familiar with the lame man who was healed, making this charge effective. All in all, the setup of the message in chapter 3 is similar to that of chapter 2.The first distinction, albeit in tone and not theology, is in how Peter addresses the crowd's culpability. In chapter 2, Peter emphasizes the guilt of the crowd. In chapter 3, Peter minimizes (although does not remove) their guilt by highlighting their ignorance.Then just like in chapter 2, Peter then clarifies that Jesus' death was according to scripture. Finally, Peter calls the crowd to repentance.The real difference between the two speeches begins in verse 20. What are the fruits of repentance in chapter 2? “Peter said to them, ‘Repent, and each one of you be baptized in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins, and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit'” (Acts 2:38). Peter also tells them to “Save yourselves from this perverse generation!” (Acts 2:40). In short, the result of repentance is forgiveness of sins, receiving the Holy Spirit, and salvation (which in the context of chapter 2 means avoiding judgment).What are the fruits of repentance in chapter 3? “[S]o that times of refreshing may come from the presence of the Lord, and so that he may send the Messiah appointed for you—that is, Jesus. This one heaven must receive until the time all things are restored, which God declared from times long ago through his holy prophets” (Acts 3:20b-21). Repentance will be followed by “times of refreshing” or what may also be called restoration; and, once sufficient restoration has occurred (“the time all things are restored”) then Jesus will return.This idea of restoration is found throughout the Old Testament prophets. Perhaps the best known passage is in Ezekiel:“‘I will take you from the nations and gather you from all the countries; then I will bring you to your land. I will sprinkle you with pure water, and you will be clean from all your impurities. I will purify you from all your idols. I will give you a new heart, and I will put a new spirit within you. I will remove the heart of stone from your body and give you a heart of flesh. I will put my Spirit within you; I will take the initiative, and you will obey my statutes and carefully observe my regulations. Then you will live in the land I gave to your fathers; you will be my people, and I will be your God. I will save you from all your uncleanness. I will call for the grain and multiply it; I will not bring a famine on you. I will multiply the fruit of the trees and the produce of the fields, so that you will never again suffer the disgrace of famine among the nations. Then you will remember your evil behavior and your deeds that were not good; you will loathe yourselves on account of your sins and your abominable deeds. Ezekiel 36:24-31Jews during Jesus' day and thereafter linked the idea of turning to God with the restoration of Israel. Many Jewish sources show an expectation that Israel would return to God's law in the last days. Often Jewish teachers, particularly in later rabbinic texts, predicated the end's arrival and Israel's restoration as chronologically contingent on Israel's repentance.Summary and ConclusionsWhat does this tell us about the current age? The opportunity to turn to God is now. The good news is going out to all the nations (see verse 25) that the Lord has already raised the firstborn from the dead. Anyone who trusts the “Pioneer of life” shall reach the same destination. And, one day, when all the people of God have turned to Him, Jesus will return to judge, to heal, to restore, and to reign a world that will be filled with love, peace, and joy.The concept of restoration and Jesus' return also prompts a few questions. Peter's speech claiming that heaven would receive Jesus until the period of restoration echoes Psalm 110:1, which Peter quoted in chapter 2. The psalm says:Here is the Lord's proclamation to my lord: “Sit down at my right hand until I make your enemies your footstool.” The Lord extends your dominion from Zion. Rule in the midst of your enemies. Your people willingly follow you when you go into battle. On the holy hills at sunrise the dew of your youth belongs to you. The Lord makes this promise on oath and will not revoke it: “You are an eternal priest after the pattern of Melchizedek.” O Lord, at your right hand he strikes down kings in the day he unleashes his anger. He executes judgment against the nations. He fills the valleys with corpses; he shatters their heads over the vast battlefield. From the stream along the road he drinks; then he lifts up his head. Psalm 110:1b-7So, will all enemies of Christ be defeated and then Jesus will return? Should we expect the church to advance and (peacefully) conquer all the world, every institution, and every person? Will nearly everyone become a follower of Christ? Some believe this. Other passages in scripture have led most Christian throughout history to temper those expectations, with some taking an opposite, extremely negative view of history's arch. But regardless of how we harmonize scripture, the theme of an advancing church (whether ultimately victorious or not) seems inarguable. Many will come to Christ. The enemies of the church will not prevail against the plan of salvation.The second question we might ask is whether Acts 3 (and other texts, such as Romans 11) means that it is the conversion of Jews (not Gentiles) that will trigger the end—the return of Jesus. Many Christians in the United States hold this view today. Often times, although not always, this view includes the belief that national Israel will be restored and blessed before the final judgment. In other words, that Acts 3 is talking specifically about the ethnic nation of Israel. This partially explains why many conservatives in the United States are committed to supporting the nation of Israel. One may also take a passage like Acts 3 and argue that, for example, Peter seems to intentionally omit the more Israel-centric portions of the Old Testament text he cites, and that at the end of chapter 3 Peter again highlights that the promise of salvation is for all nations. Therefore, restoration involves all the people of God—the Church—and not specifically Jews. (Of course, the arguments for the different theological positions look for evidence all over the Bible. I give examples only from the texts we have recently read so as not to derail our conversation.)So far I have avoided these eschatological topics because people feel very strongly about them. Discussion can easily get heated. My intention behind these brief comments is simply to introduce some of the options available.

