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The Two Bobs episode 279 for Monday, April 7, 2025: What are The Bobs drinking? Rob enjoyed a Bourbon County Brand Stout (2022) from Goose Island. https://untp.beer/MyemE Robert nursed an Irish Cream Stout from Southern Tier. https://untp.beer/1bb120695c Follow us on Untapped at @RobFromTTB and @lowercaserobert or we'll pee in your recycle bin. Robert's birthday week was a blast, and everyone had fun! This week's CRAZY NEWS was just assessed reciprocal tariffs. Thankfully, most of its products are already produced in Florida. An Oregon man keeps finding jugs full of piss in his recycle bin. https://www.kwtx.com/2025/03/28/its-lot-pee-man-has-no-idea-who-is-putting-gallons-urine-his-recycling-bin-or-why/ Florida Man® is being remembered for a life of Marlboros, fast women and Ford Broncos in his obituary. https://www.wfla.com/news/florida/obit-florida-man-remembered-for-life-of-marlboros-fast-women-and-ford-broncos/ Florida Man® (this one hadn't died yet) dressed up as a clown and got in a scuffle with police. https://www.wfla.com/news/florida/i-am-a-clown-florida-man-dressed-as-clown-gets-in-scuffle-with-police/ Florida Woman® held up a Dairy Queen for $1.50. https://people.com/woman-accused-holding-up-dairy-queen-stealing-dollar-fifty-11702913 A new Texas law requires shoppers to show their ID before buying phallic foods. https://theonion.com/new-law-requires-texans-to-show-id-to-buy-phallic-foods/ Please share the show with your friends, and don't forget to subscribe! Visit www.thetwobobs.com for our contact information. Thanks for listening! Leave us a message or text us at 530-882-BOBS (530-882-2627) Join us on all the social things: Follow us on Blue Sky Follow us on Twitter Check out our Instagram Find us on YouTube Follow Rob on Untappd Follow Robert on Untappd The Two Bobs Podcast is © The Two Bobs. For more information, see our Who are The Two Bobs? page, or check our Contact page. Words, views, and opinions are our own and do not represent those of our friends, family, or our employers unless otherwise noted. Music for The Two Bobs was provided by JewelBeat.
We open the show pondering a significant question: Why is Idaho trying to ban truck nuts? Is it that big of a problem? Next, we'll read a very well written obituary, learn why a woman was running naked in DFW airport, a preacher who held his congregation hostage, and Dan fills us in on the latest celebrity romances. But first, Birthdays!LINKS:Idaho governor signs bill criminalizing public breast exposure and 'truck nuts' - East Idaho NewsObit: Florida man remembered for life of ‘Marlboros, fast women, and Ford Broncos' | WFLANaked Woman Stabs, Bites Victim at Dallas Fort Worth Airport, on CameraMarvin Sapp Addresses Viral Video Telling Ushers to 'Close the Doors'Pedro Pascal Addresses Jennifer Aniston Friendship After Viral Photos | Us WeeklyThe Treehouse is a daily DFW based comedy podcast and radio show. Leave your worries outside and join Dan O'Malley, Trey Trenholm, Raj Sharma, and their guests for laughs about current events, stupid news, and the comedy that is their lives. If it's stupid, it's in here.The Treehouse WebsiteDefender OutdoorsCLICK HERE TO DONATE:The RMS Treehouse Listeners Foundation
On this episode, Erin & Elizabeth talk to animal intuitive Phoebe Hoffman, one of the stars of the new documentary about NYC psychics, Look Into My Eyes (currently on Max). The film hints at Phoebe's colorful life growing up with her divorced father Stanley, who Phoebe lived with in a studio apartment in Manhattan throughout her teenage years, when she dropped out of LaGuardia High School of Music and Art in 9th grade. Stanley, an English teacher who nonetheless played fast and loose with the concept of mentoring, was compared to Philip Roth in 1974 when his debut novel was published, but his literary dreams ended with a gig writing forScrew magazine. As Phoebe chain-smoked the Marlboros her dad procured for her, she skipped school to watch John Waters movies on repeat, all while longing for boundaries, apologies, and parenting. A botched stint in therapy with Stanley led to Phoebe finding a way to lovingly detach from her dad, and led to an unlikely new purpose in life: pet psychic. Phoebe tells us about an otherworldly experience with a horse changed everything, what's up with animals as the conduits of our dead loved ones, and whether our pets love us as much as we love them.
A roll of the (oversized) dice ends the most recent Sinister Six event, as well as an entire podcasting season. Before our next saga can begin, fate decrees that we watch the 1987 cult classic Don't Panic. On his seventeenth birthday, Michael is surprised when his friends break out a Ouija board. Tony, Michael's best friend, ends up being possessed by a demonic entity known as Virgil. Using his new body, Virgil goes on a killing spree that only Michael has the power to stop. What follows is an extremely 80's adventure through Mexico City, complete with electrifying theme music and lots and lots of product placement. Remember to grab a pack of Marlboros, open a can of Coke, and wear your best pair of dinosaur pajamas for today's nightmarish episode of Anime Was (Not) A Mistake! Podbean/iTunes/Stitcher/Spotify Follow us on Instagram:@animewasnotamistakepodcast Or on Facebook:@animewasnotamistakepod Music Provided by: "Danse Macabre" Saint-Saëns - Rock/Metal Version Cover – EXMORTUS TV “Live and Learn” – Crush 40 - Main Theme of Sonic: Adventure 2 “Chromaggia” – Repo! The Genetic Opera: Original Motion Picture Soundtrack
Terry McBride of McBride & The Ride Joins Matt Jolley to Announce New Single!GEORGIA RADIO - Legendary 90s country group McBride & The Ride is celebrating their 35th anniversary with an exciting new release! The ACM and CMA-nominated trio is thrilled to announce their latest single, “Amarillo Sky,” from their upcoming Live EP, set to release later this fall. Terry McBride joined Matt Jolley to share the news and talk about the band's journey and future plans.For the first time, McBride & The Ride—comprised of Ray Herndon (vocals/guitar), Terry McBride (vocals/bass), and Billy Thomas (vocals/drums)—are releasing live recordings of their hottest singles and most requested songs. This includes hits like “Love on the Loose, Heart on the Run,” “Sacred Ground,” and “Going Out of My Mind.” The live recordings aim to bring the energetic experience of their performances straight to fans, anytime, anywhere.Premiered by Center Stage Magazine, “Amarillo Sky” is now available for fans to enjoy. Terry McBride shared, “We first recorded Amarillo Sky back in 2002 and it quickly became not only a band favorite, but a fan favorite. We still enjoy playing it over twenty years later. The first time I heard it, I felt an instant connection. The vivid Texas imagery of that tractor making another round under the Amarillo sky struck a chord with my Lone Star heart, and it still resonates with me today.”The new Live EP was recorded at Handlebar J in Scottsdale, Arizona earlier this year. Ray Herndon expressed excitement about the project, stating, “We did two sold-out shows and took the best recordings from both to create our first live EP. We are thrilled with the outcome and hope you love it too!”Billy Thomas added, “It's exciting to be back in the studio and on the road with my two old buddies. I'm looking forward to sharing what we do LIVE with all of our fans out there!”As part of their celebration, McBride & The Ride is continuing their “Cool To Be Country” tour, with shows across the country, including a notable performance at Chief's on Broadway in Nashville, Tennessee. The tour will also take them to Minnesota, Missouri, Montana, and Texas, with more dates being added to the schedule. Fans can expect to hear their biggest hits from the 90s, along with fan favorites from their first three albums, “Amarillo Sky,” and their 2023 comeback EP, “Marlboros & Avon.”In addition to celebrating their 35th anniversary, McBride & The Ride is also marking the 30th anniversary of the blockbuster hit movie ‘8 Seconds,' which featured their single “No More Cryin'” on the soundtrack and included an appearance by the band in the film.For more information on McBride & The Ride and their tour schedule, visit mcbrideandtheride.com.Upcoming Tour Dates:SEP 13 - Brauntex Performing Arts Theatre / New Braunfels, TexasSEP 14 - Dosey Doe Big Barn / The Woodlands, TexasAbout McBride & The Ride: Formed in 1989, McBride & The Ride quickly rose to fame with hit singles like “Love on the Loose, Heart on the Run,” “Sacred Ground,” and “Going Out of My Mind.” After a series of successful albums, the band reunited in 2021 to create new music. The members have also thrived in their individual careers. Ray Herndon has been Lyle Lovett's lead guitarist since 1985, Terry McBride has written major hits for Brooks & Dunn, Reba McEntire, and more, and Billy Thomas has been Vince Gill's drummer since 1987. Their 2002 album, ‘Amarillo Sky,' remains a fan favorite, and their latest EP, ‘Marlboros & Avon,' was released in 2023. The new LIVE EP is eagerly awaited by fans and will be available later this fall.Stay tuned to GeorgiaRadio.com for more updates on McBride & The Ride and all your favorite country artists!#terrymcbride #90scountry #mcbrideandtheride #2911media #georgiaradioSupport this podcast at — https://redcircle.com/georgia-radio/donationsAdvertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy
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
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 suffer not to know you; A kindness Dog's paw atop a stolen mantle Pray you, I Hear now, this; To love is but a service I shall keep to own a desire, So shed upon the willow, to weep Forgiveness, over ye Cherished gentleman DAMN. Who the FUCK are you. Wordless warrior, Come now, The hour of desire strikes with night And hallow tide, The idol, Set to barrow, Barron wonder— Seek now your truth; I give not one but two Of all you prey, Of Ayer, amber, Silver, set upon a stone Casket of crowns, preach thee Pray you I, gathered now These in here, We are above, That is also below you I'm gonna need some time with you. Great. Now I have to be perfect. So be perfect then. Fine. Great wind, Fall upon us; So sweet with will that I, Ye, a mere stone, might stand What. Jimmy Fallon?! I… Yeah! ♀️ DEADMAU5 It's okay. I can handle it. [JIMMY FALLON GETS SCRAPED.] F*CK. 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 bianarynpeople 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. 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, 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 shame 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? ? ? 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 al
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] JOHN 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 ten 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 suffer not to know you; A kindness Dog's paw atop a stolen mantle Pray you, I Hear now, this; To love is but a service I shall keep to own a desire, So shed upon the willow, to weep Forgiveness, over ye Cherished gentleman DAMN. Who the FUCK are you. Wordless warrior, Come now, The hour of desire strikes with night And hallow tide, The idol, Set to barrow, Barron wonder— Seek now your truth; I give not one but two Of all you prey, Of Ayer, amber, Silver, set upon a stone Casket of crowns, preach thee Pray you I, gathered now These in here, We are above, That is also below you I'm gonna need some time with you. Great. Now I have to be perfect. So be perfect then. Fine. Great wind, Fall upon us; So sweet with will that I, Ye, a mere stone, might stand What. Jimmy Fallon?! I… Yeah! ♀️ DEADMAU5 It's okay. I can handle it. [JIMMY FALLON GETS SCRAPED.] F*CK. 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 bianarynpeople 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. 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, 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 shame 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? ? ? 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 comm
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 suffer not to know you; A kindness Dog's paw atop a stolen mantle Pray you, I Hear now, this; To love is but a service I shall keep to own a desire, So shed upon the willow, to weep Forgiveness, over ye Cherished gentleman DAMN. Who the FUCK are you. Wordless warrior, Come now, The hour of desire strikes with night And hallow tide, The idol, Set to barrow, Barron wonder— Seek now your truth; I give not one but two Of all you prey, Of Ayer, amber, Silver, set upon a stone Casket of crowns, preach thee Pray you I, gathered now These in here, We are above, That is also below you I'm gonna need some time with you. Great. Now I have to be perfect. So be perfect then. Fine. Great wind, Fall upon us; So sweet with will that I, Ye, a mere stone, might stand What. Jimmy Fallon?! I… Yeah! ♀️ DEADMAU5 It's okay. I can handle it. [JIMMY FALLON GETS SCRAPED.] F*CK. 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 bianarynpeople 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. 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, 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 shame 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? ? ? 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 al
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 suffer not to know you; A kindness Dog's paw atop a stolen mantle Pray you, I Hear now, this; To love is but a service I shall keep to own a desire, So shed upon the willow, to weep Forgiveness, over ye Cherished gentleman DAMN. Who the FUCK are you. Wordless warrior, Come now, The hour of desire strikes with night And hallow tide, The idol, Set to barrow, Barron wonder— Seek now your truth; I give not one but two Of all you prey, Of Ayer, amber, Silver, set upon a stone Casket of crowns, preach thee Pray you I, gathered now These in here, We are above, That is also below you I'm gonna need some time with you. Great. Now I have to be perfect. So be perfect then. Fine. Great wind, Fall upon us; So sweet with will that I, Ye, a mere stone, might stand What. Jimmy Fallon?! I… Yeah! ♀️ DEADMAU5 It's okay. I can handle it. [JIMMY FALLON GETS SCRAPED.] F*CK. 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 bianarynpeople 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. 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, 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 shame 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? ? ? 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 al
The Mail Came When you hear cries, do you lean into the clouds? When I was a child, I looked for higher ground, first in the forest, then in the town. Every address was the right address. There were pigeons, and doves, and robins, spirits on the hills. Wind, rain, ice, and snow came in winter. Strawberries, corn, and bare skin came in summer. Nobody jumped from the bridge. I had wings. My childhood tumbled under the moon. I smoked Marlboros. I sang on the hills. My hands were dust. The mail came. I answered when I could.
Puffy and G-Cat are back to talk rankings and the playoff push in the G. Puff is live from St. Lucia, G cat gives us the Rochester recap, and the boys discuss drama in the stands and behind the bench.
Ana, Britt, Chrystal, Jesse, and The Suzie Hunter are here for this baseball episode of Casual Diehard, featuring hoarders, bobbleheads, Vanessa Hudgens as the would-be Taylor Swift of the Colorado Rockies, the sociological implications of smoking 400 packs of Marlboros per season for the better part of three decades managing baseball teams, and so very much more. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit willetspen.substack.com
For about fifteen years, I took anti-depressants. Three years ago, I flushed them down the toilet. It was the same day that I stopped believing in myself. I haven't looked back. For much of my adult life, I assumed that a diagnosis of “Major Depression” would plague me forever, because it was simply a case of biochemistry that wasn't working properly. It was a mechanistic problem, like a bent axle that needed to be bent back into shape (constantly), or like a lawn that needed continuous watering to remain green and lush. It was a disease, you see - not my fault. And it wasn't bad, but it needed modern treatment, like diabetes. Also, it needed techniques to manage it, an exercise of a sort, that required appointments with professionals. Without pills, data, techniques, and plenty of money, there was just no cure. Depression was a biological and psychological problem, requiring manipulation of receptors and a program of self-talk. Some backstory is needed here, and since I can get lost in long asides in my storytelling, I will try to do my best to stay on track. Oh, who am I kidding, let's go get lost. The problem of other minds and the cult of self-esteemI have come to know that deprogramming from the cult of self-esteem is a long journey. Long ago, in a childhood far, far away, I pondered whether the world was some kind of Truman Show. I recall hiding under a bed at a sleepover, wondering why the world seemed to be a grand conspiracy against me. Were they all actors? Were they even real? This notion came to me way before the movie The Truman Show or The Matrix existed, and I've come to learn that the idea of solipsism is about as original as the wheel or marriage in human history. The great thing about being a reader is that you always come to discover that every “original” idea that comes to mind proves to be quite unoriginal and has been discussed and beaten to death already by thinkers above my pay grade. What's strange to me is that the idea of the Truman Show doesn't occur to little children, who understand reality, but mostly this “fake world” problem only occurs to emo teenagers, narcissists, and doctors of philosophy. I seem to fit that crowd all too well, if unevenly. This Truman Show idea happened in the same period when the public school I attended drummed to the heavy beat of uniqueness and self-esteem. Elementary students became the test tube for a variety of academic ideas from Abraham Maslow, Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung, John Dewey, and a laundry list of other modern tinkerers. Of course, our parents were clueless about this in rural and small-town America, which made it the perfect proving ground for new ideas. The most fascinating thing about growing up in the 1980s and 1990s is that in looking back, we were treated like lab rats in massive experimentations of humanism and liberalism and a few other “isms” favored in the scholarly world.Much like today, the mind-body problem was being attacked from all sides. The problem of pain has long been the enemy of the Enlightenment and the idea of modern progress. Death is the abomination that must be ignored, re-evaluated, and eventually conquered. This blitz from the sciences on solving human suffering has been sending academic linebackers at the elusive quarterback called “consciousness” for several centuries. By dumb luck, I just happened to be born in the generation where the culmination of the academic experts had “the solution,” and they were granted the authority to carry out those experiments by the US Government and the State of Minnesota. Had I been born in Caesar's time, I would have simply learned the family trade, since I was not born in the Patrician class. The plebes learned to work and to praise the gods. The American plebes born before the 1960s followed a similar path, but somewhere after education became an activist's laboratory, the plebes became interesting to the experimenters, and the public school turned into a place of strange evangelization. Far more dogmas came to me in class than in Church. And what was the program being sold? Really, at the bottom, it was the same cure as the Church promised to fix. It was healing. We all want to be healed. But the solution for healing is wildly different depending on the foundational things that a worldview is built upon. A great healing was coming for the kids, and for the grown-ups, and it was a psycho, social, and somatic cure. The mind could be soothed with happy thoughts, the body tamed with exercise. The shackles of tradition needed to be tossed off, like ropes from a ship at dock, so that the mind and body could sail away into peaceful-yet-fun waters. Fun - that was the cure. Smile! Now that I think of it all, the world's guidance reminds me of a water ride at an amusement park, where artificial rocks and walls are built and a rugged-looking raft floats “dangerously” through a false “wildness” built for our entertainment. Yes, the world portrayed by the Church was one where the devil prowls about looking for the ruin of souls. The world portrayed by the Church was like the movie The River Wild, where massive rapids or thieves could and would kill you. The world portrayed at public school was more like your standard “river rapids ride” at Six Flags where nothing could hurt you - where you just needed to loosen up, laugh, and throw up your hands in the air in praise of fun. Death was to be avoided, and not even talked about. We were sold a story: most of all, what we lacked was self-esteem. If there is one word that dominated my early years it has to be self-esteem, with unique and special taking the silver and bronze medals. Self-esteem is defined as “a confidence and satisfaction in oneself.” Confidence has root words of “with faith” con - fide, or “faith in oneself.” This was the theme of elementary school. Self-esteem, I was promised, brought healing. If I had to invert one Biblical phrase to show the difference between what Jesus said and what my grade school, high school, college instructors, and even my employer's human resources said, it would be the antithesis of Matthew 11:28-30. Jesus said to come to him. The education system said, “Come to me,” meaning myself. Here's the anti-Matthew:“Come to me, me that is weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and me will give me rest. Take me yoke upon me, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and me will find rest for me soul. For me yoke is easy, and me burden is light.”I just had to believe in myself. To hear it often too - you are unique - you are special. You are gifted (which always made it odd for kids that didn't get that label, since it seemed to indicate that they were “not-gifted”?…but that's another topic). These ideas of uniqueness and specialness are indeed true for all people, but without something more, these words are terrible burdens and lead to strange endings, because they put a rubber stamp on our choices as endorsed, no matter how bad. Whatever hobby, addiction, idea, or obsession I had was just a confirmation of my unique and special self. The lesson was basic, teaching me that I didn't need some made-up deity to help me pull through this thing called life. No, I could do it all alone, so long as I relied ever more on myself. And whatever I decided was true, was right. Sounds great, but this false power is more of a curse and is visible in millions of people's lives now. In school and on TV, in sports, it seemed that so many people had the solution of self-actualization and self-esteem that they were tripping over each other to tell it and sell it. In elementary school, it was a technique. In college, I learned the “Hierarchy of Needs” from Abraham Maslow taught in three different classes - psychology, marketing, and political science. It was like a humanist parade where Maslow candy was being tossed out everywhere, and looking back I could see the same parade from second grade onward (and probably earlier if I could remember). Maslow was like a Moses of the second half of the 20th century, who came down from the mountain with his pyramid etched on a tablet. In the years when the onslaught of uniqueness and self-esteem was happening, I recall being pulled out of class for “gifted” meetings. I'm surprised we didn't all end up with identical tattoos that said “UNIQUE” with a serial number after it. And now I've gone too far. I apologize. Let's continue. But my point is that my Truman Show problem (otherwise known as “the problem of other minds” or solipsism) fed right into the uniqueness and self-esteem worldview that was quite literally being rammed down my throat, or rather, hung around my neck. Let's talk about the great IALAC sign experiment that millions of American children had to partake in. The IALAC Sign IncidentBut one incident, in particular, has never left my mind, and that was the second-grade project that was given to our entire class, known as the “IALAC Sign” experiment, an idea invented by the humanist Sidney Simon. The IALAC sign was a piece of paper that we wore around our necks with the letters I.A.L.A.C. which stood for, “I am lovable and capable.” We also did “Me-Me” time during this year of class, which was all about, “Me!” But the IALAC experiment was a self-esteem-building exercise intended to teach children the all-important humanist mantra: “Believe in yourself!” And so I did. I did enjoy causing trouble, but I always knew to follow orders when the time came to be serious. I knew when to quit, and how to follow orders. So I did what was asked. I believed in myself. With the IALAC sign, I recall gathering in the gym, sitting on the floor, and listening to the speaker and one particularly enthusiastic teacher, who I came to realize long after the fact was a hard-core humanist. The speech about the signs we wore around our necks went like this: “Every day you get a new IALAC sign. When someone insults you, a piece of your sign gets torn off. When someone compliments you, a piece can be restored.” So we practiced saying put-downs and compliments, as part of the exercise, and we would tear off parts of the paper. This was great fun because my friends and I would feign devastation and tear off a large piece. “You smell.” “You suck.” So we'd laugh and rip off a piece of the sign. We'd even tear it in half so that it dangled in pieces, then go get some tape and “heal” the IALAC signs with compliments. Then the speaker became serious. He informed us of something ominous. “When you turn eighteen, you no longer get a fresh sign each morning. You get one sign for the rest of your life, and when it gets torn, your sign can keep getting smaller. And for some people, it disappears entirely. So you need to build your self-esteem.” This seemed the secular equivalent of what Jesus said about being “…thrown into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.” (Mt 8:12) If that last IALAC sign is insulted down to nothing, it seemed we could be in a kind of living hell. But the speaker assured us, so long as we “believed in ourselves,” that could never happen. I have many more anecdotes about the “believe in yourself” mantra, from teachers to coaches to TV shows to music, but I feel that anyone living today understands this already. The people alive today in the general culture have heard little else than “follow your heart” and “be yourself” and “let you be you” and even “God loves you just the way you are” since we left the womb. One shining light: The “Great Books” programThere was one shining light in elementary school that I recall where we weren't preached at with the ethos of humanism, and it was a Junior Great Books program that I got pulled into somehow. This was something very, very different from all of the other lessons in class. A few kids got to attend. We would read good stories like “The Ugly Duckling” and examine them, doing close readings, and the moderator of that little program didn't preach the “Be yourself” message. I really can't thank that fellow enough for running that program, because it was the only element of my public schooling that seemed to have any depth to it. The evangelization of uniqueness felt like a firehose to the face for years, and the Junior Great Books hour was like drinking from a cool fountain. “Then they came for the humanists…”Now, in recent years it's becoming en vogue to raise the alarm about the “cult of self-esteem,” which is refreshing because it's so overdue. The media and education system sold and force-fed a dogma to several generations of people. The well-meaning humanists like Maslow, Sidney Simon, and Carl Sagan are no longer cool, they are old, or even deceased, and thus the target of modern healers. Psychiatry can finally get some perspective on itself, too, since it's about as old as cinema, and the newcomers can bash the experts of yesterday. But since these experts of past days were neither people of the book, nor people of tradition, but rather “people of science,” their experiments should be reviewed. The results should be examined. The old experts did this to their ancestors, and now it shall be done to them. And while they threw out religion and all things spiritual, which they deemed to be a failure and relics of a long, silly era of human history, the corpse of the twentieth century should be laid out on a table for examination. Since the experts felt that the many, many centuries of human history where religion held the center and provided meaning, not to mention answers, it's only fair to look at how well human happiness and satisfaction fared in the purely material realm of governments, schools, and media that blocked all spiritual things from children and adults. So how did it work out? Today one out of three people in America admits being depressed. Before this experiment, people reported more satisfaction with life. The experiment performed on children of the second half of the twentieth century is just now being exposed, scrutinized, and put under the magnifying glass. Because of what happened when the lesson of self-esteem played out, the receivers of this obsession with “the self” discovered by experience that “confidence and satisfaction in oneself” is incredibly reductionist and provides no meaning for living. The self gets lonely. The self cannot provide meaning. It needs something outside of the self. What came with the message of “love thyself” was a cocktail of lukewarm American civil religion, from the old Protestant work ethic, where presidents tip their hat to God and wink. Add to that the old Anglo-Saxon values of kicking ass and taking names, and we get the “work hard, play hard” attitude. Mix that with “You are perfect just the way you are” and you have a dangerous self-righteousness and a gaping hole where the soul once sat. The only solution was to keep smiling and rushing around like chickens with our spiritual heads cut off. And that is what was missing from all of the educational, academic, and government attempts to make us whole. The soul. I promise you will never hear the word “soul” mentioned by these troubleshooters, unless they are referring to a mood, or a vibe, or a feeling. But the soul is not any of those things. The soul is the immortal part of our existence that animates our body, a rational soul that requires no matter whatsoever, as it is immaterial, and lives past our final breath, because it is not dependent on a set of lungs and a pumping heart and a brain. Our soul is what awaits the resurrection of the body. These attempts to heal, from the IALAC sign, to ABC's TGIF sitcoms like Full House, to Sesame Street, to “free health care,” to DEI, to whatever we got coming in the pipeline, are all bound to fail because they ignore the most important thing of all: the soul. We live in a worldview that sees the body as a material thing that must be saved at all costs. The mind too is material. This flattened view of the mind has bumped the soul from all public discussion, because, well, science has all the answers. But it can never have the full answer because it doesn't account for the whole person. Health of the body and mind is seen as a principal goal, but the health of the soul is set off in the land of fairy tales, not to be spoken of in the public square. Therein lies the problem. The key problem is this: we see the body as the principal thing, but it is the soul. Don't worry - I am not going light/dark Gnostic here. The body is good, but we think of the body as having a soul. But if you shift your thinking, you may change your whole worldview: the soul has a body. This shift from saying, “My body has a soul” to “My soul has a body” could rattle your world, so be careful: say it slowly. Most likely this idea has probably never been mentioned in your earshot. When you were created, matter from your mother and father joined and your soul was created. Your soul then gained a body, as cell division began, and the same soul has had your body from the time you looked like a seahorse in the womb to today. What do you see in the mirror? Your soul has that body. And the body is good because God made it just for you. Bodies are not perfect, but the soul is immortal, and God loves your soul and your body and will re-unite them in a risen and glorified way that exceeds understanding on the last day. Just as no one could describe exactly what or how Jesus existed in the Resurrection, so shall we be. It is the soul that will be with God first, and when the body joins it in heaven, the joy of being with him will overflow to the body in a reunion. Filling the Big EmptyFor many years I was in this state of isolation, where the body and mind drift alone in time and space, and I gave not one thought to the idea of a soul. Armed with the sword of self-esteem and shield of physical strength, plus a basic aptitude for schoolwork, I did not need the soul. Except for whenever I came to the gaping maw of the cliff, on the edge of the abyss of emptiness I felt inside. Yes, then there was a real problem. The Big Empty - it was like a sensory deprivation tank that only offered madness, isolation, and the circular hell of racing thoughts. Once the problem of sadness bordering on madness started hitting hard, the need to firefight the problem became paramount. But no matter what I threw into the cavern of the Big Empty, it could not be filled. Booze, food, movies, accomplishments, sex, adventures, travel, competition, entertainment - it was always yawning and I could not look into the gaping void for long without trying something else, lest I might just jump into the pit. And belief in myself could not con my way out of it. The word confidence means “with faith” and what was odd was that the faith was to be placed in me, but myself was the problem, so when I refer to circular hell, this is the crux of the issue. Self-esteem requires trust in the self, but it is the self that cannot cure the self. This is how circular arguments blow up just like machines that spin out of control. Thus, getting good grades or winning in sports became the obvious outlet for many years. It was an outlet. Hitting the free throw at the end of a game was an elevator for self-esteem. But missing it, on the other hand, resulted in a different ending. Self-esteem didn't always put the ball in the net. You might say I reached “peak esteem” around 1989, right around the fall of the Berlin Wall and the withdrawal of the Soviets from Afghanistan, and like the Soviet Union it began to collapse after that. Unsurprisingly, the top-down lies of the Soviets began to be exposed around that time in full display, and so did my elementary school infusion of confidence. I still recall the day. I got off the bus on a dusty afternoon in May, and I grabbed the newspaper. The cover of the local newspaper showed a Soviet tank retreating from Afghanistan, the great graveyard of empires. For some reason that image impacts me to this day because something started to change around that time, unrelated to the unraveling of the Soviet Union. The “coming of age” was coming in a negative way. And I wasn't the only one noticing a problem. “For whatever reason,” said Dr. Jean Twenge, “…if you look at what was going on back then, the early 1990s were not a good time, particularly for young people.”No it was not. Maybe we needed the IALAC signs drug out again to hang around our necks, like paper millstones. Maybe we needed another trophy. Maybe we needed more one-on-one time. Maybe we needed to be more free to express ourselves and be more creative. Maybe we needed more reassurance and less discipline. Maybe we needed more field trips. Why weren't we happy? We had constant and endless fun! So much fun - always happy things, happy faces, smiles, positive vibes, feel-good shows, amusement parks, upbeat music. So why did the whole generation rush to the booze, weed, gangsta rap, and the grunge scene where self-destruction was the message? Could it be that getting wasted and wrecking “the precious” uniqueness became the only escape from the cult of self-esteem? I don't know. But that's what I did. Snoop Dogg, Nirvana, a liter of Jack, and a pack of Marlboros were the yang to the yin of self-esteem. I think what happened is a law of spiritual physics was broken. We were pumped so full of worldly self-esteem that we popped. On certain days, I recall my mom being able to read my face and know something was deeply wrong, despite my best efforts to hide it. And it was in that same year, 1989, that I started to doubt God and wonder how I could ever believe in the miracles that I had accepted just a few years before. And it was in that same year that I stopped looking for answers in heaven and focused more on science. And it was in that same year that I stopped saying my prayers at bedtime. There seemed only two ways out of the cult of self-esteem, and one way was to believe in myself to the end, to the extreme, and the other was to destroy myself so that I didn't have to think about it any longer. This is the danger of the fundamentalism of “believe in yourself.” This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit whydidpetersink.substack.com
CAN YOU DIG IT? Ryan and Lauren return to talk about one of the great cult classics of the last 50 years "The Warriors from 1979. We think the movie was made for a carton of Marlboros but man is it enjoyable. We look at the fact that real gang members were asked to be in the movie as extras to mysterious and unceremonious exit of Fox 30 minutes into the movie and why we shouldn't like Ajax but for some reason can't stop watching him. All that and so much more so enjoy Boppers…
Listen to Erika L. Sanchez and the No Chingues crew talk about all of the day's chingaderas: · Roddy's Hatred of Jake From State Farm · Maybe Scared White People Have a Point (The OG Jake From State Farm Was a White Man And He Was Usurped By a BIPOC) · Shameless: The Crew Insults State Farm and Progressive, Then Invites Them to Advertise With Us · Let's Talk About Debbie! (and Erika's Filthy Uneducated Mouth) · Martin and Roddy Love Debbie!... · ...Oh Wait, No We Don't (Why Did You Drag The Dudes Into This, Debbie?) · Fuck Code Switching · Always Be Yourself! (Unless You Suck as a Person, Then, Be Someone Else!) · Mike Johnson, The New Speaker of the House, is a Weird Weird Dude · Appeasing Sensibilities and Whatnot · Courageous Dog Vs. Vacuum · Funky Ass Cheeses · Jorge Misses Another Episode · A Big No Chingues Shake-Up? · The Patriarchy Lives! · The Ghosts of Your Creepy Ancestors · Nuts.com · RIP Victory Auto Wreckers · Rap City · Erika Hates Dads · No Chingues is Filmed In Front of a Live Studio Audience · Bad Dudes! · Only 7-Year Old Bad Dudes Smoke Malboros and Read Alarma Magazine · Writing Advice · Roddy and Kev Kos, Bad Dude Pals Forever · I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter is Heading to LA Theater Scene · Martin's Family Should Expect to See Him After the NBA Season is Over · Roddy Thinks Music is Cool We have no idea what we're doing... but we're keeping it moving with the unearned confidence of a mediocre White man! ¯_(ツ)_/¯ Listen, subscribe, share, and leave a five-star review! (or go to hell). Follow us on Twitter, TikTok , Threads, Instagram, --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/nochingues/message --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/nochingues/message
Bobby, Faustus, Vaughn, and Mike talk about the Lucio Fulci cigarette smuggling movie Contaband. Two brothers have made a nice life for themselves smuggling in Marlboros to Naples until a mysterious drug smuggler appears and the bodies start piling up. Will Luca stop the flow of heroin into Italy, or more importantly, will he ever find out who's responsible for tire mountain?!
Veckans recensioner: RLS-mässan, fotograf David Möller, Bobbes värdskap, uttalet ”thermos”, likheterna mellan Jack Nicholson och Smash Mouths sångare, Extra Ekstrand (igen), spåmannen Ante, landet ”Japann”, kräla för ost, PO:s samröre med GenPep, Marlboros nya paket och social kompetens.
TWO STORIES, ONE ABOUT A SOLDIER IN VIETNAM AND ONE ABOUT TWO BICKERING MONKS OFFER INSIGHT INTO PRAYER.
I sound like I smoked four packs of Marlboros! Corn Watcher, Grassley, talks about $10M in bribes for the Bidens and why they paid Hunter $83K a month. Not a good look.
The first time I realized I was a proud American was the month I spent in Italy in 1997 with a man who would become the father of my child that month, unbeknownst to either of us. The news was earth-shattering to him because we were worlds apart. We fought and then broke up over the best decision I ever made, to keep my child.He complained about America a lot, and I tolerated it, but then I found myself protective and defensive of my country.“Yeah, well, you sure like our Levis and our Marlboros,” I said. “Not to mention our movies.” I had him there. I knew in that moment that I was a patriot. Get full access to Free Thinking Through the Fourth Turning with Sasha Stone at sashastone.substack.com/subscribe
Garrett is joined by Tommy Joe Lucia from the Utah Days of 47 Rodeo. They discuss the details of the upcoming event and share memories of past events, one in which Tommy gets caught with a monkey smoking Marlboros in a house trailer. Outline of the conversation: 0:00 Event details 4:35 Timed events and 8 second events 10:00 Ticket sales and corporate packages 13:05 Team roping dynamics 15:00 Money makes it matter 17:00 Utah Cowgirl Collective and Bridal Up Hope 21:30 Smoking Marlboros with monkeys 24:58 The importance of agriculture in community Show links: https://utahdaysof47rodeo.com Social: Twitter - https://twitter.com/siliconslopes Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/siliconslopes/ LinkedIn - https://www.linkedin.com/company/silicon-slopes/
Garrett is joined by Tommy Joe Lucia from the Utah Days of 47 Rodeo. They discuss the details of the upcoming event and share memories of past events, one in which Tommy gets caught with a monkey smoking Marlboros in a house trailer. Outline of the conversation: 0:00 Event details 4:35 Timed events and 8 second events 10:00 Ticket sales and corporate packages 13:05 Team roping dynamics 15:00 Money makes it matter 17:00 Utah Cowgirl Collective and Bridal Up Hope 21:30 Smoking Marlboros with monkeys 24:58 The importance of agriculture in community Show links: https://utahdaysof47rodeo.com Social: Twitter - https://twitter.com/siliconslopes Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/siliconslopes/ LinkedIn - https://www.linkedin.com/company/silicon-slopes/
When tragedy befalls the neighbor of a retired woman, she learns more about the woman than she ever expected."Marlboros, the King and 8 O'clock Bean" was written and directed by Michael Mau and stars Annie Weaver as the narrator Sandra Jones as Lavinia Catherine Gaffney as Jolene Mustafa Slack as Curtis Ari Kraus Nadler as HardyThe theme music was composed by Trevor Tremaine. Additional music for this episode by MusicLFiles:The following music was used for this media project:Music: Piano In Blues by MusicLFilesFree download: https://filmmusic.io/song/7495-piano-in-bluesLicense (CC BY 4.0): https://filmmusic.io/standard-licenseMusic: Deep And Sweet Sleeping by MusicLFilesFree download: https://filmmusic.io/song/6211-deep-and-sweet-sleepingLicense (CC BY 4.0): https://filmmusic.io/standard-licenseMusic: Moon Reflections [Full version] by MusicLFilesFree download: https://filmmusic.io/song/10770-moon-reflections-full-versionLicense (CC BY 4.0): https://filmmusic.io/standard-licenseMusic: Jazz In The Soul by MusicLFilesFree download: https://filmmusic.io/song/6334-jazz-in-the-soulLicense (CC BY 4.0): https://filmmusic.io/standard-licenseMusic: Soothing Piano Background by MusicLFilesFree download: https://filmmusic.io/song/8751-soothing-piano-backgroundLicense (CC BY 4.0): https://filmmusic.io/standard-licenseGeneva Hicks created the podcast cover artAdditional sound effects courtesy of PixabayWriter, comedian, and actor Nina Dicker helped produce this episode. Look for her memoir Tangerine Vagina where finer books are sold.Special thanks to assistant casting director Annie Weaver.I would also like to thank Seed and Spark and our generous contributors who helped make this show possibleBrad PaynterMissy JohnstonReeve HutchensSloan ScrogginAnnie Bruner Scott Mike LabbadiaMauHaus Productions is hosting a writing contest to find new stories for Season Three. Head over to ablindplaypodcast.com and click on the season three link or go directly to filmfreeway.com/ablindplayOne grand prize winner will also get $300 in cash. Listeners can now use the code POWERLESS for a full entry fee waiver. The deadline is June 9. If you aren't already, please follow the show. Your podcast app should have a Follow Button. And please rate and review. Ratings and reviews are the lifeblood of podcasts, and they take so little time. Click those five stars. Tell us about your favorite episode. Share with friends and family. And thank you for listening.All episodes written and directed by Michael MauTheme music composed by Trevor TremaineMain title artwork by Geneva HicksTo find out more about our cast, to read the original short stories, or donate to the show so we can make an unforgettable second season, visit us at ablindplaypodcast.com or on Instagram @mauhausproductions.
Welcome to the Instant Trivia podcast episode 832, where we ask the best trivia on the Internet. Round 1. Category: beasts 1: Battling stags can get in big trouble when these become hopelessly interlocked. Antlers. 2: The over 900 species of these mammals range from bumblebee size to others with a 5-foot wingspan. Bats. 3: This turtle named for its method of biting is more aggressive on land than in water. Snapping turtle. 4: Crocidura xantippe is a type of this mouselike animal; Xanthippe was Socrates' bad-tempered wife. a shrew. 5: It weighs up to 4 tons, over half as much as the beast it's named for. an elephant seal. Round 2. Category: the united states of advertising 1: This "advanced medicine for pain" was the first nonprescription brand of ibuprofen in the U.S.. Advil. 2: Julie London sang, "Where there's a man there's" this brand of cigarette; I wonder if he was riding his horse?. Marlboros. 3: Caffeine and taurine are the main ingredients in this popular energy drink that "gives you wings". Red Bull. 4: Bausch and Lomb introduced the "Wayfarer" style of these in 1952. sunglasses. 5: This product gives you "speedy" relief the morning after. Alka-Seltzer. Round 3. Category: premiere 1: It was sporty of a posh fellow like Prince Charles to turn out for this singing group's first movie in 1997. The Spice Girls. 2: Disney didn't take this film's 1996 premiere to Paris, but to the French Quarter of New Orleans. The Hunchback of Notre Dame. 3: This Bruce Willis movie about a menacing asteroid had its premiere at the Kennedy Space Center. Armageddon. 4: Madonna said, "I feel like Cinderella" at the long-awaited premiere of this musical film. Evita. 5: Later to win multiple Oscars, this film premiered in November 1982 in New Delhi. Gandhi. Round 4. Category: that's so '90s 1: Joe Brown, Greg Mathis and Mills Lane joined the ranks of these on TV. TV judges. 2: In 1994 a flaw found in this company's new Pentium processor cost it $475 million in a recall. Intel. 3: His 1997 meeting with Sinn Fein leader Gerry Adams was the first for a British P.M. and an IRA leader in 76 years. Tony Blair. 4: Hello! In May 1999 scientists found this famous sheep might be susceptible to premature aging. Dolly. 5: Born Louis Eugene Walcott, he led a million man march in Washington, D.C. in 1995. Louis Farrakhan. Round 5. Category: movie composers 1: This Beatle gave his music and regards to Broad Street. Paul McCartney. 2: There's something fishy about John Williams' score for this 1975 film. Jaws. 3: Bernard Hermann scored 1st with "Citizen Kane" and last with this '76 De Niro film about a cabbie. Taxi Driver. 4: Appropriately, this diminutive singer wrote the score for "Bugsy Malone", an all-kids musical. Paul Williams. 5: His uncle Alfred won an Oscar for "Alexander's Ragtime Band" while he was nominated for "Ragtime". Randy Newman. Thanks for listening! Come back tomorrow for more exciting trivia! Special thanks to https://blog.feedspot.com/trivia_podcasts/
Welcome to the Instant Trivia podcast episode 832, where we ask the best trivia on the Internet. Round 1. Category: beasts 1: Battling stags can get in big trouble when these become hopelessly interlocked. Antlers. 2: The over 900 species of these mammals range from bumblebee size to others with a 5-foot wingspan. Bats. 3: This turtle named for its method of biting is more aggressive on land than in water. Snapping turtle. 4: Crocidura xantippe is a type of this mouselike animal; Xanthippe was Socrates' bad-tempered wife. a shrew. 5: It weighs up to 4 tons, over half as much as the beast it's named for. an elephant seal. Round 2. Category: the united states of advertising 1: This "advanced medicine for pain" was the first nonprescription brand of ibuprofen in the U.S.. Advil. 2: Julie London sang, "Where there's a man there's" this brand of cigarette; I wonder if he was riding his horse?. Marlboros. 3: Caffeine and taurine are the main ingredients in this popular energy drink that "gives you wings". Red Bull. 4: Bausch and Lomb introduced the "Wayfarer" style of these in 1952. sunglasses. 5: This product gives you "speedy" relief the morning after. Alka-Seltzer. Round 3. Category: premiere 1: It was sporty of a posh fellow like Prince Charles to turn out for this singing group's first movie in 1997. The Spice Girls. 2: Disney didn't take this film's 1996 premiere to Paris, but to the French Quarter of New Orleans. The Hunchback of Notre Dame. 3: This Bruce Willis movie about a menacing asteroid had its premiere at the Kennedy Space Center. Armageddon. 4: Madonna said, "I feel like Cinderella" at the long-awaited premiere of this musical film. Evita. 5: Later to win multiple Oscars, this film premiered in November 1982 in New Delhi. Gandhi. Round 4. Category: that's so '90s 1: Joe Brown, Greg Mathis and Mills Lane joined the ranks of these on TV. TV judges. 2: In 1994 a flaw found in this company's new Pentium processor cost it $475 million in a recall. Intel. 3: His 1997 meeting with Sinn Fein leader Gerry Adams was the first for a British P.M. and an IRA leader in 76 years. Tony Blair. 4: Hello! In May 1999 scientists found this famous sheep might be susceptible to premature aging. Dolly. 5: Born Louis Eugene Walcott, he led a million man march in Washington, D.C. in 1995. Louis Farrakhan. Round 5. Category: movie composers 1: This Beatle gave his music and regards to Broad Street. Paul McCartney. 2: There's something fishy about John Williams' score for this 1975 film. Jaws. 3: Bernard Hermann scored 1st with "Citizen Kane" and last with this '76 De Niro film about a cabbie. Taxi Driver. 4: Appropriately, this diminutive singer wrote the score for "Bugsy Malone", an all-kids musical. Paul Williams. 5: His uncle Alfred won an Oscar for "Alexander's Ragtime Band" while he was nominated for "Ragtime". Randy Newman. Thanks for listening! Come back tomorrow for more exciting trivia! Special thanks to https://blog.feedspot.com/trivia_podcasts/
Howdy y'all! Welcome to Off the Beaten Clef. This week, we are doing round two of Bolos & Marlboros - a collection of western, folk, americana and country tracks all squeezed into a 20 song playlist curated for you. Thanks to all who contributed for audience submissions! Now kick off them boots, listen along and enjoy. To listen to Bolos & Marlboros II on Spotify To listen to Bolos & Marlboros episode from 2022 on Spotify / Apple Podcast. To listen to Bolos and Marlboros I Playlist on Spotify To listen to Cody Garrett's new single SAWDUST on Spotify / Apple Music To watch Dust on the Bottle by David Lee Murphy music video on YouTube Audience Submissions: Matt Gault - Dust On The Bottle by David Lee Murphy Louie - You Can Have the Crown by Sturgill Simpson Dusty Hyden - Poems and Closing Time by Zach Bryan Cody Garrett - Jamestown Ferry by Charley Crockett Grant Hutzel - Big Rock Candy Mountain by Burl Ives Lili - Four Winds by Israel Nash Christopher - Back Home Again by John Denver Ben - American Remains by the Highwaymen Jansen Hagen - A Picture of Me (Without You) by George Jones Chad - El Paso by Marty Robbins Dil's Picks: Far Across the Sea by Sierra Ferrell Last Call by 49 Winchester Running Deep by The Dead & Down Heart is the Hero by the Wood Brothers Fucked It Up by City and Colour Kev's Picks: Evangelina by Colter Wall Dinner by Whitey Morgan and the 78's Blackjack County Chain by Benjamin Dakota Rogers To The Choir by Joshua Quimby East Bound and Down by Jerry Reed Songs of the Show: Dil - (pls) set me on fire by Enter Shikari Kev - Feel Your Ghost by Tiesto ft. Mathame OTBC Social Media: Merch - offthebeatenclef.com Instagram - @offthebeatenclef Twitter - @OffClef Email - offthebeatenclef@gmail.com Discord - Link HERE Thanks for listening!