This Is What God Looks And Sounds Like! Focus Verse: John 1:18 “No one has seen God at any time. The one and only Son, who is in the bosom of the Father, he has declared him.” This seems like a strange focus verse for a 2nd study on what God looks like. Yet, in time, it will become apparent for all to see why we are using this verse. In Part 1 of “What Does God Look Like”, we used the scriptures own description to reveal a shadow of God's true beauty. In Part 2, we will focus on The New Jerusalem, God's voice, what His presence does to the earth, how no one can see God, and then how, if you have seen Jesus, you have seen what God looks like. Ending with the Bible's description of what Jesus now looks like in Heaven. So, let's get started!#God #YWHW #LoveWatch The Video: https://youtu.be/325d38q70ag(BrotherLance.com) Free Music, Bible Studies, Videos & More!(Weshallbelikehim.com) Download Our Free 45 Day Devotional Book Today!

On this episode I share what I've been learning about praying the will of God and how we can know what the will of God is for our lives. Follow the podcast on Instagram: www.instagram.com/the.grit.and.grace.podcast Get Salty Britches (20%off coupon code AD20) www.getsaltybritches.com (Intro and outro music by Joey Jaeger.)

Revelation gives us a glimpse into what is happening in heaven and what will happen on earth. Do you feel comforted or frightened by the idea of God's coming on earth? Tanya shares the secrets to life with God according to Revelation 7. Your support makes TMBT possible. Ten Minute Bible Talks is a crowd-funded project. Join the TMBTeam to reach more people with the Bible. Give now. Join the TMBT community in reading the entire New Testament in one year. Get your FREE reading plan here. Like this content? Make sure to leave us a rating and share it with others, so others can find it too. Use #asktmbt to connect with us, ask questions, and suggest topics. We'd love to hear from you! To learn more, visit our website and follow us on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter @TenMinuteBibleTalks. Don't forget to subscribe to the TMBT Newsletter here. Passages: Revelation 7

If you've ever looked at someone and asked God "Look how good they're doing. Look at what you've done for them. Why not me?" I think we've all done that (I know I have.)If that's you, too, the latest Gifts in the Garden Podcast from Caryn Cruise is for you.

Exodus 32 Steven Veinotte

Hey, y'all ! On this week's episode our host, Ally, speaks about one of her favorite parables from the book of Matthew. We cover things like comparing our walk faith to others', special treatment from God, and judgement. We hope the Holy Spirit speaks to you as much as it spoke to us in this episode. :) xx ☆ SUBSCRIBE TO OUR PATREON ☆ : https://patreon.com/CWCOI ____________________________________________ Connect further with us ! TikTok ➤ https://www.tiktok.com/@christwithcoffeeonice Instagram ➤ https://instagram.com/christwithcoffeeonice GIRLYPOPCAST ➤ https://anchor.fm/ally-yost  _____________________________________________ Connect further with Ally !  TikTok (1.7M) ➤ https://www.tiktok.com/@ally_yost Instagram ➤ https://www.instagram.com/ally_yost/ LTK.IT ➤ https://www.shopltk.com/explore/ally_yost Amazon Storefront ➤ https://www.amazon.com/shop/allyyost Pinterest ➤ https://www.pinterest.com/ally_yost1/_created/ ________________________________________________ contact ✉︎ : maddie@parkertalentmanagement.com --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/cwcoi/support

Sermon taught by Bryan White, Service hosted by Martha Bangs, Worship led by Jared Bangs and Becky Andrade Are you new? Let us know you were here: liminalventura.org/connectioncard The post What Does God Look Like? appeared first on Liminal Church of Ventura.