Colt and Robert are here for you. Please enjoy the offerings.Have a great week!Peace.
Genesis Amaris Kemp is the author of "Chocolate Drop in Corporate America" (https://a.co/d/aQiHBxV). After going through a performance review in a Fortune 500 company, she realized that she needed to speak up about business as usual when it comes to race. Her family is very diverse and inclusivity and belonging is of utmost importance to her.A self-development advocate, Genesis goes inward in order to drive impact. She has a growth mindset and is not afraid to move through tests in order to get to her testimony. She insists on living life on her own terms.Having moved through depression in high school, and being laid off, being on assistance, Genesis has had her challenges. She knew that God doesn't give her more than she can bear. She lost her father, got laid off and had several deaths in the family back-to-back. After so many losses in her family, she delivered her baby prematurely and she persevered.Her roots are in South America (Venezuela). She has moved through both personal and professional situations where she has built bridges and worked through challenges to understanding. In her book, there is humor and a map to navigate through one's career. She writes about things she cares about - like gun violence. She currently lives in Texas and as a mother, she advocates more education about guns, and responsible gun laws. She shares her poem about gun violence in this episode.The song, "Hills and Valleys" by Tauren Wells, soothed her at her father's death. One day, in her laundry room, she smelled the Marlboros her dad smoked. His presence was there to let her know he is still with her. See her website genesisamariskemp.net, follow her on social media and/or check out her podcast: GEMS with Genesis Amaris KempSupport the showDonate - CelesteFrazier.com
THE TROUBADOUR PODCAST - The Premier Red Dirt, Texas Country and Independent Music Podcast
The #1 way you can support our podcast is by visiting our Patreon page! We're also excited to say that we are now an affiliate for Sweetwater. So, the next time you need any new strings, picks, microphones, recording gear, etc. make sure to use this link! Today is Sunday, March 5th, 2023 and it's a big day here on The Troubadour! This episode unofficially marks the beginning of our 6th season of The Troubadour Podcast! And I've got to give some credit where it's due. If Carly Evans hadn't agreed to join me on this little idea of mine, after I struggled through that first season of about a dozen episodes on my own, I can tell you with 100% confidence, The Troubadour would have never made it this far. So a huge shout out to my wonderful co-host and friend, Carly! There's another reason why today's episode is so special. Back in the 1990s when I was spending lots of time in the cab of a tractor or swather during my teens, songs from today's guests were in regular rotation on the local FM station. As you'll hear on the show today, the band McBride & The Ride was formed in 1989 as a brain-child of Nashville record producer Tony Brown. Tony was aware of individual talent he saw in Terry McBride, Ray Herndon and Billy Thomas and brought them together and the band was formed. After a good run together, which included 5 top 5 singles back then, the group eventually went their separate ways but all remained active musicians, playing and writing for some of the best artists in country music. But now in 2023, the band is back at it, releasing new music and touring as a group again. Carly and I couldn't be more thrilled to have them as guests on today's show. If you'll recall, Terry was our guest on Episode #100, and to have the entire group here on today's show was simply a thrill. Within the show notes for today's episode, you can check out the YouTube link for their new single “Marlboros and Avon” complete with their signature and unforgettable harmonies. This interview was certainly a pleasure to be a part of and I can't wait to catch the band live sometime soon. For you Texas listeners, McBride & The Ride will be playing at the Kenney Store in Kenney, TX on April 28th , and they'll be at The Texan Theatre in Cleveland, TX on April 29th. For my Kansas brethren, they'll be playing at Knuckleads in Kansas City on June 1st. So let's get to it! Here comes Episode #169 and our visit with Terry McBride, Ray Herndon and Billy Thomas of McBride & The Ride. CALLING ALL HEARTS ACOUSTIC AT THE CASTLE
INTRODUCTION: Frank M. Ligons, MS specializes in exploring the benefits, safety, and payment strategies regarding Ketamine treatment in addressing mental, physical, and addiction-related illness. His three years of ketamine treatment as apatient, combined with his medical background, give audiences harrowing andhopeful insights into this extraordinary therapy. After 25 years of suicidal thoughts and dozens of medications, Frank stumbled upon a psychiatric treatment he had never heard of: low-dose intravenous ketamine. Since all else failed, any treatment he hadn't heard of must be worth a try. After exhausting decades fighting for his life inthe conventional psychiatric medication system, ketamine removed those deadlyideations that claimed his grandmother's life when he was a young child. INCLUDED IN THIS EPISODE (But not limited to): · Special K YaY!!!· Medical & Doctoral Dependency · Origins Of Ketamine· Uses Of Ketamine Therapy· Military Implications· Treatment Resistant Mental Health Issues· What Is A K Hole?· The Failed War On Drugs· Addiction Risk Of Ketamine CONNECT WITH FRANK: Website: https://findketamine.comBook: https://amzn.to/3ZYUOzsLinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/frankmligons/ CONNECT WITH DE'VANNON: Website: https://www.SexDrugsAndJesus.comWebsite: https://www.DownUnderApparel.comTikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@sexdrugsandjesusYouTube: https://bit.ly/3daTqCMFacebook: https://www.facebook.com/SexDrugsAndJesus/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/sexdrugsandjesuspodcast/Twitter: https://twitter.com/TabooTopixLinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/devannonPinterest: https://www.pinterest.es/SexDrugsAndJesus/_saved/Email: DeVannon@SDJPodcast.com DE'VANNON'S RECOMMENDATIONS: · Pray Away Documentary (NETFLIX)o https://www.netflix.com/title/81040370o TRAILER: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tk_CqGVfxEs · OverviewBible (Jeffrey Kranz)o https://overviewbible.como https://www.youtube.com/c/OverviewBible · Hillsong: A Megachurch Exposed (Documentary)o https://press.discoveryplus.com/lifestyle/discovery-announces-key-participants-featured-in-upcoming-expose-of-the-hillsong-church-controversy-hillsong-a-megachurch-exposed/ · Leaving Hillsong Podcast With Tanya Levino https://leavinghillsong.podbean.com · Upwork: https://www.upwork.com· FreeUp: https://freeup.net VETERAN'S SERVICE ORGANIZATIONS · Disabled American Veterans (DAV): https://www.dav.org· American Legion: https://www.legion.org · What The World Needs Now (Dionne Warwick): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FfHAs9cdTqg INTERESTED IN PODCASTING OR BEING A GUEST?: · PodMatch is awesome! This application streamlines the process of finding guests for your show and also helps you find shows to be a guest on. The PodMatch Community is a part of this and that is where you can ask questions and get help from an entire network of people so that you save both money and time on your podcasting journey.https://podmatch.com/signup/devannon TRANSCRIPT: Frank M. Ligons[00:00:00]You're listening to the sex drugs and Jesus podcast, where we discuss whatever the fuck we want to! And yes, we can put sex and drugs and Jesus all in the same bed and still be all right at the end of the day. My name is De'Vannon and I'll be interviewing guests from every corner of this world as we dig into topics that are too risqué for the morning show, as we strive to help you understand what's really going on in your life.There is nothing off the table and we've got a lot to talk about. So let's dive right into this episode.De'Vannon: Frank Liggins is the author of the groundbreaking book, IV Ketamine Infusion Therapy for Depression. Why I Tried It, what It's Like, and If It Worked, baby. Yes. Now Frank is here with me today because he specializes in in exploring the benefits, safety, and payment strategies and everything else regarding Ketamine Treat.but the particular emphasis on how ketamine can be used for addressing mental, [00:01:00] physical, and addiction related illnesses. Now, after struggling with over 25 years of suicidal thoughts and all kinds of medication, Frank found his own way to ketamine treatment in that is what has saved his life today. So please listen in and close as we dish on.how this once taboo drughas now made a new name for itself.Hello, are you beautiful souls out there? And welcome back to the Sex Drugs in Jesus podcast. I'm your host of Annan Hubert, and I got wi here with me today. My boy, Frank Liggins. Is that how we say that Liggins. Yes. Yeah, Frank Legged and he wrote a, a damn good book. It's called IV Ketamine Infusion Therapy for Depression.Why I Tried It, what it's like, and If it Worked. The best way I can describe this book is like a mixture between a high, how to guide and a medical memoir, and I've never seen this before. I think [00:02:00]it's absolutely fan fucking brilliant. And Frank, how are you today? Frank: I'm great and I'm glad to hear to be here and I'm very flattered by that intro,De'Vannon: Of course. So go right ahead and tell us about like your education. You have a very interesting degree and I want you to tell us about like your Frank: learning. Yeah, absolutely. I guess my most recent education is, is in, you know, medicine. I have a master's of science in, it's called biomedical Informatics.And one of the things that has been really helpful from having that background is me being able to read and sort through medical studies on my own and be able to report those to people in more of a down to earth De'Vannon: language. Yeah, you hit the nail on the head with the down to earth language because we always wanna be able to talk to people at the level where [00:03:00] they're at.No sense in having all this complex information, if we can't break it the fuck down, like Charlie fucking Brown and give it right in a way that they can fucking use. So, so, you know, you know, the title of this show is Sex, drugs and Jesus. So I, you know, we're gonna be talking about drugs, man, drugs and You know, normally, normally I would ask for like, some sort of client success story, but you know, you really are like your own success story in this, in this space here that we're working in. And. From, from one of the, one of the chapters in your book. One called, but I've tried it all. Mm-hmm. , you were going through this here in this chapter, you're telling us about how you had to take all this medicine as a kid, and then it's, it's followed you into college and you were saying about the side effects of the [00:04:00] medicine.Gave you like fatigue, chronic fatigue, O c d, depression, and, and then this chapter you were talking about how you hate having to take medicine, but the reality is, is that some people really have to be on something or they need to take something. And you said, and I quote, I resent being such a loyal pharmaceutical customer end quote,So talk to me about, because I feel like a lot of people are like this. I've seen people tilting bags of pills around and it's almost like people become a slave to medication. And so what are your thoughts on that? Frank: Sure. I mean, that's a good question because I think it's one of those things that I'm not sure that it gets enough talk or, or let's say it doesn't get enough talk upfront.You know, usually you go to the, you know, your doctor, they prescribe you something, you know, for your symptoms. But rarely [00:05:00] do you get the whole, you know, dictionary of the things that you may be dealing with right. As side effects. So you know, a lot of us find that. kind of too late. You know, you're, you, well you're already kind of hooked into the system.But yeah, I mean, I, I mean, for, for most people I know, including myself, that, that have needed like psychiatric medications. It, it, it's really a love and hate situation, you know? And frequently people will go back and forth, you know. , you're on it, maybe you get, you know, some relief, but then you get fed up with the side effects and then you try to cut back.But then you unfortunately discover that you know, you can't function at that level. And before you know it, you're like, me, I just was out of town and I have to carry like 20 pill bottles, like [00:06:00]in. and my sack as I go through security, and they look at me very oddly, because they're thinking, you know, what's a legitimate use of those?So many med, you know, prescription bottles. So yeah, I think it's a tough topic for everyone. I wish people were more open about it and felt more comfortable so that they could realize they're not.De'Vannon: I personally think some people take a psychological they, they, they garner a certain psychological. Pseudo comfort or I guess in their mind a true comfort for for going to see a doctor. Cuz a doctor is almost like, you know, you're not exactly gonna get like a spa treatment or anything like that, but anytime we're being tended to by another human being, there's cer certain sort of like pampered Yeah.Feeling that goes along with [00:07:00] it. And I really think some people. Like going to talk to the doctor, may don't have anyone else to talk to, but this person is there to quote unquote care for them. And it is still a form of affection. And, and so do you think that there's any sort of, look and we're not psychotherapists here, y'all, I'm kicking around what I feel like the spirit is revealing to me.I'm not, you know, this is, this is the, the, this is coming from within. and from I like it. So do you think there's any sort of like emotional need that people are feeling by going to these doctors and, Frank: yeah, I mean, I think that's an excellent question. And, and really one that no one ever asked me, people don't generally talk about, but yeah, I think there are two facets to that.One is, you know, there's a. , you know, when you're suffering in some way, there's a I think an instinct to wanna find some control over [00:08:00] that, to kind of take some steps to feel like you're not just floating into disaster. And so, you know, when you have a medical issue or a psychiatric issue, I think one of the things you're, you're just, you know, grasping for someone to say, I have some idea what's wrong with you, and I may be able to help.So I think. , there's, you know, just kind of that, you know, instinctual survival. And then I think also, like you alluded to is, you know, and this can vary I think, between providers. So like for instance, you know, when we talk about therapists, I've noticed over the years that therapists fall all over the spectrum.And in other words, there's therapists that are kind of almost just like your friend. You know, it's kind of like you just go, you talk about what happened that. and you know, they kind of absorb that or just kind of be a, you know, a sounding board. And then there are therapists that are like very, you know, action oriented who [00:09:00] have, you know, very specific plan.They want to teach you specific skills and they're basically like, Hey, you know, when you're ready to act on these skills, like you'll get results. But like, I, I'm other, otherwise us just talking about it isn't gonna help you. So, you know. But yeah, I, I, I mean, I think you're right. I know plenty of people all over the scale.I've been on the scale in various places. I just think you need to be honest with yourself because, you know, if you're going to a place that's just talking to you, but you're not making any progress, you know, that's, that could be problematic. De'Vannon: And I think that goes for. MDs, like general practitioners, medical doctors, and psychological doctors.Sure. Basically what Frank and I are saying is if you're going to these doctors and you're, you're not really getting healed and cured, then perhaps you should reevaluate and consider why you're [00:10:00] really going. Absolutely. Because switching the medication around, like they try to do what's at the va, the Department of Veterans Affairs, where I.You know, you go and sit in there, you talk to the doctor for 30 minutes and it's like, what drugs are you on? Shall we up the dosage or change it? Those are really the only questions they give a fuck about an asking you . So that's why you see veterans toting 20 pill bottles around and everything like that.It's common, yeah. Common at the va. And so we're saying, why are you going? There's people in my family who are like, . So regular at the doctor, they should have like a gold v i p card in their own fucking parking spot outside with their team on it. . But I'm like, is shit really getting fixed? Right? And so then that's where, that's where ketamine comes in.So right off the bat, what if somebody goes, well, is it ketamine a drug just like all the other drugs? What's the Frank: difference? Yeah, so Ketamine actually [00:11:00] was developed in the 1960s. And one like little piece of trivia that's interesting is it was designed to be an improvement on P C P. So , De'Vannon: hell yeah. Yeah.What's going Frank: on? ? With a medical, you know, facility had, you know, developed pcp. The thing is they found out there were a lot of side effects, right? So they start working on, you know, how can we, you know, get a sedative that we can use for surgery and such, and a pain reliever that people may not react as dramatically too.And so they came up with that in the early sixties and there was, you know, a lot of excitement about it because now. They had, you know, you know what we would, you know, call a, you know, a hypnotic sedative, [00:12:00] which you could use reliably on people that was, you know, very safe. You know, they're very, you know, few serious side effects, if any.They're, they're usually very brief and actually, while this was, you know, kind of growing in the surgical domain, it was getting a lot of attention. on the battlefield because in war situations and war time situations, you know, when you have you know, people literally out on a field, you know, being shot and injured in different ways, you know what's, what's something kind of easy, safe.That will meet the needs of us, like, you know, trying to help people right then, you know, how can we calm them down? How can we lessen their trauma in the moment? How can we you know, relieve pain? And so, you know, this ketamine comes along and, you know, all of a sudden, you know, the battlefield, [00:13:00] you know, medical community was like, wow, you know, this actually has a lot going for it.That's how it all started before the days of all the innovative uses we're using it for De'Vannon: now. So, so you're telling me it started on the battlefield before it made its way into like vets offices. Yes. Frank: Yes, exactly. Yeah. So a lot anesthesiologists and like battlefield, you know, trauma, medical personnel were using De'Vannon: at.right? Cause a lot of people know it as like horse tranquilizer, but you know, it has more implications than just dosing horses. And so, absolutely. Frank: Yeah. I'm, I mean, it's something that, you know, with the horses, it'd be the same thing, you know, with us, like, you know, when you need to operate on a horse, you need the the same benefits, right?You need them to be sedate. You need them not to [00:14:00] be like moving and kicking around. You know, you need them you know, not being in too much pain. And so, you know, they're just another mammal, right. Like us, so that makes sense. De'Vannon: It's interesting cause, you know, crystal meth thought it out that way. I think from the Japanese army if I'm, or military if I'm not mistaken.Oh, okay. Because they needed, and I can't remember which warrant, but they needed a way to keep the soldiers up and to make them. Oh, well, basically like they wanna throw themselves a sudden death, so they, so they manufactured, you know, you know, methamphetamine, you know, and then, You know, it kind of like spiraled from there.Like, oh, look at what we have here. You know, this actually feels kind of good and you know, and so the government has probably created most, if not all of these fucking drugs that they now want to call illegal. So I'm like, you did it, bitch. So just [00:15:00] illegal it now legalize it all and be done with it. Right, right.Ketamine, to my knowledge, is now legal across the United States. Frank: It's legal though by pres. . But yes, like anyone that has licensing, you know, privileges. And that's like every type of physician, right? Like, so that could be an MD psychiatrist, it could be, you know, an internist, a cardiologist. Anybody that can write prescriptions can write one for ketamine.De'Vannon: Okay? So what he's saying is this, this is regulated by the dea. It is, fuck the dea. I'm gonna say it again. Fuck the dea. But so that means that I cannot decide I wanna be a drug dealer again and go toting around jugs of ketamine or whatever. And that's unfortunately not man , but you, you can go, you can go to Oregon and get you some ketamine.I do believe that that's a part of their measure one then that they passed. Oh really? But it is still illegal to [00:16:00] sell or deal or whatever the fuck they're doing over in Oregon. But so. . So Ketamine, ketamine, ketamine. How is so you, so you tried ketamine. So let's talk about your personal success story with this.So you were the guy on all the drugs and stuff like that, the different 20 pills. Are you still on the 20 pills now? I'm on, Frank: trying to think what I'm on now. Probably, I think I'm probably on about six pills. About half of which are to counteract the side effects of like the first three pills, . So yeah, still quite a few.This, this is not a cure. I wanna be clear to people about that. Like, ketamine is not a cure. That does not mean that some people don't go for ketamine treatment. And then, you know, there's a long time before they need, you know, a booster or [00:17:00] something. But you know, ketamine is I like to think of it more akin to a rescue kind of medication, right?Because you have plenty of people that you know, have, you know, treatment resistant depression, right? Like people like me who tried every drug, you know, they've been everywhere. They've done everything. But you know, still they have a deep depression and you know, That can do anything from just make their quality of life miserable to, you know, put them in danger for suicide.And so often what happens at that time is, you know, you go to a psychiatrist, Hey, we'll try, you know, something else. You know, we'll make a good faith effort, but you know, it's gonna take two months, you know, if it works at all. And you know, you're in the most horrible state of your life. And it's just like, wow.You know, how am I. Plow through another couple months [00:18:00] and you know, with no promises at the end. What's exciting about ketamine is I literally, and this isn't uncommon after 25 years of those perent suicidal thoughts, I literally went in for my first treatment and those began to dissipate. And so it was.It was shocking. It was unbelievable. And that happens to about two thirds of people with treatment resistant depression. Hmm. De'Vannon: Yeah. Cuz they turn me onto exploring this and this Ketamine is in the hallucinogenic category too, by the way. People, so there're there's, that's, that's what your L s d, your psilocybin, you know, ketamine, all of them are kind of like, well they are classified the same.Because I was watching documentaries about like veterans with like a P T S D. Yeah. [00:19:00] And depression and all of that. And you know, You know, my, my boys, you know, some of us come back from the war, all kinds of fucked up, twisted, chopped, and screwed at every goddamn thing, and talking about treatment resistant mental health issues.Oh, yeah. Can't find anything to fix people who have come back from these wars. And so, and so the, so the military and the federal government have turned to like M D M A. You know, ketamine and stuff like that. And I saw, you know, where these veterans had, they just, like, after one treatment of that, those lar, those intense symptoms like they had went away and they did not return to them.Yeah, that's crazy. And so now, does that mean that they're off of everything? Not necessarily. And I, I would imagine for some people it does, and I don't how, how, how long, how much time that takes to do. But I mean, if you're living in constant chaos every day and this could like just take that from you while you've managed the minor things, I think it's worth it rather than to go in and kill yourself.Frank: Yeah. [00:20:00] Yeah. I mean, , it's I mean, one thing about it is like, You know, ketamine, you know, when you're under the influence of you're, well, you're in this session, one thing that happens, you know, often for people, whether it's depression or P T S D, is they develop a new perspective on their life and on their problems or on, you know, past traumatic events.And so that perspective frequently, is one of like new possibilities and you know, the, the idea of, oh, you know, there is a feeling outside of dread and and terror and, you know, sadness that I can feel. And with that perhaps I could take some next steps in my life, steps that I haven't felt up to and [00:21:00]wasn't sure if I would ever be able to.De'Vannon: That sounds good to me. I like that. , . That sounds Frank: good to me. Not bad, right? De'Vannon: Like too shabby at all? Not too shabby. I'd say . So, so ketamine therapy, when I went to go get it, it was like a fluid in, in like an IV pack. So, I have not seen this in street form, powder form. I don't know what other forms, but we're talking about like in like an official clinic now.Yeah. So you go in. I wasn't impressed with the bitch that did mine because she had me fucked up. And so I'm not gonna try this again in Louisiana because, because they're just too fucking basic down here in this state where I live. God, I know you're listening. Please send me back to Los Angeles where people make sense and they're not afraid to go hard and they get meSo I went in. Ready to hallucinate and shit. You know, I had my, yeah, yeah. Drive me up there. I'm all like, oh, I'm about to talk to [00:22:00] some ancestor. Yeah. And she did not give . I was trying, I felt nothing. I sat there with a thing in my arm and she didn't want to give me a lot, and she said she did some kind of fucked up calculation.By my standards professionally, you know, as a, as a medical professional. Cause I'm a licensed massage therapist and hypnotist myself. I understand why you would want to go into something. Yeah. With a high degree of caution. And so she does some sort of calculation based on body weight or whatever. So this shouldn't send someone into a K hole.I'm gonna ask you to describe what a keyhole is in a. But but I was like, at that time I was like 230, you know, pounds or something like that. I'm like, bitch, you need to crank up the dose here. This is a lot of weight to go around. And so I didn't feel, I felt like drunk and wooy. Yeah. I didn't feel, I didn't have any like, It was like $450 to go in there and not get what I came for.[00:23:00]Yeah. So I wasn't pleased with it, but I'm glad that you had, you know, some happy-go-lucky Smurf results. . Frank: Well, you know what I mean? It, it's a funny thing because the, like not everybody experiences like the hallucinogenic. and I would say it's probably, you know, a lot, you know, dose dependent. So like you said, I mean your story makes sense, right?You come in, you're a new patient, you get kind of the minimum standard dosage. So like you said, you know, what does that feel like? I mean, it's, for me, my first experience was, yeah, I just kind of felt kind of intoxicated. I mean, it felt good. Like I felt very. I kind of had a, you know, a feel good sensation, but I certainly wasn't like, hallucinating or felt like anything on that level, but I, but you [00:24:00] can experience a lot more of that at higher De'Vannon: doses.Well, I will have it done one more time in California, . Okay. Okay. I'm not doing this shit in Louisiana. If I, I could have taken $450 and went to go talk to homie on the corner, you could've and definitely had a fucking out-of-body experience. Oh yeah, yeah. You trying to do the right fucking thing and go to the legal clinic, everything, and I felt like I got got for my money.I feel like. Frank: But I understand that's It's a lot. It's a lot not to get, you feel like you're not getting the bang for your buck, man. Like, De'Vannon: understandable. So, so basically what y'all can take out of this is if you're gonna go get ketamine, be sure to talk to them about the dosage and find you somebody who's not afraid to take it up a bit.If you know that you have a high tolerance for narcotics and drugs and things like that. Mm-hmm. . So that's not a question that I asked him before I went. Maybe it could have been d. You know, [00:25:00]thought about it, but, Frank: and everybody's different. And like you said, like if you've had, you know, one thing I mentioned in a book is if, if you've had a lot of, you know, drug experience, like a lot of experience with various types of intoxication, I think that kind of changes like your, I mean, it, it, it, it oftentimes, I think it's a positive thing because,You know, whenever you're on a drug, particularly something like you haven't tried before, if you never spent a lot of time like being intoxicated, it can be frightening to feel like you're losing control. Right? So, you know, you're leaned back, you know, kicking in, kicking in this, you know, dark room, they got the IV hooked up and all of a sudden, you know, you kind of start to float away.Some people react very anxiously. to that. But I found on the other hand, you know, whatever, if you used to Drake and you're used to smoking, you used to, you know, whatever it is, you're like, Hey, I, you [00:26:00] know, could kind of roll with this. Like, this is a, this isn't the most challenging situation I've ever been in, De'Vannon: and I haven't done a lot of shit now.Frank: That's what I'm saying. So you're a soldier, man. I mean, literally like, you're, you're a veteran in this, you know what De'Vannon: I mean? So I need a double dose. The next time I go in, baby, Hey baby . The first time I did Shum, they took seven grams for me to, for even, it's hard to see anything hallucinogenic. And everybody that I talk to says three grams is like, they're on like the moon.I'm like, no, bitch. It took seven for the, for, for my rocket to even turn on. Oh, that's interesting. Frank: And so, yeah, you may. You may need someone that's, I mean, and it's true amongst practitioners. Some are more aggressive than others, you know? So like I've been in situations where I'm like, okay, you know, this is my, you know, third [00:27:00] treatment, whatever, can we bump it up by, you know, whatever.And you know, one practitioner will say, yeah, you know, we'll add, you know, five milligrams to that and another one they'll say, Hey, no, we'll, we'll add 10, we'll add 15. So you can definitely see a variance amongst the practitioners. De'Vannon: Okay. Now a lot of people have heard of a K hole. I've seen a person in the caho ones we were at this I would say big gay party that happens out in California and leave it at that.Okay. You know, I know he was on the couch, kinda like laying down, you know, aware, but not really. I wouldn't say he was in a state of panic. Nobody seemed to need to call 9 1 1. You know, nothing like that. So what the fuck is a K hole ? Frank: Well, a K hole, which I guess is kind of short for Ketamine hole, is a level of [00:28:00]experience induced by ketamine.which just generally is, is regarded as like extreme. It could be really frightening. It could be really it could be like almost religious, you know, it could be like transcendent. And so first I should say there's no. official definition, there's no like blood test or something somebody could give you and say, oh yeah, he was in a K hole.A K hole is kind of more of a subjective thing. Mm-hmm. , but usually it's used in a, I don't know if I wanna say a negative. It's, it's used as keyholes aren't usually things people seek out. Okay. Because usually by the time you get to that level of dosage, Some, some difficult things can happen. You can hallucinate [00:29:00] you can feel dread, you can feel one, one section of my book, I talk about one of the keyholes that I've been in a few times which I call Six Foot Under , which is where I kind of slowly throughout the session, feel like I'm like being buried alive and I'm kind of underground and everything's really quiet.I kind of have this visual sense of, of dirt kind of being thrown over me. Things are getting really calm and, but like as that, as that, you know, that experience develops if you're not used to it or if you've never encountered. That was very frightening because I, after a while, I started to feel like, whoa, you know, am I gonna be able to like wake up from this?Or like, is something. , you know, really serious happening. Like, am I gonna like die in my dream and like die reali? Like, [00:30:00] I don't know what was going on myself. So there are keyhole themes that people sometimes have and and some of them overlap. Like I, I've heard the Buried Alive thing before. But I've had other bizarre ones too.Like there's I'm trying to think. For me, they usually have to do with somehow. Being stuck or being somehow like incapacitated and, you know, we could do the, the arm share, psychologist, maybe you could tell me what that means. But yeah, overall though, I'd say K holds, they're not to be frightened of.Like they're not gonna hurt you. They're not gonna give you any lasting injury or anything basically. , you know, that's gonna be gone, you know, in a few minutes or whatever. Or you can call the nurse and they can really precipitate, you know, dropping that effect down. De'Vannon: So a keyhole is [00:31:00] not to be confused like an overdose?Frank: No. I mean, some people, I guess like an overdose I would say is, is kind of more of a medical, more of a fixed medical term, saying that you've hit like a level of toxicity. that's now like threatening your body in some way. This isn't necessarily that, but I guess you could pass through the K hole stage on your way to an overdoseSo it's not like something where you just want to be just, you know, sniffing K in your basement and pay no mind to the, you know, the dosage and what not. You're getting, like thinking that you. Having the keyholes, the worst that could happen. That's not the worst that could happen if you go too far.De'Vannon: Okay, so that is wanted to establish, you know that there is such a thing as an overdose, so you can do too much. The keyhole is not an overdose level and so [00:32:00] this is another reason why it's good to do it in a medical facility. and everything like that, so that like, as he said, they can precipitate it, you know, they can come there and put some other shit in your IV to pull you out of it.if they need to. Exactly. Exactly. Frank: You know, they'll throw you to lifeline if you need it, you know. But I guess like to your point of, you know, I guess expanding on that, you know, for my book I interviewed, you know, a recreational user. Of Ketamine to, to kind of get a sense of, you know, why they did it, what they got out of it, how they handled the safety aspects.And the thing about this, you know, particular person was that they were they were very detail oriented and very kind of systematic in their approach. So they actually like did research. , you know, they checked out the source, you know, they [00:33:00] you know, they, of course they started small, they tracked like all their dosages and when they would take them and over what period they would have different effects.So like, this person wasn't like, you know, The average person, this wasn't like a 13 year old, just like, oh, we got a bag of K, let's just start sniffing. I mean, this guy was like, he approached it, you know, basically like a physician. And I think that's probably one of the reasons why, you know, to him he reports, you know, having a lot of great experiences.things that opened him up. Like particularly like when it came to his emotions and he really nev, he never really had any trouble. So I mean, obviously I can't recommend that, but I can report that that's, that's what a real live recreational user explained to me.De'Vannon: That is, you know what? . [00:34:00] We all have our reasons to be there. , we all had our reasons. Yep. And people, you know, you know, we're like drawn to certain drugs, you know, I like, I tried like heroin, hated heroin. Can't can't, can des get as fuck away from me, the yuckiest shit on the earth. But homeboy can't get enough of fucking heroin.I try. I was, you know, a meth party girl. Really? So, Why it's no different than if you go to a fucking buffet and you like the Hawaiian rolls. Yeah, but you don't like the rye bread. You don't know why the fuck you are drawn to certain things fully because we don't know ourselves that deeply. Not, not to that level.Like we don't know why we prefer the color red over green. A lot of this shit is decided before we're born. Right. And so I'm saying all that to say this is why we don't judge people children . So, so you know, you have your vice, people have theirs. You know I never, I never [00:35:00] tolerated when I was a drug dealer, ran my trap house that like the cocaine users who wanted to judge the heroin addict or the, or the person who wanted to smoke cigarettes and felt ashamed even though we were shooting up meth of my life.I am like we, we gotta get some shit right in our heads. People , , like literally a drug house full of every fucking narcotic known to mean syringes. Pipes, porn. And then somebody pops out a pack of Marl bros. Like, is this cool? Like, I don't wanna be offensive. Right? Right. Frank: Like, I think we can accept that, you know, we De'Vannon: could find space for Marlboros.Right. To like the crack pipe and the meth pipe. I think you'llFrank: no doubt, no doubt you, it's gonna be alright.No, you're right. You bring up a good point though. I mean, let's face it, like, one of the things that hopefully will happen is, you know, the government loosens up some of these, you know, restrictions on the research and then [00:36:00] ultimately on the use we'll learn more. , which things are useful to particular people so that you don't kind of have to go through like the smorgasboard and have, you know, maybe a bunch of experiences you don't want.You know, maybe one day it will be more enlightened where it's like, all right, you know, they, this person should, you know, just smoke some tree. This person needs this other thing. This person just needs a microdose of something else. Maybe. Maybe that's the De'Vannon: future. . I don't see why it wouldn't be, cuz half of those drugs have natural origins and roots, be it cocaine, heroin, L s D, you know, weed.Of course all of that shit starts from a plant. Yeah. And so the pharmaceuticals you get in pill form, you know, they try to say a lot of those have natural based products. They start from plants and it's true. And when they go mix all kinds of other shit in there as well. So I don't find that much difference between cocaine.[00:37:00]An appeal from the doctor cuz it's half plant and half synthetic. So what, right. . So you know what, what way? And so, right, right. . So right now, Frank and I are clapping back at this whole war against drug fuck, fuck you Republican presidents for, for starting this bullshit ass war that you knew was just about.Throwing people in jail, you put the drugs on the streets, made 'em illegal, you know, after you made your money off of it. Well, you still continue to make money off of it to this day, . Yeah, in my opinion, I have no sources to quote on that. I have read things, seen and heard many things, and you're fool think the government doesn't benefit from crime.And and so the people who run the government more precisely, can you, do you think a person can become addicted to Keta? Frank: I definitely think somebody could become addicted. I guess, you know, perhaps like a, a deeper question would be, [00:38:00] is that like gonna be a biological addiction or more of a psychological addiction?So, so on the first, you know, on the level of psychological addiction, I mean, You might say anything could become psychologically addicting, right? I mean, even going to stretching it to the point of what you're saying about getting pampered, you know, by visiting different types of practitioners. I mean, you could develop, you know, kind of a I, I, I don't know, like it is kind of like it could be a crutch, right?There's probably at some place in the spectrum where, , you know, something comes from just being a crutch to actually being like a useful, progressive type of therapy. So psychologically I think you certainly could, because y you know, generally speaking, you know, you feel good, you feel relaxed. I mean, you feel better than you do or you did coming in.So I, I think that's, you know, a factor [00:39:00] on the biological level. The way things are now, because you have to, I mean, unless you are getting it from the street the way things are now when you need to go to a clinic or you're in a clinical study or something, I think it would be very hard to become addicted in that scenario biologically, just because you're only getting, you know, so much and with a certain frequency.So, you know, for me, for instance, I usually go about once a. and, you know, do I look forward to that month? Or that next treatment? Yeah. I look forward to it. I mean, especially if like, I've had a difficult month or, you know, I, I feel like, whoa, you know, it really is time for a booster. I look forward to that.you know, whether that's like, do I feel drawn to it? You know, like, I'm gonna break in your house or try to, you know, sell your tv, you know, to get it. [00:40:00] I've never felt anything like that. But I will say that one thing you may find really interesting, and I, I believe I touched on this in the book, is that starting as far back as the eighties in Russia, there was a physician who.Using Ketamine to actually break people's addictions. So he was doing some work with I think heroin addicts, and I wanna say also alcoholics. And what he found based on that work is something that's actually still being used today. There are clinics now that specialize on deploying ketamine to break addiction.And so that's kind of fascinat. De'Vannon: You're damn right. And that reminds me, it's another thing I saw in those drug documentaries I was watching with they were using M D M A and maybe psilocybin two to break addictions. Okay. Yeah. And I was also going to say like [00:41:00] the addiction, a, the addiction risk is no more than say, same addiction risk when these doctors are pro prescribe you things that have addict.Qualities to them anyway. So they're prescribing you. People get addicted to pills from their doctors, then they start going, oh yeah, from doctor to doctor to get the shit. Anyway, so I'm saying like there's no more risk with ketamine than it is with the shit you're getting from the doctor anyway. Frank: So, yeah, I mean, practically speaking, like when you look at the opioid epidemic, right?Mm-hmm. I mean, there are a whole, there are, you know, , I'm not sure what the current number of people is that, that, that are hooked on opioids. But I mean, like you said, it's a good point. I mean, if you're, if you know, how can we com be concerned about one and, and not the other, that's like, you know, literally like a tidal wave of deathDe'Vannon: Right. And I think it's so cool. to use one drug to counteract another. But I mean, you see [00:42:00] that all the time. Just like we were saying, if somebody were to fall into a ca hole, they would put just a different drug into your system. Yeah. To counteract that. So if you're addicted to meth and you use M D M A or ketamine and or shrooms to overcome it, it's the same damn thing.You use one drug to counter counteract the other . Frank: So yeah, you can get yourself in in quite stuck in a circle of. It can be very frustrating, you know? Because let's face it, for most of us, the ideal is just to feel great and not have to take anything else. You know, it's just like, Hey, I woke up, I felt great, and I'm good.You know, that will be nice. I don't have to put anything toxic in my body, you know? I don't have to worry about, you know, drug tests or DUIs or anything, De'Vannon: you know? Hell yeah. We don't need drug test DUIs or the $10,000 that goes with DUIs, [00:43:00] right? , yes. People. If you get a DUI or dwi, I driving under the influence of NT thing, alcohol, weed, whatever.Be expect to pay at least $10,000. Okay. Imagine how much more drugs than alcohol you could have with $10,000 than . Fucking, okay, so the pain is the motherfucking police. Call a fucking Uber or get a friend. Don't get behind the wheel of a goddamn car when you Right, right. We have more to do with 10 grand than to give it to the fucking legal system.Absolutely. Frank: You can buy, you can ride a lot of Ubers for 10 Gs. Man, De'Vannon: look. Uber Luxe. V i p. Okay. . You can beat the Benzs honey. You can beat BenzsSo does your book have information on, you know, besides like what Ketamine is and, and all of the risks involved and things like that, does it tell people like how to talk to their doctors or where they can go to [00:44:00] get the treatment or any kind of thing like, Frank: Yeah, absolutely. Because, you know, and I'm sure, you know, you're so familiar with kind of all these ins and outs, you know when, when when you've been introduced particularly to a drug, you've heard of a drug, but you've heard of it like in a illicit context or like a street context, usually people are afraid then to ask their doctor.So if you just say to someone, Hey, you know, , you know, Frank, you know, he is been having these ketamine treatments. He's doing great. You know, there's a lot of, you know, blockage in, in people's minds like, wait, wait a minute, is that, you know, is Afro horses I heard that's just for the club. Or I, you know, isn't that illegal?Or like, where does that all stand? And so you know, in the book, I walked through, you know, people through like, here, you know, what's the legality? You know, what's, you know, what are you asking your doctor? You know how do you know if you may [00:45:00] be someone that you know, this, you know this treatment would be appropriate for?And the nice thing, you know, these days is that, you know, as these clinics has o have opened up, You can call or, you know, sit down for a consultation really easily and, and, you know, you can bring your medical records and talk all the ins and outs. You know, can I, you know, still, you know, tri Ketamine, if I'm on X drug, you know, can I, you know, if I'm bipolar, is it safe for me or will it make me man?So I, I walk you through a number of those questions and really, I just want people to know that this is perfectly legal. There are many clinical studies behind it, and the, the number of those is just exploding. You have nothing to be ashamed of. And you're probably gonna meet a lot of people and along the way, whose lives have been [00:46:00] changed or even.De'Vannon: Mm-hmm. . And then I wanted to point out, Frank's website is called Find ketamine.com. On there you have information about like how to pay for treatment. It's, it's a, it's a very changing landscape in terms of what insurance is gonna cover and what they're not. It's different for different states. So find the ketamine.com is Frank's websites, so you can go there.He has a kick ass blog that covers a lot of the topics we've talked about today that are also in the book. And on your website you can also book like sessions with you to talk and stuff like that. Can you tell me about what people can actually utilize your website for? Sure. Frank: Absolutely. There are, I, I've tried to make the, you know, information as available as possible.So, you know, almost all the information I have out there is free. I, you can buy like some, what I call them as just information packages on my site where I give. , you know, like particular [00:47:00]reports on something or I even have one that includes videos, like of some of my own treatments. , which is very, you know, relaxing and reassuring when you can actually see the process someone's going through.You can see that they didn't go crazy. You know, I didn't jump out of the chair. You know, I didn't start screaming. Everything was, everything was cool. So I have some of those packages available and then of course you can also contact me. I try to just kind of help people however I can. or we can schedule something, you know, more detailed sometimes also, like I will speak to, you know, groups of physicians or at a conference, something like that.De'Vannon: something like that. We want something just like this. , right? Okay. And there you have it folks. So you know where to go. Find ketamine.com. You can get his Frank's book [00:48:00] there. You can reach out to Frank directly, you can read through his blog. I find his website to be very thorough. It's like, it, it is because when, when I, before I went to get my ketamine done, I was searching all over the internet and I didn't know about his website.You know, and it was like a lot of scattered information and I really found that fine ketamine.com pulled it all together. Had I known about you before I went to go see this bitch to get this fucked up treatment, I think that my treatment would've been more rewarding and I could have got ahead of the game because you think.The lowest package on your side is like $9 and 99 cents, and the most expensive one is 49 99. That bitch charged 450, so I would've rather have paid you the 9 99 to get some fucking head smarts about absolutely because people, I want you to be aware that in this just there's probably gonna be some vulture as doctor out there taking advantage of people.I'm not trying to put fear in you, but true that's not labor under the delusion that everybody's intentions are going to be pure. So absolutely I trust Frank because he is giving you shit for free on his website [00:49:00] and more than enough information for you to work with. But also if you want to go deeper, then there, that's there too, because the man's gotta eat and pay his bills, so, so I fucked with Frank, but I don't fuss with that bitch I went to for my ketamine treatment.No, no, no ma'am. I don't fucks with her. I don't talk to her. No ma.Frank: Man, that that sucks. You had that experience, man, like I'm really hoping your next one is the opposite. De'Vannon: Oh, yes, it will be in California. My homeboy Demi Wild, he hosts the hookup Horror Stories podcast, and he lives over in Los Angeles. I haven't even told him this yet, but like at some point when I visit LA again, I'm gonna snatch his little cute ass up and he's gonna go with me to the Ketamine clinic and babysit me.So, yes, there you go. That's Demi. If you're listening, we're gonna do this Ketamine date, honeyFrank: It's good to take someone with you. You know what I mean? [00:50:00] I, I think that's nice, especially if it's like your early on in your ketamine journey. Sometimes it just feels relaxing. Actually, I know a physician who takes his wife with him and she just holds his hand through the treatment and he said it just makes all the difference in the world.So he feels very connected. He feels very like open emotionally, and it's very calming and reassuring. De'Vannon: Mm-hmm. . Calmness and reassurance. Well, I speak, yes, sir. I speak that Blessed Assurance all over everyone in the world whose ears are open and listening to this broadcast. No doubt. Frank's LinkedIn Frank m Ligan is gonna be listed in the show notes, Frank m Ligans with an S.So that's pretty much all that I had. Was there anything that you wanted to say or bring up or Frank: talk about? Well, I mean, one thing I just wanna say is I, I really appreciate, you know, the work you're [00:51:00] doing in terms of, you know, there's so much and, and I don't know, I guess it depends how conservative people are, but I mean, for me, I, I, I'm a big proponent of, you know, kind of breaching those you know, topics that are, you know, off a little to the left or things that people are generally embarrassed about or people, cuz I just find.You know, it's like an illusion, right? Like there are so many of us that fit into these different, you know, categories or have these different challenges, but when nobody's out there really discussing it, you could feel very isolated. Mm-hmm. , you know, and I'm sure, as you know, I mean, so I just wanna say like, when I I didn't, I didn't you know, reach out to you just at random about you having a podcast.I thought to myself, sex, drugs in Jesus. Like, this is a [00:52:00] man that's willing to put it all on the line and really, you know, talk to the people that may not have anyone else to, to talk to. So I, I just respect that man. Appreciate it and it's just been great being here with you. De'Vannon: Well, thank you. I appreciate those kind words immensely.And so y'all, his name is, Lis, his website is find ketamine.com. You could find him on LinkedIn. And this show will be coming out soon. Thank you so much for coming on, Frank. I wish you champagne wishes and ketamine dreams . No Frank: doubt. No doubt. Hey, thanks very much.De'Vannon: Thank you all so much for taking time to listen to the Sex Drugs and Jesus podcast. It really means everything to me. Look, if you love the show, you can find more information and resources at SexDrugsAndJesus.com or [00:53:00] wherever you listen to your podcast. Feel free to reach out to me directly at DeVannon@SexDrugsAndJesus.com and on Twitter and Facebook as well.My name is De'Vannon, and it's been wonderful being your host today. And just remember that everything is gonna be all right.