Sermon taught by Bryan White, Service hosted by Martha Bangs, Worship led by Jared Bangs and Becky Andrade Are you new? Let us know you were here: liminalventura.org/connectioncard The post What Does God Look Like? appeared first on Liminal Church of Ventura.

Family Worship Center Lakeland Sunday Message from Pastor Shawn 09.17.2023

Family Worship Center Lakeland Sunday Message from Pastor Shawn 09.17.2023

Pastor Wayne Van Gelderen shares biblical truth that will bring hope and comfort in these uncertain days. May we draw closer to God through this time and impact those around us for eternity. https://fallsbaptist.org https://baptistcollege.org https://www.theegeneration.org https://ontovictorypress.com If you'd like to support this ministry - https://fallsbaptist.org/give/

Larry Elder went on The Breakfast Club for an interview. Charlamagne tried to ask Larry Elder if he ever had a wake-up call. Larry Elder reminded Charlamagne about Joe Biden's infamous "If you don't vote for me, you're not Black comment". --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/phillipscottpodcast/message Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/phillipscottpodcast/support

There is a difference between faithfulness to God and foolishness? Today, Sean shares what that looks like for us all. To see all of Sean's full message on this go to: https://youtu.be/6l1ROcD76cM Share your stories, prayer requests, or your response to this devotional in the comments below. If you would like to know more about New Life, who we are, what we believe, or when we meet, visit http://newlife.church. Or you can fill out a digital connection card at http://newlife.church/connect - we would love to get to know you better!

In this episode, Dr. Nathaniel J. Wilson discusses characteristics of the kingdom of God.

“By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us.” Luke 1:78  Submit a Podcast Listener Question HERE!  Today's episode is the third part of a conversation we had with Patricia Coulter where she and I discuss her brand new book The Infinite Mercy of God.   Patricia Coulter met Sofia Cavalletti in 1975, and their friendship and close collaboration lasted until Sofia's death in 2011. Patricia collaborated with Sofia in formation courses, in translations of her writings, and in coauthoring various books. Patricia's most recent words are a collection of Sofia's writings, All if Gift: Enjoying the Presence of God and letters, Look at the Light, Words of Loss and Love from Sofia Cavalletti. Dr. Coulter received her certification in the Franciscan Internship Program in Spiritual Direction and Directed Retreats and her doctorate in ministry from the University of St Michael's College, University of Toronto. She is the recipient of the Pro Ecclesia et Pontifice cross for her pastoral ministry with adults and children.  Purchase The Infinite Mercy of God  Purchase Ways to Nurture the Relationship with God  Book Study for Ways to Nurture the Relationship with God  Podcast episodes for the chapters of Ways to Nurture the Relationship with God:   Episode 89 – Background of Ways to Nurture the Relationship with God with Patricia Coulter  Episode 52- Chapter 1 of Ways to Nurture the Relationship with God– The Birth and Infancy of Jesus with Ann Garrido  Episode 88 - Chapter 2 of Ways to Nurture the Relationship with God- The Parable of the Good Shepherd according to John  Episode 61 - Chapter 3 of Ways to Nurture the Relationship with God - The Roots of the Eucharist and the Easter Mystery with Marty O'Bryan    Patricia's Books:  Drinking from the Sources  Like Leaven: Accompanying Children on their Spiritual Journey  The Infinite Mercy of God  Look at the Light: Words on Loss and Love from Sofia Cavalletti    AUDIO VERSION of The Religious Potential of the Child by Sofia Cavalletti, read by Rebekah Rojcewicz.  CGSUSA has created a Premium Podcast Channel for this audiobook through Podbean.  The cost is $29.00 and does include the audio version of all chapters of The Religious Potential of the Child, 3rd Edition all read by Rebekah Rojcewicz.  We have provided both video overview instructions and written instructions on accessing this audiobook.  Please use these resources. Unlike the regular podcast, which will remain free and available on many podcast players/apps, this new resource is available only on the Podbean App, which you may download from the IOS App store or the Google Play App store. Learn more here!  Step by step instructions here!     Learn more about the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd at www.cgsusa.org     Follow us on Social Media-  Facebook at “The United States Association of the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd”  Instagram-  cgsusa  Twitter- @cgsusa  Pinterest- Natl Assoc of Catechesis of the Good Shepherd USA  YouTube- catechesisofthegoodshepherd