With the boys all back in the same town, they stick to their two favorite topics: War and cigarettes. Subscribe to the Pay-Tree-On : patreon.com/Mansgendered
Oh, Got a body guard, huh. This is your fault. I don't give a Fuck. Yeah. Fuck you. Don't come around here anymore ñ. Go fuck yourself. I did that. Doesn't make a difference, to me, really I'm just a miserable something, A nobody Do you think I care? Do you think I don't? You can go anywhere But here. You can do anything But this You can be anyone But me I'm nobody, I'm nothing I'm broken You're hungry. Oh, certainly; But you see, I promised a week These dreams are my weakness On weekends, I sleep Till one of my three roommates wakes me up Wake me up Wake me up Wake me UP. I'm not talking to you. I'm not keeping no secrets. I'm not working this weekend. Is there something you need? SUPACREE. Fuck this series. SUPACREE. Fuck this, seriously. SUPACREE. No, Your entrance was my exit, Youre interesting at best, But now I'm wrecked, (But now I'm reckless) I just need a check Fuck the guestlist And fuck Dillon Francis DILLON FRANCIS Where's my piñata? Where's your honor? 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Seriously, I'll put you on blast, I'll look past you, Like fantastic, A phantom, I just want to dance, dude Like my pants, dude? Don't mind the attitude, I just want to cram you Into my clam, Make a sandwhich after, Damn, dude. Let me tell you something— Don't send the man of my dreams in To buy something he needs On his lonely Cause I'm only gonna worry, I'm only gonna hurry home Cause I'm horny I'm only gonna wanna know If he wants me; Or if I'm just another ugly.. SUPACREE. What, Goddamnit. Don't say anything. Okay, Illuminati. Don't call me God, anymore, You can call me infinity I'm everything, I'm nobody. I'm everybody. I'm Sunni. Oh, you're funny. I'll be what you need, eventually Right now I'm at a party Right now, I'm stuck here working Right now, I've half a heart and hurting Half a mind to blow my brains out Half a mind to have to hide my face now I'm brain dead I'm branded for Skrillex and Dillon Francis Where's my eye at? I'm on a diet, Cause I died, man I hate blue eyes And I hate one-lines, But I wrote them. FUCK YOUR SAUCE, BITCH. And then what? Nothing, that's it. I might write the whole shift. I might get to a different dimension Where maybe I fit in And do whippets. I don't give a shit, Or a fuck, Or a Skrillex. This is my only skill, It's a script Or prescription, Propaganda Paparazzi probably followed you, but— I don't have a bag, man, I'm out of em. Skrillex is a ‘bad man' Never heard of em. Yo, where's Hanzel at with that piñata. I smaked him up and rapped this, Like a tamale, I'm sorry, But I'm on my way to Tijuana, Mañana, Ask Ariana If she wanna Jump on it. You're retarded. I'm highly regarded, I got a cult following. It's an occult classic, Ask OWSLA. Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit. Gotta fast again Everybody's on whippets “Yo, how long this shit last?” Like five minutes. That'll be $286. Got two hoes in the whip, And you know HOES LOVE WHIPPETS. So you got hoes, huh? Ya. These is my bros, brah. I got Marlboros, Call me tomorrow, though This shop is on my show; Man, I just wanna go home. I just bought a home. I just wanna be alone. But you're not alone. But I wanna be. You're just a wannabe. You're just a SUPACREE. I'm just a figment of your imagination, really. I'm on TV. Bro, this shit is reality. Nah, This can't be real Nick ain't paying me But everybody's playing me. Everybody's playing me. THIS AINT NO MOTHERFUCKING GAME. Yeah, I got game leafs. This is the same thing, but cheaper. This is the reaper: You mad at me for sleeping? Yeah. I hate this city. I love this city. GOD I love everything. I hate celebrities. You're famous. Then name me. -king. I'm a time traveler. I'm an unraveler, A rapper, Half a stack of crap, And a trash can. Where's your man at? I'm at the back door, asking for a chance I'm too fat for you. I like a girl with some ass— I'm too black for you. I like my berries real black. But a classy one. 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Just take me out, Take me out in a robbery Take me out Take me out to the ballgame, I'm famous, apparently. Open a memory bank, I'd just like to thank you for saying my name In vain Take a spike to the vein, I'm in pain, yo This is strange yo. It's a strange world. I'm a strange world. Youre s girl now? What? You're a bro? I'm supposed to be; Nobody fucks with me; Think I need SUPACREE. SUPACREE hurriedly collects the celebrities. For what? Hm. Let me see. Whose missing? HEY—HEY LADY. Are you talking to me? Are you talking to ghosts again?! Shut up, Sunnï. SHUT UP, ALI. Ali can't find the Molly; But he's got the amphetamines; I hate dealing with celebrities, Unless it's me! I said, “Ali, make me famous” He's like, “I'm working on something” TIMMY TURNER Hey, SUPACREE. SUPACREE Oh, hey, Timmy. Now what am I supposed to do? I withdrew from society. What do I do with this masterpiece? Why are you celibate? Why, are you eyeing me? Nah, I'm not white enough. Nah, I'm not rich, I'm not pretty I'm not high enough Nah, I'm not doing my job; I'm just writing Just fire me: Then I could end up just like This guy, He sleeps on the corner of 6th street “Now Hiring” Fine, So I won't be on time, Try to find me Fine me Finally, I'm in denial of everything. No food, no thanks Just water and coffee Keep coughing Till I jump off something so high You have to watch me fly I'm on fire “You're fired” That's fine, I hate being here. “That girl is weird” No, I'm wired just so I can be here. I can't afford an apartment I went off when, my body turned off At the sound of my alarm clock and said. GOD This is God calling; You're off today. Then I nodded, And nodded back off, Had a cough drop; Immunity stops When the cops call, “Whatchu up to?” “Nothing officer, I just got off, want a hug?” Then he popped me, But I don't want a coffin— I don't want nobody to notice No body cam footage, No frontin, Just drop me in front of my mom's spot; She'd love it. MOM Huh. Another body; I got a lot of em I had a daughter once; This one looks just like her But I like her: She's perfect— She don't talk back, And she's a size 4; I wonder who she was once— Look, just watch SpongeBob, Knock it off Just stop talking Don't get too good at your hobbies, You hobbit I'll pop you, Just like you'll want the cops to In the future. I wanna die. You should eat. I'm too fat for this place. Then go somewhere else. I'm on my way to Tijuana. Wood tip, good taste. Nobody buys the wood tips, these days Cheapskates. Don't be lazy. I hate this place. So just leave. But I need to make money. Can't go back to Mexico, Eventually I'll be hungry. What? Work a job for $100 a week; No thanks, I'll just contribute to society. Then you should be SUPACREE. Nah, coughs out a curse on me. Fuck these hoes. The Door's Open, But I don't wanna go I don't wanna know what it's like after the show 10 years on the road; 10 ears, is 5 girls tryna blow you Just for some blow Just got the chance to show you How much I owe: This is how much I know— Hoes. Love. Whippets. Yo. Fuck. This shit. Where the fuck is Skrillex? Working on a billions, With Brazillians, They're all feeling him And I'm all in my feelin's Wondering if Dillon is a real one, But my show's on. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2022 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.
Oh, Got a body guard, huh. This is your fault. I don't give a Fuck. Yeah. Fuck you. Don't come around here anymore ñ. Go fuck yourself. I did that. Doesn't make a difference, to me, really I'm just a miserable something, A nobody Do you think I care? Do you think I don't? You can go anywhere But here. You can do anything But this You can be anyone But me I'm nobody, I'm nothing I'm broken You're hungry. Oh, certainly; But you see, I promised a week These dreams are my weakness On weekends, I sleep Till one of my three roommates wakes me up Wake me up Wake me up Wake me UP. I'm not talking to you. I'm not keeping no secrets. I'm not working this weekend. Is there something you need? SUPACREE. Fuck this series. SUPACREE. Fuck this, seriously. SUPACREE. No, Your entrance was my exit, Youre interesting at best, But now I'm wrecked, (But now I'm reckless) I just need a check Fuck the guestlist And fuck Dillon Francis DILLON FRANCIS Where's my piñata? Where's your honor? On God, I stay guarded, Oh Lord, Whats your problem? Go get a model to solve it; I'm lost in Los Ángeles, Not on the roster, A poser? Imposter— Impossible, Look: Drake and Josh is on GERALD I'm on one. Slow down, bro. Slow down, Goddamnit it This is God plan it's, Apples, bananas and Fasting, For life everlasting, I asked her “What's the high like” Whats your mind like? Whats your life like? The limelight? It's alright. I'll find time to write, When I work 9-5s I don't like And everybody's fucking high tonight Except me, And Dillon Francis, cause DILLON FRANCIS I hate THC. And I'm sure there's a story behind that; Like there's a story behind, Why I no longer drive, And why I hate 4:20, But I still smoke weed, Sometimes like chimney, I'm just a pig; By the hair on my chinny-chin-chin, I don't want your attention, But I can't get you out of my image. Anyway. So what's up with this episode. I guess it's like a crossover. Between what series? All of them. Seriously, I'll put you on blast, I'll look past you, Like fantastic, A phantom, I just want to dance, dude Like my pants, dude? Don't mind the attitude, I just want to cram you Into my clam, Make a sandwhich after, Damn, dude. Let me tell you something— Don't send the man of my dreams in To buy something he needs On his lonely Cause I'm only gonna worry, I'm only gonna hurry home Cause I'm horny I'm only gonna wanna know If he wants me; Or if I'm just another ugly.. SUPACREE. What, Goddamnit. Don't say anything. Okay, Illuminati. Don't call me God, anymore, You can call me infinity I'm everything, I'm nobody. I'm everybody. I'm Sunni. Oh, you're funny. I'll be what you need, eventually Right now I'm at a party Right now, I'm stuck here working Right now, I've half a heart and hurting Half a mind to blow my brains out Half a mind to have to hide my face now I'm brain dead I'm branded for Skrillex and Dillon Francis Where's my eye at? I'm on a diet, Cause I died, man I hate blue eyes And I hate one-lines, But I wrote them. FUCK YOUR SAUCE, BITCH. And then what? Nothing, that's it. I might write the whole shift. I might get to a different dimension Where maybe I fit in And do whippets. I don't give a shit, Or a fuck, Or a Skrillex. This is my only skill, It's a script Or prescription, Propaganda Paparazzi probably followed you, but— I don't have a bag, man, I'm out of em. Skrillex is a ‘bad man' Never heard of em. Yo, where's Hanzel at with that piñata. I smaked him up and rapped this, Like a tamale, I'm sorry, But I'm on my way to Tijuana, Mañana, Ask Ariana If she wanna Jump on it. You're retarded. I'm highly regarded, I got a cult following. It's an occult classic, Ask OWSLA. Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit. Gotta fast again Everybody's on whippets “Yo, how long this shit last?” Like five minutes. That'll be $286. Got two hoes in the whip, And you know HOES LOVE WHIPPETS. So you got hoes, huh? Ya. These is my bros, brah. I got Marlboros, Call me tomorrow, though This shop is on my show; Man, I just wanna go home. I just bought a home. I just wanna be alone. But you're not alone. But I wanna be. You're just a wannabe. You're just a SUPACREE. I'm just a figment of your imagination, really. I'm on TV. Bro, this shit is reality. Nah, This can't be real Nick ain't paying me But everybody's playing me. Everybody's playing me. THIS AINT NO MOTHERFUCKING GAME. Yeah, I got game leafs. This is the same thing, but cheaper. This is the reaper: You mad at me for sleeping? Yeah. I hate this city. I love this city. GOD I love everything. I hate celebrities. You're famous. Then name me. -king. I'm a time traveler. I'm an unraveler, A rapper, Half a stack of crap, And a trash can. Where's your man at? I'm at the back door, asking for a chance I'm too fat for you. I like a girl with some ass— I'm too black for you. I like my berries real black. But a classy one. Man, I don't make enough. I don't get paid for this shit. Man, I hate my life: I should just go back to my Back to my I'm high as Fuck right now. I just bought a new truck right now. I don't give a fuck about how this ends, I just want it to I miss my best friend And my family. “Man” Said the man in the hat, “I do better in Hollywood” ‘Then go there, then', I thought in my head Cause I don't want to hear it: The spirit that says: Take a minute to breathe, Cree Life ain't easy, as it seems To be a celebrity, You see? The grass is always greener On the other side But there's no grass on this side of town, Not really— It just smells like pee And I make 17.50 But that won't rent me An apartment Not even at 43 hours a week And the tweaker speak to me, The people on Spring Street, on exstasy And I wanna party, Or just end it all, Cause I'm working all day and all night But still dealing with poverty Honestly? Just take me out, Take me out in a robbery Take me out Take me out to the ballgame, I'm famous, apparently. Open a memory bank, I'd just like to thank you for saying my name In vain Take a spike to the vein, I'm in pain, yo This is strange yo. It's a strange world. I'm a strange world. Youre s girl now? What? You're a bro? I'm supposed to be; Nobody fucks with me; Think I need SUPACREE. SUPACREE hurriedly collects the celebrities. For what? Hm. Let me see. Whose missing? HEY—HEY LADY. Are you talking to me? Are you talking to ghosts again?! Shut up, Sunnï. SHUT UP, ALI. Ali can't find the Molly; But he's got the amphetamines; I hate dealing with celebrities, Unless it's me! I said, “Ali, make me famous” He's like, “I'm working on something” TIMMY TURNER Hey, SUPACREE. SUPACREE Oh, hey, Timmy. Now what am I supposed to do? I withdrew from society. What do I do with this masterpiece? Why are you celibate? Why, are you eyeing me? Nah, I'm not white enough. Nah, I'm not rich, I'm not pretty I'm not high enough Nah, I'm not doing my job; I'm just writing Just fire me: Then I could end up just like This guy, He sleeps on the corner of 6th street “Now Hiring” Fine, So I won't be on time, Try to find me Fine me Finally, I'm in denial of everything. No food, no thanks Just water and coffee Keep coughing Till I jump off something so high You have to watch me fly I'm on fire “You're fired” That's fine, I hate being here. “That girl is weird” No, I'm wired just so I can be here. I can't afford an apartment I went off when, my body turned off At the sound of my alarm clock and said. GOD This is God calling; You're off today. Then I nodded, And nodded back off, Had a cough drop; Immunity stops When the cops call, “Whatchu up to?” “Nothing officer, I just got off, want a hug?” Then he popped me, But I don't want a coffin— I don't want nobody to notice No body cam footage, No frontin, Just drop me in front of my mom's spot; She'd love it. MOM Huh. Another body; I got a lot of em I had a daughter once; This one looks just like her But I like her: She's perfect— She don't talk back, And she's a size 4; I wonder who she was once— Look, just watch SpongeBob, Knock it off Just stop talking Don't get too good at your hobbies, You hobbit I'll pop you, Just like you'll want the cops to In the future. I wanna die. You should eat. I'm too fat for this place. Then go somewhere else. I'm on my way to Tijuana. Wood tip, good taste. Nobody buys the wood tips, these days Cheapskates. Don't be lazy. I hate this place. So just leave. But I need to make money. Can't go back to Mexico, Eventually I'll be hungry. What? Work a job for $100 a week; No thanks, I'll just contribute to society. Then you should be SUPACREE. Nah, coughs out a curse on me. Fuck these hoes. The Door's Open, But I don't wanna go I don't wanna know what it's like after the show 10 years on the road; 10 ears, is 5 girls tryna blow you Just for some blow Just got the chance to show you How much I owe: This is how much I know— Hoes. Love. Whippets. Yo. Fuck. This shit. Where the fuck is Skrillex? Working on a billions, With Brazillians, They're all feeling him And I'm all in my feelin's Wondering if Dillon is a real one, But my show's on. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2022 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.
Oh, Got a body guard, huh. This is your fault. I don't give a Fuck. Yeah. Fuck you. Don't come around here anymore ñ. Go fuck yourself. I did that. Doesn't make a difference, to me, really I'm just a miserable something, A nobody Do you think I care? Do you think I don't? You can go anywhere But here. You can do anything But this You can be anyone But me I'm nobody, I'm nothing I'm broken You're hungry. Oh, certainly; But you see, I promised a week These dreams are my weakness On weekends, I sleep Till one of my three roommates wakes me up Wake me up Wake me up Wake me UP. I'm not talking to you. I'm not keeping no secrets. I'm not working this weekend. Is there something you need? SUPACREE. Fuck this series. SUPACREE. Fuck this, seriously. SUPACREE. No, Your entrance was my exit, Youre interesting at best, But now I'm wrecked, (But now I'm reckless) I just need a check Fuck the guestlist And fuck Dillon Francis DILLON FRANCIS Where's my piñata? Where's your honor? On God, I stay guarded, Oh Lord, Whats your problem? Go get a model to solve it; I'm lost in Los Ángeles, Not on the roster, A poser? Imposter— Impossible, Look: Drake and Josh is on GERALD I'm on one. Slow down, bro. Slow down, Goddamnit it This is God plan it's, Apples, bananas and Fasting, For life everlasting, I asked her “What's the high like” Whats your mind like? Whats your life like? The limelight? It's alright. I'll find time to write, When I work 9-5s I don't like And everybody's fucking high tonight Except me, And Dillon Francis, cause DILLON FRANCIS I hate THC. And I'm sure there's a story behind that; Like there's a story behind, Why I no longer drive, And why I hate 4:20, But I still smoke weed, Sometimes like chimney, I'm just a pig; By the hair on my chinny-chin-chin, I don't want your attention, But I can't get you out of my image. Anyway. So what's up with this episode. I guess it's like a crossover. Between what series? All of them. Seriously, I'll put you on blast, I'll look past you, Like fantastic, A phantom, I just want to dance, dude Like my pants, dude? Don't mind the attitude, I just want to cram you Into my clam, Make a sandwhich after, Damn, dude. Let me tell you something— Don't send the man of my dreams in To buy something he needs On his lonely Cause I'm only gonna worry, I'm only gonna hurry home Cause I'm horny I'm only gonna wanna know If he wants me; Or if I'm just another ugly.. SUPACREE. What, Goddamnit. Don't say anything. Okay, Illuminati. Don't call me God, anymore, You can call me infinity I'm everything, I'm nobody. I'm everybody. I'm Sunni. Oh, you're funny. I'll be what you need, eventually Right now I'm at a party Right now, I'm stuck here working Right now, I've half a heart and hurting Half a mind to blow my brains out Half a mind to have to hide my face now I'm brain dead I'm branded for Skrillex and Dillon Francis Where's my eye at? I'm on a diet, Cause I died, man I hate blue eyes And I hate one-lines, But I wrote them. FUCK YOUR SAUCE, BITCH. And then what? Nothing, that's it. I might write the whole shift. I might get to a different dimension Where maybe I fit in And do whippets. I don't give a shit, Or a fuck, Or a Skrillex. This is my only skill, It's a script Or prescription, Propaganda Paparazzi probably followed you, but— I don't have a bag, man, I'm out of em. Skrillex is a ‘bad man' Never heard of em. Yo, where's Hanzel at with that piñata. I smaked him up and rapped this, Like a tamale, I'm sorry, But I'm on my way to Tijuana, Mañana, Ask Ariana If she wanna Jump on it. You're retarded. I'm highly regarded, I got a cult following. It's an occult classic, Ask OWSLA. Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit. Gotta fast again Everybody's on whippets “Yo, how long this shit last?” Like five minutes. That'll be $286. Got two hoes in the whip, And you know HOES LOVE WHIPPETS. So you got hoes, huh? Ya. These is my bros, brah. I got Marlboros, Call me tomorrow, though This shop is on my show; Man, I just wanna go home. I just bought a home. I just wanna be alone. But you're not alone. But I wanna be. You're just a wannabe. You're just a SUPACREE. I'm just a figment of your imagination, really. I'm on TV. Bro, this shit is reality. Nah, This can't be real Nick ain't paying me But everybody's playing me. Everybody's playing me. THIS AINT NO MOTHERFUCKING GAME. Yeah, I got game leafs. This is the same thing, but cheaper. This is the reaper: You mad at me for sleeping? Yeah. I hate this city. I love this city. GOD I love everything. I hate celebrities. You're famous. Then name me. -king. I'm a time traveler. I'm an unraveler, A rapper, Half a stack of crap, And a trash can. Where's your man at? I'm at the back door, asking for a chance I'm too fat for you. I like a girl with some ass— I'm too black for you. I like my berries real black. But a classy one. Man, I don't make enough. I don't get paid for this shit. Man, I hate my life: I should just go back to my Back to my I'm high as Fuck right now. I just bought a new truck right now. I don't give a fuck about how this ends, I just want it to I miss my best friend And my family. “Man” Said the man in the hat, “I do better in Hollywood” ‘Then go there, then', I thought in my head Cause I don't want to hear it: The spirit that says: Take a minute to breathe, Cree Life ain't easy, as it seems To be a celebrity, You see? The grass is always greener On the other side But there's no grass on this side of town, Not really— It just smells like pee And I make 17.50 But that won't rent me An apartment Not even at 43 hours a week And the tweaker speak to me, The people on Spring Street, on exstasy And I wanna party, Or just end it all, Cause I'm working all day and all night But still dealing with poverty Honestly? Just take me out, Take me out in a robbery Take me out Take me out to the ballgame, I'm famous, apparently. Open a memory bank, I'd just like to thank you for saying my name In vain Take a spike to the vein, I'm in pain, yo This is strange yo. It's a strange world. I'm a strange world. Youre s girl now? What? You're a bro? I'm supposed to be; Nobody fucks with me; Think I need SUPACREE. SUPACREE hurriedly collects the celebrities. For what? Hm. Let me see. Whose missing? HEY—HEY LADY. Are you talking to me? Are you talking to ghosts again?! Shut up, Sunnï. SHUT UP, ALI. Ali can't find the Molly; But he's got the amphetamines; I hate dealing with celebrities, Unless it's me! I said, “Ali, make me famous” He's like, “I'm working on something” TIMMY TURNER Hey, SUPACREE. SUPACREE Oh, hey, Timmy. Now what am I supposed to do? I withdrew from society. What do I do with this masterpiece? Why are you celibate? Why, are you eyeing me? Nah, I'm not white enough. Nah, I'm not rich, I'm not pretty I'm not high enough Nah, I'm not doing my job; I'm just writing Just fire me: Then I could end up just like This guy, He sleeps on the corner of 6th street “Now Hiring” Fine, So I won't be on time, Try to find me Fine me Finally, I'm in denial of everything. No food, no thanks Just water and coffee Keep coughing Till I jump off something so high You have to watch me fly I'm on fire “You're fired” That's fine, I hate being here. “That girl is weird” No, I'm wired just so I can be here. I can't afford an apartment I went off when, my body turned off At the sound of my alarm clock and said. GOD This is God calling; You're off today. Then I nodded, And nodded back off, Had a cough drop; Immunity stops When the cops call, “Whatchu up to?” “Nothing officer, I just got off, want a hug?” Then he popped me, But I don't want a coffin— I don't want nobody to notice No body cam footage, No frontin, Just drop me in front of my mom's spot; She'd love it. MOM Huh. Another body; I got a lot of em I had a daughter once; This one looks just like her But I like her: She's perfect— She don't talk back, And she's a size 4; I wonder who she was once— Look, just watch SpongeBob, Knock it off Just stop talking Don't get too good at your hobbies, You hobbit I'll pop you, Just like you'll want the cops to In the future. I wanna die. You should eat. I'm too fat for this place. Then go somewhere else. I'm on my way to Tijuana. Wood tip, good taste. Nobody buys the wood tips, these days Cheapskates. Don't be lazy. I hate this place. So just leave. But I need to make money. Can't go back to Mexico, Eventually I'll be hungry. What? Work a job for $100 a week; No thanks, I'll just contribute to society. Then you should be SUPACREE. Nah, coughs out a curse on me. Fuck these hoes. The Door's Open, But I don't wanna go I don't wanna know what it's like after the show 10 years on the road; 10 ears, is 5 girls tryna blow you Just for some blow Just got the chance to show you How much I owe: This is how much I know— Hoes. Love. Whippets. Yo. Fuck. This shit. Where the fuck is Skrillex? Working on a billions, With Brazillians, They're all feeling him And I'm all in my feelin's Wondering if Dillon is a real one, But my show's on. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2022 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.
Oh, Got a body guard, huh. This is your fault. I don't give a Fuck. Yeah. Fuck you. Don't come around here anymore ñ. Go fuck yourself. I did that. Doesn't make a difference, to me, really I'm just a miserable something, A nobody Do you think I care? Do you think I don't? You can go anywhere But here. You can do anything But this You can be anyone But me I'm nobody, I'm nothing I'm broken You're hungry. Oh, certainly; But you see, I promised a week These dreams are my weakness On weekends, I sleep Till one of my three roommates wakes me up Wake me up Wake me up Wake me UP. I'm not talking to you. I'm not keeping no secrets. I'm not working this weekend. Is there something you need? SUPACREE. Fuck this series. SUPACREE. Fuck this, seriously. SUPACREE. No, Your entrance was my exit, Youre interesting at best, But now I'm wrecked, (But now I'm reckless) I just need a check Fuck the guestlist And fuck Dillon Francis DILLON FRANCIS Where's my piñata? Where's your honor? On God, I stay guarded, Oh Lord, Whats your problem? Go get a model to solve it; I'm lost in Los Ángeles, Not on the roster, A poser? Imposter— Impossible, Look: Drake and Josh is on GERALD I'm on one. Slow down, bro. Slow down, Goddamnit it This is God plan it's, Apples, bananas and Fasting, For life everlasting, I asked her “What's the high like” Whats your mind like? Whats your life like? The limelight? It's alright. I'll find time to write, When I work 9-5s I don't like And everybody's fucking high tonight Except me, And Dillon Francis, cause DILLON FRANCIS I hate THC. And I'm sure there's a story behind that; Like there's a story behind, Why I no longer drive, And why I hate 4:20, But I still smoke weed, Sometimes like chimney, I'm just a pig; By the hair on my chinny-chin-chin, I don't want your attention, But I can't get you out of my image. Anyway. So what's up with this episode. I guess it's like a crossover. Between what series? All of them. Seriously, I'll put you on blast, I'll look past you, Like fantastic, A phantom, I just want to dance, dude Like my pants, dude? Don't mind the attitude, I just want to cram you Into my clam, Make a sandwhich after, Damn, dude. Let me tell you something— Don't send the man of my dreams in To buy something he needs On his lonely Cause I'm only gonna worry, I'm only gonna hurry home Cause I'm horny I'm only gonna wanna know If he wants me; Or if I'm just another ugly.. SUPACREE. What, Goddamnit. Don't say anything. Okay, Illuminati. Don't call me God, anymore, You can call me infinity I'm everything, I'm nobody. I'm everybody. I'm Sunni. Oh, you're funny. I'll be what you need, eventually Right now I'm at a party Right now, I'm stuck here working Right now, I've half a heart and hurting Half a mind to blow my brains out Half a mind to have to hide my face now I'm brain dead I'm branded for Skrillex and Dillon Francis Where's my eye at? I'm on a diet, Cause I died, man I hate blue eyes And I hate one-lines, But I wrote them. FUCK YOUR SAUCE, BITCH. And then what? Nothing, that's it. I might write the whole shift. I might get to a different dimension Where maybe I fit in And do whippets. I don't give a shit, Or a fuck, Or a Skrillex. This is my only skill, It's a script Or prescription, Propaganda Paparazzi probably followed you, but— I don't have a bag, man, I'm out of em. Skrillex is a ‘bad man' Never heard of em. Yo, where's Hanzel at with that piñata. I smaked him up and rapped this, Like a tamale, I'm sorry, But I'm on my way to Tijuana, Mañana, Ask Ariana If she wanna Jump on it. You're retarded. I'm highly regarded, I got a cult following. It's an occult classic, Ask OWSLA. Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit. Gotta fast again Everybody's on whippets “Yo, how long this shit last?” Like five minutes. That'll be $286. Got two hoes in the whip, And you know HOES LOVE WHIPPETS. So you got hoes, huh? Ya. These is my bros, brah. I got Marlboros, Call me tomorrow, though This shop is on my show; Man, I just wanna go home. I just bought a home. I just wanna be alone. But you're not alone. But I wanna be. You're just a wannabe. You're just a SUPACREE. I'm just a figment of your imagination, really. I'm on TV. Bro, this shit is reality. Nah, This can't be real Nick ain't paying me But everybody's playing me. Everybody's playing me. THIS AINT NO MOTHERFUCKING GAME. Yeah, I got game leafs. This is the same thing, but cheaper. This is the reaper: You mad at me for sleeping? Yeah. I hate this city. I love this city. GOD I love everything. I hate celebrities. You're famous. Then name me. -king. I'm a time traveler. I'm an unraveler, A rapper, Half a stack of crap, And a trash can. Where's your man at? I'm at the back door, asking for a chance I'm too fat for you. I like a girl with some ass— I'm too black for you. I like my berries real black. But a classy one. Man, I don't make enough. I don't get paid for this shit. Man, I hate my life: I should just go back to my Back to my I'm high as Fuck right now. I just bought a new truck right now. I don't give a fuck about how this ends, I just want it to I miss my best friend And my family. “Man” Said the man in the hat, “I do better in Hollywood” ‘Then go there, then', I thought in my head Cause I don't want to hear it: The spirit that says: Take a minute to breathe, Cree Life ain't easy, as it seems To be a celebrity, You see? The grass is always greener On the other side But there's no grass on this side of town, Not really— It just smells like pee And I make 17.50 But that won't rent me An apartment Not even at 43 hours a week And the tweaker speak to me, The people on Spring Street, on exstasy And I wanna party, Or just end it all, Cause I'm working all day and all night But still dealing with poverty Honestly? Just take me out, Take me out in a robbery Take me out Take me out to the ballgame, I'm famous, apparently. Open a memory bank, I'd just like to thank you for saying my name In vain Take a spike to the vein, I'm in pain, yo This is strange yo. It's a strange world. I'm a strange world. Youre s girl now? What? You're a bro? I'm supposed to be; Nobody fucks with me; Think I need SUPACREE. SUPACREE hurriedly collects the celebrities. For what? Hm. Let me see. Whose missing? HEY—HEY LADY. Are you talking to me? Are you talking to ghosts again?! Shut up, Sunnï. SHUT UP, ALI. Ali can't find the Molly; But he's got the amphetamines; I hate dealing with celebrities, Unless it's me! I said, “Ali, make me famous” He's like, “I'm working on something” TIMMY TURNER Hey, SUPACREE. SUPACREE Oh, hey, Timmy. Now what am I supposed to do? I withdrew from society. What do I do with this masterpiece? Why are you celibate? Why, are you eyeing me? Nah, I'm not white enough. Nah, I'm not rich, I'm not pretty I'm not high enough Nah, I'm not doing my job; I'm just writing Just fire me: Then I could end up just like This guy, He sleeps on the corner of 6th street “Now Hiring” Fine, So I won't be on time, Try to find me Fine me Finally, I'm in denial of everything. No food, no thanks Just water and coffee Keep coughing Till I jump off something so high You have to watch me fly I'm on fire “You're fired” That's fine, I hate being here. “That girl is weird” No, I'm wired just so I can be here. I can't afford an apartment I went off when, my body turned off At the sound of my alarm clock and said. GOD This is God calling; You're off today. Then I nodded, And nodded back off, Had a cough drop; Immunity stops When the cops call, “Whatchu up to?” “Nothing officer, I just got off, want a hug?” Then he popped me, But I don't want a coffin— I don't want nobody to notice No body cam footage, No frontin, Just drop me in front of my mom's spot; She'd love it. MOM Huh. Another body; I got a lot of em I had a daughter once; This one looks just like her But I like her: She's perfect— She don't talk back, And she's a size 4; I wonder who she was once— Look, just watch SpongeBob, Knock it off Just stop talking Don't get too good at your hobbies, You hobbit I'll pop you, Just like you'll want the cops to In the future. I wanna die. You should eat. I'm too fat for this place. Then go somewhere else. I'm on my way to Tijuana. Wood tip, good taste. Nobody buys the wood tips, these days Cheapskates. Don't be lazy. I hate this place. So just leave. But I need to make money. Can't go back to Mexico, Eventually I'll be hungry. What? Work a job for $100 a week; No thanks, I'll just contribute to society. Then you should be SUPACREE. Nah, coughs out a curse on me. Fuck these hoes. The Door's Open, But I don't wanna go I don't wanna know what it's like after the show 10 years on the road; 10 ears, is 5 girls tryna blow you Just for some blow Just got the chance to show you How much I owe: This is how much I know— Hoes. Love. Whippets. Yo. Fuck. This shit. Where the fuck is Skrillex? Working on a billions, With Brazillians, They're all feeling him And I'm all in my feelin's Wondering if Dillon is a real one, But my show's on. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2022 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.
Joe Tilley's Great Canadian Sports Show | EP 108 | GERRY MEEHAN Gerry Meehan is a Canadian former professional ice hockey left winger and the former general manager and Senior Vice President of the Buffalo Sabres. Meehan was born in Toronto, Ontario and raised in Newmarket, Ontario. He played minor hockey for St. Michael's College School and junior for the Toronto Marlboros. He played for the 1966–67 Marlboros that won the Memorial Cup. Meehan was drafted by the Toronto Maple Leafs in the 1963 NHL Amateur Draft, fourth round, 21st overall. He played for the National Hockey League's Toronto Maple Leafs, Philadelphia Flyers, Buffalo Sabres, Vancouver Canucks, Atlanta Flames, Washington Capitals, as well as the Ontario Hockey Association's Toronto Marlboros, American Hockey League's Rochester Americans, CPHL's Tulsa Oilers, Western Hockey League's Phoenix Roadrunners, Seattle Totems, and the World Hockey Association's Cincinnati Stingers. He served as captain for both the Sabres and Capitals. One of Meehan's career highlights as a Sabre remains a lowlight to Flyers fans. In the last game of the 1971–72 regular season, the Flyers needed a win or a tie against the Sabres to beat out the Pittsburgh Penguins for the final playoff spot. The score was tied, but with just four seconds on the clock, Meehan took a shot from 80 feet (24 m) away that somehow got by Flyers goalie Doug Favell – ending the Flyers' season. In 1984, the team made Meehan the first former Sabre to serve in a front-office position, as assistant general manager under Bowman. During the 1986–87 season, Bowman stepped down, and Meehan was promoted to general manager. With the departures of Bowman and superstar Gilbert Perreault, the Sabres finished the season in last place overall that year, but rebounded the next year as NHL's most improved team, with a record of 37–32–11 – and 21 points higher in the standings. Meehan's years as a general manager were marked by the addition of a number of top-caliber players, including No. 1 draft pick Pierre Turgeon, Soviet defector Alex Mogilny, Dale Hawerchuk, Pat LaFontaine, and Dominik Hašek. In 1993, Meehan was named the executive vice president of sports operations, taking a more active role in the organization's business and legal affairs. In 1996, Gerry left the Sabres organization and founded GMM Consulting Services, now Cardinal Consultants Ltd., which provides a wide variety of consulting services to sports teams, leagues, associations, and athletes. Exciting interviews with the game changers of the sports world. Tackling deep personal challenges and exciting career milestones. If you like the show and would like to support the program, we launched our merch store. check it out: my-store-c11746.creator-spring.com Thank you to all our incredible sponsors for making this great Canadian sports show happen #GerryMeehan #NHL #hockey #GM #generalmanager #history #torontomarlies #icehockey #buffalo #buffalosabres #Toronto #tilley #legend #sports #interview #sportsinterview #viral #trending #canada #great #canadian #show #interview #powerful #ontario
We had a great time on the Podcast with Terry, Ray and Billy of the iconic group McBride & The Ride...When they first began releasing music in 1989, McBride & The Ride released three acclaimed albums Burnin' Up The Road, Sacred Ground, and Hurry Sundown, with hit singles like "Love on the Loose, Heart on the Run," “Sacred Ground,” "Going Out of My Mind," and many more. In the spring of 2021, they announced they were reuniting and going back in the studio to record new music. Though the band has been on and off over the past 30 years, its members have thrived through their individual careers. Ray Herndon has been Lyle Lovett's lead guitarist since 1985 and has had songs cut by Kenny Chesney, Aaron Tippin, Lee Greenwood, Linda Davis and more, he continues to operate his family's historic club, Handlebar J, in Scottsdale, Arizona. Terry McBride has had quite a fruitful career, writing major hits for Brooks & Dunn, Reba McEntire, Easton Corbin, Cody Johnson and more. He toured with Brooks & Dunn through most of their biggest years playing bass and writing songs. Billy Thomas moved to Nashville from Los Angeles in 1987 and immediately started working with Vince Gill along with many other country stars including Emmylou Harris, Patty Loveless, Steve Warner & Earl Scruggs. He's been Gill's drummer on the road and in the studio ever since, adding background vocals to his many hits, as well as joining him as a member of The Time Jumpers, one of Nashville's favorite bands. The trio's upcoming EP, Marlboros & Avon, produced by all three members, is set to release in 2023, their first offering of original music in nearly 30 years. (www.mcbrideandtheride.com)Resources:YouTube: @mcbrideandtherideInstagram: @mcbrideandtherideofficialTikTok: @mcbrideandtherideShow Sponsors:LINK IN BIO USE CODE: “MODERNCOWBOY”@moderncowboypodcastwww.moderncowboy.global@nrsworldhttps://g-sight.com/@gsightdryfireShow Music:The Ropin Pen By: Trent WillmonMC Podcast Production & Editing: Tyler Hillenbrand@tyhbrand
I love old country. It never gets enough credit. That stuff talks about what's real. Problems that real people deal with. Like peeing. All over your bedroom. Boy I'll tell ya, some days I wake up and there's pee bein flung all about m'bedroom, cuz in the middle of the night, I somehow distributed it across m'bedroom fan. Those are the days I'm glad for old school country, cuz back in those days folks made real music about just that kinda thing. Or how bout this'un. You ever spend weeks wonderin where that smell is comin from as it gets stronger'n stronger? Then one day you say "dagnabit smell, I'm figurin you!" So you chase it down, only to discover that all yer dresser drawers'r filled to the brim with piss. Little ole' you's been sleep pissin again. Y'won't hear no jazz musician singin bout that. Or lasso up this relatable tidbit, cowboy. You ever spend years fightin deterioratin health? Teeth a yellowin, hair departin, aint had a solid poo in months? Gets so bad yer fixin to write a will? You go to the town apothecary, ya talk to yer preacher, you even consider cuttin back on Marlboros. Just when you think yer time is up, yer ole lady catches you in the middle a the night, guzzlin yer own lemon water. And I'll be a monkeys uncle, turns out covering yer mouth at night solves ya. Well aint no other genre what writes about a scenario as personally humbin as that. No other genre than country.
Listen to the JERKS that are just like Honest Abe… Only a little dishonest. H is on the IHG Warpath this episode as the JERKS discuss Merlin's Marlboros, Kevin Basmati's Maserati, dead road eyes, and pet fees for days. “Oh they leave ‘don't fuck with me dumps.'” “How dare you try to stop me from getting one over!” #ExpensiveRice #ASDNYCZ #TheInsuranceMines
Brendan & Matt & Anthony got high and talked old PS2 articles, Bum Fights, and so much more --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app
The monetary system is all out of whack and we have no declared foreign enemy. I wonder if they coincide. Anyway, you can't buy JUULs anymore cause they're bad for the kids. Looks like you're going back to the Marlboros folks. Enjoy!- Follow The Smoking Simian on Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/thesmokingsimian/- Follow me on Twitter - https://twitter.com/TheSimian_- Follow me on Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/abarbosa000/- Share, like, comment and subscribe on The Smoking Simian YouTube - d9YpoYfsQghttps://www.youtube.com/channel/UCFn3FPnTegaky- Audio platforms - https://smokingsimian.buzzsprout.com
Dave and Nicole take a peek inside a Colorado sex ring, celebrate Father's Day with extra Marlboros, and debate the potential joy in dating appliances. www.instagram.com/food.sex.politics/ --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/foodsexpolitics/message
Filter, flavor, pack or box - Marlboros have everything cigarette-lovers could want. But how could the company broaden their consumer base from primarily women, and prove that their cigarettes were just as manly as any ol' Winston or Chesterfield? Well, hop on yer saddle, throw on a ten-gallon, and let's head on down into advertising history, ‘cause that there question is exactly what Ray and Rob are gabbin' about in this here episode. Ray teaches Rob about the history of the Marlboro Man campaign; the many men who donned that iconic cowboy garb; a Flintstone-endorsed cigarette brand; and how these ads influenced an industry. If you like what we are doing, please support us on Patreon. TEAM Ray Hebel Robert W Schneider Mark Schroeder Billy Recce Daniel Schwartzberg Gabe Crawford Natalie DeSavia ARTICLES The Atlantic Business Insider CDC History Los Angeles Times Medium NPR Time AUDIO/VISUAL Flintstones Cigarette Commercial Julie London Sings The Marlboro Song Jolly Green Giant Ad Marlboro Car Commercial Marlboro Man Commercial Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man Trailer Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
Howdy! This week on OTBC, we dive into our country boy roots and build a playlist with country music that we really enjoy, titled Bolo Ties and Marlboro Menthols (Bolos and Marlboros for short). We also have some really fun audio clips from our friends to play up the western feel we were going for! Thanks to everyone who contributed to this playlist and we hope you enjoy! To listen to the Bolos and Marlboros Playlist on Spotify Audience Submissions: Ben - Drinkin' and Dreamin' by Waylon Jennings Louie - You Never Even Called Me By My Name by David Allen Coe Cody Garret - Turtle All the Way Down by Sturgill Simpson Tommy - Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue by Toby Keith Mason - Folsom Prison Blues by Johnny Cash Grant - All the Best by John Prine Christopher "Miller time"- I'd Love to Lay You Down by Conway Twitty Alec - Whiskey by Trampled by Turtles Jake Little - Cowpoke by Colter Wall Jansen Hagen - Once You've Had the Best by George Jones Zoe - Ohio by Haunted Like Human Dil's Picks: Cover My Tracks by Ruston Kelly Sunrise by Ryan Bingham Kate McCannon by Colter Wall Something to Hold on To by Turnpike Troubadours bored if I don't by Kaitlin Butts Kev's Picks You Should Probably Leave by Chris Stapleton Country Heroes by Hank Williams III Whitehouse Road by Tyler Childers Blue Side of the Mountain by The Steeldrivers Blood Sweat and Murder by Scott H. Biram Songs of the Show: Dil - New Vegas Bomb by Cliffdiver Kev - Chattahoochee by Alan Jackson OTBC Social Media: Instagram - @offthebeatenclef Twitter - @OffClef TikTok - @OfftheBeatenClefPod YouTube channel Email - offthebeatenclef@gmail.com Thanks for listening!
90. epizód: Az előadóművésznek muszáj hiperérzékenynek lennie (Vendég: Krámer György) Jenő nagybácsi a családi legendárium jeles alakja éjszakákon át beszélgetett a világról Gyurival. Az akkor 12 éves kissrác elhatározta; táncos lesz belőle is, mert akkor biztosan olyan jó fej felnőtt lesz belőle, mint, amilyen a világcsavargó rokon. Egyébként éppen ma (2022. április 29.) koradéutánra szervez Krámer György lokálpatrióta aktivistaként flashmobot a veszprémieknek az Elnökök Ligetébe - jófejségből. A miskolci Kilián-lakótelepről érkezett a balettvilágba, ahol már diákként találkozott magával a megtestesült Tűzmadárral - Markó Ivánról mesél így. Sorsformáló találkozásaik egyik fontos helyszíne a Háry Söröző, társaival ott győzték meg a legendát, hogy jöjjön haza és legyen vezetőjük a Győri Balettben. A mester híres hosszú piros Marlboros szeanszát is felidézi, melynek következményeként Markó elvtársnak másnap meg kellett jelennie a minisztériumi orrkoppintásra lázító tevékenysége miatt. Az izgalmas történetekkel sorában helyet kap a covid-lezárás hétköznapi vasárnapi ebédje és a közvetlen rokonság felfedezése is. Gyuri meglep minket válaszával, amikor a könyvekről kérdezzük Javasol is mindjárt két remek kötetet, de leginkább az otthoni felolvasások hangulatát ajánlja kipróbálásra. Visit Veszprém Veszprém-Balaton 2023 Európa Kulturális Fővárosa 100 szóban Veszprém #veszpréminfo #podcastmagyarul #veszprempodcast #veszprembalaton2023 #megkerülhetetlen #stúdióveszprémpodcast #veszpréminfo #balaton #hellobalaton #veszprém #ilovebalaton #welovebalaton #csodalatosbalaton #helloveszprem #kamerahungária Markó Iván Emlékoldal hivatalos György Krámer #balett #krámergyörgy #markóiván Győri Balett Pannon Várszínház Miskolci Balett #táncszínház #dv8
We're going back to when parenting was filling your bowl with Mr. T cereal and plopping you in front of the TV for a few hours while they sat at the kitchen table staring off into the void smoking Marlboros. You're watching the cartoon based off a franchise about the sexual exploits of police officers, playing with your toys of a murderous cyborg, and wearing your pajamas of a mentally unstable war veteran. In the 1980's and into the 90's, companies weren't going to leave merchandizing money on the table and were willing to sell almost anything and everything to kids. Even the IPs that weren't originally made for them. Jason, Adam, and Josh talk about those properties that crossed the line from grown-up entertainment to toy aisle and animated territories. The Bricked Pit's discussion includes Ghostbusters, Terminators, Predators (the alien kind), Toxic Avengers, Robocops, and Rambos. Let us know of any more that come to your mind because we know that we didn't get them all. --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/brickedpit/message
We first caught sight of him in a convenience store buying Marlboros and a Coke for the road. He was dressed in a grey jumpsuit, pants tucked into black boots, silver belt buckle and a large black Stetson hat. Out front, his Ford Ranchero pick-up idled in the parking lot, the words “Champion of the Stranded Traveler” emblazoned in gold on the door. We struck up a conversation. “I go on the road looking for trouble and whenever I find some, I stop.” His voice was deep and resonant, his timing, impeccable. “I suppose that's why they call me “The Bloodhound of Breakdown. But then, my business is trouble.” He lit a cigarette and handed us his card — “The Road Ranger — Scourge of the Tow Hook and the Long Delay.” We go out on patrol with The Road Ranger in one of the first stories produced by The Kitchen Sisters. This bonus episode is part of a special Radiotopia-wide project. This week, shows across the network are releasing episodes on the theme “Making Trouble.” You can learn more and donate to support our work at radiotopia.fm.
Welcome to the Instant Trivia podcast episode 363, where we ask the best trivia on the Internet. Round 1. Category: Metals 1: Photography accounts for almost half the industrial use of this metal in the U.S.. silver. 2: This liquid metal is added to paints to make them mildew proof. Mercury. 3: Of the current penny, nickel, and dime the one which contains the most copper. nickel. 4: This liquid metal is 13.6 times heavier than an equal volume of water. mercury. 5: This alloy metal popular for bathroom rails gets softer as it includes more copper and less zinc. brass. Round 2. Category: The United States Of Advertising 1: This "advanced medicine for pain" was the first nonprescription brand of ibuprofen in the U.S.. Advil. 2: Julie London sang, "Where there's a man there's" this brand of cigarette; I wonder if he was riding his horse?. Marlboros. 3: Caffeine and taurnine are the main ingredients in this popular energy drink that "gives you wings". Red Bull. 4: Bausch and Lomb introduced the "Wayfarer" style of these in 1952. sunglasses. 5: This product gives you "speedy" relief the morning after. Alka-Seltzer. Round 3. Category: Driving The Green 1: "Because you've got better things to do than plug in and wait", the battery of this co.'s Civic Hybrid recharges itself. Honda. 2: At 55 MPG, you could get from L.A. to Vegas on a bout 5 gallons driving a Prius from this company. Toyota. 3: The Altra EV from this company that also makes the Altima can hit 75 MPH; what a (non) gas!. Nissan. 4: The Escape Hybrid from this company claims to have a "range of well over 400 miles on a single tank". Ford. 5: The EV1 got a fantastic 0 MPG, as it was a no-gas vehicle from this U.S. co. organized by William Durant in 1908. General Motors. Round 4. Category: World Theatre 1: This "War and Peace" author's play "The Power of Darkness" was once banned in his native Russia. Leo Tolstoy. 2: Conor McPherson's haunting play "The Weir" is set in a pub in this country. Ireland. 3: Israeli playwright Nathan Alterman called his first play "Kineret, Kineret...", Kineret being Hebrew for the Sea of this. Sea of Galilee. 4: The "Chushingura", about a band of avenging Ronin, is one of the most famous plays in this form of Japanese drama. Kabuki. 5: Juliette Binoche starred in the 2000 Broadway revival of this British playwright's 1978 classic "Betrayal". Harold Pinter. Round 5. Category: Books Of The '70s 1: In a 1972 book, Hunter S. Thompson sent Raoul Duke and Dr. Gonzo to this city to cover the Mint 400 race. Las Vegas. 2: This prolific British mystery writer's last published novel was 1976's "Sleeping Murder". Agatha Christie. 3: Victor Henry of the U.S. Navy and his family are at the center of this 1971 Herman Wouk epic. Winds of War. 4: A book by Flora Screiber says, Mary, Peggy Lou, Vicky and Vanessa were 4 of this title character's 16 personalities. Sybil. 5: A review said this 1979 William Styron novel "belongs on that small shelf reserved for American masterpieces". Sophie's Choice. Thanks for listening! Come back tomorrow for more exciting trivia!
WE break down the GOAT Tom Brady,his legacy and outstanding career. We talk the Super Bowl matchup,the nominees of this year's Rock and Roll Hall of Fame,why are folks spending mortgage payments to see Morgan Wallen? The new Tommy & Pam Hulu Special. Breakdown the contractor's perspective,the talking penis and dealing with asshole homeowners. Finally we wrap it up with a Mount Rushmore. Our top 4 Nascar drivers of our younger days. When mustaches and Marlboros ruled the day!
People often find interesting things in their walls on demo day during a home improvement project; might be cash or jewelry, might be an old pack of Marlboros left by the contractor before he closed the wall in 1972. Ted (last name unknown and unimportant quite frankly) found a golf ball in his wall. It wasn't your average Titleist or Top Flight or old-school Spalding. This thing simply said, “Why Not” on it. Ted could've tossed the egg, but he was intrigued by the phrase and did some digging. Here is the story. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
This time I have evidence, this time Santa is going down. Unless... well unless christmas magic steps in the way. I also wish badly I could title this episode "baking episoda" or "I'm So- da over Santa being my best friend" but well you know why I can't. All jokes aside, the santa in my picture was the coolest dude in the world, and no he doesn't smell like Marlboros ok? It was for a joke get over it. You can tell that I'm not worrying about it, so you shouldn't either.
In this weeks episode we go over the hill with Darren Hall from Pacific Logging and Processing. We touch on his history in the industry, the highs the lows of running a big tower side, egos and industry trade shows. We also talk about breakfast burritos and Marlboros and how it "must be nice". Bruer's Contract Cutting from Dallas, Oregon is not closing it's doors. I figured Darren was talking about an outfit from Washington but he was not. Words spread in this industry like wildfire and Darren and I are both deeply sorry to Mike Bruer and everyone at Bruer's for spreading false information. I am editing this episode on the same day that Mike notified me of the rumor being spread here. I want to end this with a request to my listeners, if you have any questions about anything on the episodes please reach out to me so we can nip these things in the bud. Thank You If you or someone you know would make a great guest please shoot me an email at jason@jdavenportphotography.com using "podcast" in the subject line. If you enjoy the podcast with your friends and family.
Hey, you mob! I got another Tristan Kunh video here to review! This time, he rattles off 10 things that Americans don't like about Australia -- or at least him. I'd say he's got a point on some of them, but sheesh, the others are just ... Well, for one thing, we really do have turtle-net here. Notoriously slow. And we got sky-high prices on cigarettes. Yes. It's AUD $36.00 for a pack of red 20s Marlboros here. But whinge about getting fined for not wearing a helmet? The government here does care for its constituents. Is there anything YOU don't like about Australia? Would you tell me in the comments below? Let's see if we'd agree on something.
Scumbags own K Stuckey makes the shade room. Billionaire Rihanna loses her mystique and Duck tape for your ass. Email: thescumbagloungepodcast@gmail.com IG: @kstuckey76 @40fonz
Episode 44: Verkehrte Welt bei den beiden Fackelträgern des Sodbrennens: Mateo ist fit und munter, Oldtimer Moritz aber stark angeschlagen. Dafür wilde Stories über Sex, Drogen und Warumhörtihrdaseigentlich? Grüsse gehen raus an: Brainchild, Michi Schmid und Cecilia.
Sal talks with Hawes Burkhardt from Blue Harvest Podcast about The High Republic: There is No Fear comics! Everything from splitting the hype, mini-vacations, Star Wars: Ronin: A Visions Novel, one-armed Sskeer, Keeve Trennis and her sweet saber bandolier, a Legend of Zelda reference, blacklight force visions, lightsaber nonsense at Starlight, this is a horror story, attack of the Marlboros, nightmare Drengir bedtime story, Orbalin is also rad, Hutt corpse bomb, ARMORED RANCORS, Axel's comic collection, Hawes is calling Visions! Check out Blue Harvest Podcast! Tweets @BlueHarvestPod! Enjoy, subscribe, and share the Rogue Rebels Podcast! Click here for Rogue Rebels Podcast The High Republic Spotify Playlist! Click here for Rogue Rebels Podcast Comics Spotify Playlist! Follow the Rogue Rebels EVERYWHERE! IG: @TheRogueRebels Tweets @RogueRebelsFam The Rogue Rebels on FB RogueRebels on Twitch Thursdays at 3pm PST --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/rogue-rebels/message Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/rogue-rebels/support
In episode 18, I'm pleased to be joined by Angus MacDonell, a seven year GTHL (Greater Toronto Hockey League) veteran and the 13th overall pick from this year's Ontario Hockey League (OHL) Draft. Being the captain of the U16 AAA Toronto Marlboros team for the past 3 seasons and capturing a pair of GTHL Championships in the process, Angus was selected by the Sarnia Sting earlier this summer, marking another exciting chapter in his young career. Following in the footsteps of fellow Toronto Marlboros alumni, including Connor McDavid, John Tavares, and Jason Spezza, Angus is well on his way to carving out a career in the upper tiers of the hockey landscape. With a new hockey season on the horizon, Angus joins the podcast to chat about how the pandemic has changed his mentality as an athlete, his experiences playing with one of North America's most prestigious minor hockey organizations, and his keys to success, both now and moving forward. Outro courtesy of: Ontario Hockey League Follow Angus on Instagram (@angus.macdonell11) Like this podcast? Subscribe, like, rate on all major platforms and give us a follow on: Instagram (@getyourheadinthegame_) Twitter (@gyhitgpodcast) LinkedIn (@GetYourHeadintheGame)
Episode 16 features the Toronto Marlboros (2005-born squad) PART 3. Includes interviews from Zack Sandhu and Ryan Nichols.
Episode 15 features the Toronto Marlboros (2005-born squad) PART 2. Includes interviews from Angus MacDonell, Chris Grisolia, and Chase Coughlan.
Cyril is head coach of Jamaica's national team and president of Skillz Black Aces, a Toronto-based program that helps bring hockey to underprivileged and BIPOC youth. With 22 years of coaching experience He spent 12 seasons with the Toronto Red Wings and Marlboros of the Greater Toronto Hockey League (GTHL), and he was the assistant coach with the Pickering Panthers of the Ontario Junior Hockey League (OJHL).Twitter: https://twitter.com/CoachBollersInstagram: https://www.instagram.com/coachbollers/Please follow, rate and review. Also check out atpsports.net
Cyril is head coach of Jamaica's national team and president of Skillz Black Aces, a Toronto-based program that helps bring hockey to underprivileged and BIPOC youth. With 22 years of coaching experience He spent 12 seasons with the Toronto Red Wings and Marlboros of the Greater Toronto Hockey League (GTHL), and he was the assistant coach with the Pickering Panthers of the Ontario Junior Hockey League (OJHL).Twitter: https://twitter.com/CoachBollersInstagram: https://www.instagram.com/coachbollers/Please follow, rate and review. Also check out atpsports.net
As I tucked my daughter into bed later the same night after I had interviewed her for this podcast, I could tell she was upset about something, so I asked her what was wrong. I want you to erase what we recorded earlier, she told me. I didn’t understand why, but she told me she didn’t think it was funny and she wanted to do it again. Something funnier, she said. I promised her it was fine and plenty funny - that we would do another episode where she could be funny the way she wanted to, but honestly, that scares me a little. Why? Because I was once a young child and the things that I thought were funny were, in fact, not funny at all, when adult me looks back on them in horror and once more realizes how much more … oh, what’s the term my grandpa would have used? BUTT WHOOPIN’! How much more butt whoopin’ I should have had coming my way. And if you wonder why I was such a deviant child, don’t forget that most of my badness had a partner. If you’ve listened to all of these episodes, you ought to know by now that right beside me stood my cousin, who did stupidly stupid things with me. Yes, it’s more evidence that I should have been locked in a padded room for a lot of my Funny Messy Life. _________________________ There’s a large Ingles grocery store there now, but in the eighties, it was a strip mall. It was before Sam Walton had staked his flag firmly in the We-Sell-Everything retail market and and there were several different chains of bargain department stores. Sky City was the only one in Elberton, Ga, so if you wanted to buy blue jeans, a new spatula (spatchler, if you have the right amount of Georgia clay running through your veins), and a box of Marlboros, all from the same place, you made a trip to Sky City. They still sold music on vinyl back then, unless you were fancy enough to have a tape player, and live tank fish, which were right next to the fishing tackle. I always thought was a tad cruel. It was like telling the goldfish, Hey … we might be selling you to entertain us if there’s nothing to watch on the three tv channels, but you see that big hook right there? That’s about to stab your uncle Carl through the lip part of the face and drag him out of Lake Russell flipping and screaming. My cousin and I used to get to go to Sky City together sometimes when our mothers took a fancy to trying on clothes. Small town living had not yet realized the dangers of allowing nine or ten year old children run around a store unsupervised and we were set free to do as we pleased as long as we promised to behave. So we promised. Our first trip would be to the toy department so we could see what new items hung deliciously in blister packs. They were items our moms would say no to just a little bit later, and then it was off to the music racks. We took particular interest in the album covers of Ozzie Ozborne because he somehow knew that fake blood and deranged images would sell albums. That grew tiresome quickly, though, because my cousin and I had developed a ritual we thought was hilarious and as long as it was the dead of summer, so that the fans they sold were all going full blast to battle the heat due to the lack of air conditioning. I guess the initial blame might belong to poor design of the departments and displays. Because had the fans not been only one aisle over from the fishing tackle and supplies, my cousin and I might not have realized how comical it would be to do a stupidly stupid thing. I fished because my cousin did. Otherwise, I didn’t care too much for it. But he was just getting into it and the day we came up with our scheme, which we repeated over and over again, to the dismay of store management, we were looking over the equipment and baits they had to offer. At one point, we came upon a type of bait used to catch catfish. It came in a small plastic container and on the lid were printed the words, Blood and Cheese. Interesting. It couldn’t really be blood and cheese, could it? I mean, why would any normal thinking person do that, right? We opened the container to see what was really inside and found out that it was, indeed, very much filled with a mixture of blood and cheese. I pray you have never had the priviedge of smelling that combination. I think it’s what they shove up into your nostrils as a welcome gift the second you get to hell. We both reacted the way you would expect anyone to react when the odor hit our noses. We quickly put the top back on it and backed away, making crosses with our fingers like you’re supposed to do when you want a midnight snack, only to find there’s a vampire between you and the leftover taco salad. But then, adolescence gripped us around the frontal lobes, and suddenly we had a sneaky, evil, disgusting plan. It was hot in that Sky City. They didn’t always air condition the stores back then and the fans on the next aisle over were all blasting away, and rotations back and forth at maximum velocity. How funny would it be to open a container or two of the blood and cheese catfish bait and place them strategically behind a couple of fans on such a steamy, sweltering, Georgia summer day? Our answer to that question? Hilarious. And so we did. And then we ran. This became a tradition every time we were together in that store, until one day, magically, the fans had been moved and the establishment no longer seemed to carry the blood and cheese catfish bait. Do you realize the amount of tearing up our behinds that would have happened if we’d ever been caught? Eventually, my cousin and I got old enough that our parents would let us ride our bikes around town unsupervised. There have been many,many times recently, when my own son has made the statement, You don’t trust me, dad. To which I reply, No, son. I do not. He’s asked me why once or twice, too, and I always say the same thing … Because I was a boy once. I know what boys do. Then I promptly go into a closet and fall to my knees, asking for salvation again. Just in case. It was easy to get bored in the small place where we grew up, so it didn’t take much for a young boy to become what my Grandpa used to call a Baddun In The Town. He used to call us that when we were mere babies because he could probably see the rottenness in our eyes. Double that and give two boys bicycles, and no good was gonna come of it. Our favorite thing to do for a while was to ride over to the same strip mall where we’d thoroughly sickened the customers of Sky City, and park ourselves on a bench outside of another store called, Otasco. I can still smell Otasco. They sold a lot of tires and the smell of the rubber and whatever else was in there was distinct. The goal, as we sat on the bench, was to engage in a hearty game of Truth or Dare. Of course, neither of us ever chose truth. We knew everything about each other anyway, and what would be the fun in that? We intended to compete to see who would break first and refuse the dare, resulting in a punch to the shoulder as hard as we could. My cousin was a lot stronger than I was and I didn’t like him punching me in the shoulder, so I doubt I lost the game very much. And knowing him, he probably didn’t either. I imagine he probably refused the last dare and then told me he wouldn’t be taking any punches to the shoulder, and if I did, he’d punch me in the shoulder. So the game would end in a tie because, you’ll recall, I didn’t like him punching me in the shoulder. The dares usually took the form of something embarrassing we would say to the next customer coming into the store. Bark like dog, or call the next old lady Mister. I only remember the specifics of one of the dares I have to complete and I wish I could take it back. I also hope they didn’t know who my mama was, or she would have been the conversation over their dinner table - she and her lack of good parenting. My cousin asked the question … Truth or dare? I thought over it for a second. You had to do that just to make it seem like you were playing the game right. Dare! I said. Okay. The next old person who comes by, you have to pretend they look familiar to you. You have to ask them if they’re any kin to … (snicker) … The Janittles. I was a little confused. Why would that be a dare? What was embarrassing about asking somebody if they were kin to the Janittles? Who were the Janittles, anyway? Then it hit me. It wasn’t spelled J-A-N-I-T-T-L-E-S … it was spelled … G-E-N-I-T-A-L-S. I shook my head crazily from side to side. I ain’t doing that! Then you’ll have to take a punch to the shoulder, he told me. I’ll punch you back in the shoulder! I threatened. Then I’ll punch YOU back in the shoulder two more times! Check mate. I had to do it, and lo and behold here came a blue haired lady, parking her enormous 1980s vehicle right in front of us. I swallowed hard and waited for the lady to exit the car and walk up. In my mind’s eye, I think she had the look of the world’s stodgiest librarian, who had her funny bone extracted by aliens. Either that, or she didn’t like hooligans, and, having taken one look at us, recognized us to be exactly that. Which we were. Ma’am, I stopped her as she was heading in, hoping to ignore us. My cousin was already having to cover his mouth to stifle the gales of laughter that would be coming shortly thereafter. You look familiar. Are you kin to the Janittles? What did you say, young man? Are you kin to the Janittles? No. Why? We hadn’t anticipated a question in rebuttle and my cousin, who did stupidly stupid things with me, wasn’t prepared for it. Because you favor one, I replied. BWAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA! My cousin erupted and the poor lady went inside without another word. I can’t believe you said that … I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU SAID THAT! I didn’t get a bruise on my shoulder that day, but there was always a bit of a scar. Even at my young age, I realized how words could hurt. That lady probably shrugged it off without a thought and maybe poor-mouthed a mother she didn’t know over meatloaf later that night. Old birds like that are usually real tough and the shenanigans of two adolescent morons on a bench outside of Otasco probably didn’t come close to piercing her skin. And then again, you never know how deeply your words might dig into a person. If they've had a particularly bad day, or perhaps they battle a bunch of insecurities, something like that could actually make matters worse for them. Nowadays, I try my hardest to make those I meet to feel better after they leave me and I’m not lying when I tell you that over the years, I’ve revisited those games of Truth or Dare and people we might have affected by our actions in Sky City. I’ve spent a lot of my adulthood feeling regret over the childish things I did when I was young, but I also realize that the past is the past. We can only move forward from today. If there’s an opportunity to make amends, we should do so. Otherwise, I think our best move is to learn from our past and try to do right by people. Hmph. Janittles. You gotta be kidding me.
Lance reveals his success at delivering a labor-saving device as a valentine for his bride; would you get a COVID Vaccine if it included a free Krispy Kreme donut? A pack of Marlboros?? Lance and Danny discuss the importance of good health in retirement, and the financial consequences of poor health choices (WARNING: Don't try the Roomba Vacuum idea at home; we are trained professionals!) - Chief Investment Strategist Lance Roberts, w Senior Advisor, Danny Ratliff, CFP -------- Articles Mentioned in this show: -------- Get more info & commentary: -------- Register for the next Candid Coffee: -------- SUBSCRIBE to The Real Investment Show here: -------- Visit our Site: www.realinvestmentadvice.com Contact Us: 1-855-RIA-PLAN -------- Subscribe to RIA Pro: -------- Connect with us on social: https://twitter.com/RealInvAdvice https://twitter.com/LanceRoberts https://www.facebook.com/RealInvestmentAdvice/ #Stocks #Money #Investing
Episode 2 features the Toronto Marlboros (2005-born squad) PART 1. Includes interviews from Colby Barlow, Taeo Artichuk, Tristan Bertucci, and Joey Costanzo.
Detroit Red Wings forward Sam Gagner joins Jeff and Elliotte. They discuss why he and fellow Marlboros alumnus John Tavares wanted to get involved in minor hockey, where he was when Elliotte broke the news on Hockey Night in Canada, if he was surprised by the hockey community’s reaction, the types of changes he’d like […]
Sue and Caitlin are joined by Matt and Sie from the Heist podcast to discuss some juicy scams. First, Heist Podcast covers the cutest little thief ya ever did see. They’re talking about Theodore Conrad (aka Teddy Crown), who robbed a bank that he worked at and then smoked a carton of Marlboros. Then, Caitlin and Sue dive into the Twelve Tribes cult that runs a bunch of Yellow Delis throughout the world. Going forward, you’re going to probably want to get your sprouts and sundried tomato sandwiches somewhere else. RESOURCES: https://www.heistpodcast.com/ https://yellowdeli.com https://cuindependent.com/2019/12/11/yellow-deli-twelve-tribes-cui-investigation/ https://thetrek.co/twelve-tribes-yellow-deli-hiker-haven-creepy-cult/ https://www.vice.com/en/article/nnkngd/visiting-the-cafe-thats-so-good-people-ignore-its-run-by-a-cult GoFundMe for Andy Bustillos: https://gofund.me/8a2a45de https://www.youtube.com/c/caitlinBrodnick http://suesmithcomedy.com DISCLAIMER: We are comedians and this is satire. C’mon Send us your scams! scamwowpodcast@gmail.com Or call: 347-509-9414 scamwowpodcast.com Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
Mark meets a peach at the DMV. Jonathan grills Netflix online customer support. Boss of Tokyo Olympics wants women to talk less in meetings, listener tweets, bad drunk-acting and more... Buy Premium (do it!) --> SLR Premium Send us an e-mail: SadlyLackingRadio@gmail.com
Q-Dogg talks about the legend of the Niekro brothers, how his wife caught him eating Miracle Whip sandwiches, and how he used to drive to the gas station when he was 12 to buy his mom Marlboros. This episode has a bunch of crazy shit in it, so buckle up! Thanks for listening! Check out our social media and burn some time at work! Instagram: @GreatestShowOnDirt Twitter: @GreatestOnDirt Facebook: @GreatestOnDirt
November 9-15, 2002 This week Ken welcomes fellow New Englander, Mortified alum and author Tony Pacitti. Ken and Tony discuss cheating, Spanish, Rhode Island cuisine, Italy, diners, the 2000s, smoking Marlboros, James Bond, boobs, Christ in New York, Rocket Scientists, JFK, According to Jim, the Big of her Front, kids feeling up women, Bruce Lee knives, Battlebots, Dom Joly's Trigger Happy TV, Good Eats, Rocket Man, peeing into boots, Charmed, Angel, cutting Invasion of the Body Snatcher twice, Alias, Home Movies, TNN, Spike, Star Trek the Next Generation, WWE RAW, Russian versions of US Sitcoms, Behind the Music, E! True Hollywood Stories, Hocus Pocus, Anna Nicole Smith, the five night chronological version of The Godfather, The Sopranos, The Tick, Birds of Prey, Scrubs, Spin City, Crossing Jordan, Providence, History's DVR driven memory hole, Who's Line Is It Anyway?, John Doe, guessing late night talk show hosts jokes and hanging out with the Son of Sam to understand the DC Sniper.
Exit Tobacco is your typical smoke shop, offering everything from Marlboros to vapes. Ziad Jabri, one of the managers, said the store, located right along the state's southern border in Salem, has always seen a steady stream of customers from Massachusetts, thanks to New Hampshire's lower tobacco tax. But this year, it’s gone through the roof.
What IS consciousness? What does it actually mean? “Consciousness refers to your individual awareness of your unique thoughts, memories, feelings, sensations, and environments. Consciousness is your awareness of yourself and the world around you.” (Your awareness is subjective and unique to you. If you can describe something you are experiencing in words, then it is part of your consciousness.) What if you could harness your consciousness to be your best-self and live the life you've always DREAMED of? This week on The Big Leap, Gay and Mike show you how your consciousness is actually your most important product and how to work with and refine it to make your goals and dreams come true faster.Why is your consciousness your most valuable product?Most good businesses are in a constant state of refinement. (think about the thousands of people that sit in rooms at Apple or Google and work on tiny little refinement of a very big machine.) We want you to think of your consciousness as your biggest product, your most important asset because it's the thing that everything else depends upon. We need to be in the process of constantly upgrading your consciousness. When Gay was young, he needed thick glasses and was very, very overweight. This is the story of how a slip on his head changed his life forever. When he was 24, he weighed 320 pounds, (today he weighs 180 pounds, and has for many years) smoked two or three packs of Marlboros a day and was in a bad relationship with a horrible job. He hadn't created anything of real value or made any big contribution to the world by age 24. He was beginning to feel a lot of pressure, especially with his weight because his father had been incredibly overweight and died before he was born. Somehow Gay was living out his father's life who died at 32, was very obese, smoking heavily in a bad relationship. He had a moment that same year that shocked him into a different state of consciousness. The way his unconscious chose to do that was to arrange to have him slip on the ice and slam down really hard on his back on an icy road in New England. He didn't knock himself out but he had what he calls “An Out of Hendrix Experience” because it knocked him out of his normal way of seeing the world and for about two minutes he laid there on the ice, shivering, but out of his usual state of consciousness. In that moment something happened that affected the rest of his life. He landed about six inches from a jagged rock and as he was realizing, “wow, if I could have died in this moment… what would my life have been?” He realized it would have not been a very interesting movie to watch and in that moment he had the experience of being able to see himself all the way down to the center of his psyche. He understood how he ate to deal with his emotions when he was lonely, scared or in any kind of emotional upset. In that moment he felt into a state of pure consciousness (consciousness without any stuff on it.) He realized that's our birthright. That's what we get as human beings and as he was laying there, Gay made that same commitment to experience that state of pure consciousness every day of his life going forward. As he came out of that experience he felt himself thinking, “Oh, no, here I am in my old body, I still weigh over 300 pounds, I want a cigarette and I'm still wearing glasses,” and feeling really sad for a moment. But he had made the commitment of always feeling that state of pure consciousness, so he began to think of his whole existence and refining that consciousness so that there wasn't anything in the way of that showing up out into the world. Over the next year by keeping a focus, he lost more than 100 pounds and quit wearing glasses. That ONE moment changed everything because in that moment ...
Our guest on episode 71 is Wayne “Swoop” Carleton, who was an important part of the Boston Bruins 1969-70 Stanley Cup championship team. In fact, he was on the ice when Bobby Orr scored his famous Cup-clinching goal in the fourth game of the 1970 Stanley Cup Final. Carleton played junior hockey for the Toronto Marlboros, from 1961-1966 and he played a starring role in the Marlboros 1964 Memorial Cup championship. After a brief stay with the Toronto Maple Leafs, Carleton was traded to the Bruins during the 69-70 season. With Boston he teamed with Derek Sanderson and Eddie Westfall on a productive third line, which played especially well in the post season. At the conclusion of a 22-goal 70-71 campaign with the Bruins, Carleton was claimed by the California Golden Seals in the intra league draft. After one season in Oakland, Carleton was one of many Seals players who would jump to the fledgling World Hockey Association. Carleton became an all star in the WHA topping the 90-point mark in 1972-73 with the Ottawa Nationals and in 1973-74 when that franchise moved to Toronto and became the Toros. He was later traded to the New England Whalers, where he played in the Whalers first season in Hartford before being traded to Edmonton for Mike Rogers in 1975-76. Carleton suffered numerous knee injuries throughout his career and after brief stretches in Edmonton and Birmingham, he retired from big league hockey. Wayne's got great stories to tell of his interesting career -- and the timing is perfect as we celebrate the 50th anniversary of the Bruins 1970 Stanley Cup championship. Host: Mark Willand ITunes/Apple Podcasts Spotify SoundCloud Stitcher Twitter Facebook Instagram Google Play Mark Willand Pro Hockey Alumni WHA Hockey Boston Bruins Alumni You Tube
Washington Foreskins (@WAForeskins) from the Twinja Extended Coverage Universe(TM) comes on the pod to discuss what makes smoking dope as hell. He regales the fellas with a story about the time he negged an NHL Hall-of-Famer and then he turns the tables on Chid and asks HIM the hard-hitting questions. Chid and Sigh do their best to keep an open mind but when he says he goes to elementary schools handing out packs of Marlboros, they are quite frankly FLOORED*. Then they play "My Own Worst Order, G" and some other stuff happens. Rate and review us on iTunes. Mailbag questions/fanmail/fan art/loving letters of support - Roundingdownpod@gmail.comTell other people about this dope pod for your chance at a free, exclusive MS Paint portrait from Chid.Twitter: @CHIDSPIN / @sighfieri *That doesn't actually get said/happen--he's a good guy.Support the show (https://cash.app/$roundingdown)
This week we're talking about where we are and what we're up to again, in another edition of the State of the Dude-ion. Some of us got married. Some of us are polyglots. Some of us are home improvement guys now. We'll let you guess who is who.
For services contractors, the 2020 National Defense Authorization Act is like a pack of Marlboros. There's a lot to like, but there's also a lot they'd like to drop in the ash tray. For details, David Berteau, president and CEO of the Professional Services Council, joined Federal Drive with Tom Temin.
ROUND 1: Word on the street is that Trump is saying “Pardon” more than a group of Canadians trying to get through a crowded room, and he's got plans to exonerate some military personnel over Memorial Day Weekend.ROUND 2: The U.S. military spent over $42 billion in research and development in 2018, and though a lot of that goes to weapons programs, a good amount leads to products we use in the civilian world. We'll go over some every-day items that you might not realize came from our military.ROUND 3: We've got an interview with the Washington Post's Dan Lamothe who has the latest scoop on two Navy SEALS & two Marine Raiders charged with killing a Green Beret in Mali.ROUND 4: Sub-par behavior on a Navy sub has come to light on the USS Florida and Kate has some words for those little bitcc boiiiis. ROUND 5: You may want to start stocking up on cartons of Marlboros and logs of Copenhagen like you're about to go on deployment, because a new bill would make it harder to buy dip or a pack of smokes at your local exchange if you aren't 21.
On this episode of the Hockey Docs Podcast, Aaron & Angela talk about their new docuseries Memorial Cup Memories, look back at some of the fun they had filming the series and hear a couple of classic stories from New York Rangers broadcaster Pete Stemkowski about his time with the Toronto Marlies.
Listen NowThe e-cigarette market, or what the FDA formally terms Electronic Nicotine Delivery Systems or ENDS, has grown since 2004 to approximately 11 million American consumers. Recent survey data published in February in JAMA has shown use of e-cigarettes (or vaping) among underage youths or middle and high school students has increased significantly since 2011. Beyond potentially serving as a gateway to the use of combustible or tobacco cigarettes, there is research to suggest nicotine can harm developing adolescent brains and the exhaled aerosol can also pose a public health threat. Beyond the significant increase in under age use there is also concern recent investments in the e-cigarette industry by tobacco manufacturers, specifically Altria's December investment in e-cigarette manufacturer, JUUL, will result in e-cigarette users transitioning to tobacco cigarettes. Recently resigned FDA Commissioner, Scott Gotlieb, made e-cigarette regulation a priority throughout his two-year tenure. The question begged is will FDA's e-cigarette regulatory actions prove productive, will they prevent or inhibit current and future consumers of nicotine from taking up of combustible/tobacco cigarettes and/or allow or encourage current tobacco cigarette consumers to transition to e-cigarettes a far safer product. During this 30 minute conversation Professor Abrams critiques the evidence to date that rising use of e-cigarettes among middle and high school students is necessarily a cause for concern, i.e., that e-cigarettes or vaping is a gateway to use of combustible or tobacco cigarettes. We briefly discuss how underage youths are able to acquire e-cigarettes. Moreover our discussion focuses on related regulatory actions under the FDA, i.e., is limiting access and use of e-cigarettes or youth addition to nicotine commensurate with the potential massive public health gain. Are these actions commensurate with the potential to reduce adult combustible cigarette use that remains the leading cause of preventable death in the US at nearly half a million deaths per year (and estimated to kill 1 billion throughout the world this century). We also discuss Altria (manufacturer of Marlboros) recent $13 billion investment in JUUL, the leading e-cigarette manufacturer or what it may mean, reducing nicotine content in cigarettes, raising the minimum age requirement from 18 to 21 to buy tobacco cigarettes and related issues. Dr. Abrams is currently Profess of Social and Behavioral Sciences at New York University. Dr. Abrams was a professor and founding director of the Centers for Behavioral and Preventive Medicine at Brown University Medical School. He then directed the Office of Behavioral and Social Sciences Research at the National Institutes of Health (NIH). Until 2017, he was Professor of Health Behavior and Society at Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health and the founding Executive Director of the Schroeder National Institute of Tobacco Research and Policy Studies at Truth Initiative (formerly the American Legacy Foundation). Dr. Abrams has published over 250 peer reviewed scholarly articles and been a Principal Investigator on numerous NIH grants. He is lead author of The Tobacco Dependence Treatment Handbook: A Guide to Best Practices. He has served on expert panels at NIH and National Academies of Sciences, Engineering and Medicine on Obesity, Alcohol Misuse and Ending the Tobacco Problem: A Blueprint for the Nation. He has also served on the Board of Scientific Advisers of the National Cancer Institute (NIH-NCI) and was President of the Society of Behavioral Medicine.For information concerning the FDA's regulation of tobacco products go to: https://www.fda.gov/TobaccoProducts/default.htm The JAMA studied discussed during this interview, "The Association of Electronic Cigarettes Use with Subsequent Initiation of Tobacco Cigarettes in US Youths," is at: https://jamanetwork.com/journals/jamanetworkopen/fullarticle/2723425Concerning Prof Abrams recent related research see: https://www.clivebates.com/documents/AbramsFeb2019.pdf and https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0091743518301981?via%3Dihub This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thehealthcarepolicypodcast.com
Marlboros and Mammarys. Yep that’s what we are talking about. We sit down with Sean Davis from the The Federalist and Lukas Lamb who just released Vibe With Me. We discuss the History of Civilization, Brittany Spears concerts, South African farmer issues and many more tantalizing tidbits of the modern world. We also discuss a few books that Sean and Kyle have been reading. Digging deeply into the world of Cormac McCarthy and The Road.
Lyssa and Dale tell some shaggy dog stories, discuss the border fiasco and FLOTUS' wardrobe malfunction, and reveal what happened when the Russians ran out of Marlboros.
For our second test episode we decided to tackle one of our favorite episodes, hosted by Woody Harrelson in 2014. It's a boozy celebration of those rare times SNL is firing on all cylinders, with some side excursions into the wistful/painful nostalgia of only three years ago. This one's for all the Marlboros.
Heute mal ganz anders: Drei Marken-Geschichten die eigentlich gar nix miteinander zu tun haben - aber doch irgendwie "süchtig" machen. Es geht um Schokolade, Tabak und Kokain. Viel Spaß - freu' mich auf eure Kommentare! --- SHOWNOTES Coca-Cola Dokumentation (Englisch) Besuch mich auf Facebook --- TRANSKRIPT Es war einmal, in Amerika – in den 1950er Jahren, da haben die Zahnpasta-Hersteller und auch die Regierung der Bevölkerung verklickert, dass Süßigkeiten echt schädlich für ihre Beißerchen sein könnten. Und prompt folgte der Umsatzrückgang bei Süßigkeiten um mehr als 15 Prozent. Schlecht für die Süßwarenfabrikanten, aber die hatten die Lösung bald parat. Es gab nämlich zu der Zeit schon ne‘ Studie über Diäten und aus der konnte folgendes abgeleitet werden: Der Schaden am Zahn war für die Menschen gar nicht so das Problem. Sondern das schlechte Gewissen. Die Lösung des Problems haben wir alle schon gesehen und höchst wahrscheinlich schon probiert, oder zumindest verschenkt: kleine, mundgerechte Verpackungseinheiten. Einzeln verpackte Schokoriegel, die süßen, kleinen Gummibär-Tütchen, hier und da n‘ Küsschen und die schöne Celebrations-Schoko-Geschenkbox. Die tun doch nix – die woll’n doch nur spielen. Und in den 50ern hat das schon angefangen. Der Kunde bekam die Entschuldigung für seine Nasch-Leidenschaft gleich mitgeliefert und das Gewissen war besänftigt. Die Umsätze gingen wieder nach oben und gegessen … wurde wieder genau so viel wie vorher. Is‘ das interessant? Dann hör jetzt weiter – heute lass‘ ich mich dazu hinreißen, noch mehr Geschichten zu erzählen. Das Wetter ist danach, meine Stimmung auch – und wenn du bereit bist, bin ich’s auch. Fangen wir an. Die heutige Episode kannst du für dich gleich auf zwei Arten nutzen. Erstens kannst du dir überlegen, was du aus den beiden Geschichten, die ich dir gleich vortragen werde für dich und dein Business lernen kannst. Und zweitens – je nach Tageszeit – nutzt du diese Episode um besser einschlafen zu können. Weil wie mir kürzlich jemand von euch schriftlich bescheinigt hat, hat meine Art des Vortrags wohl manchmal auch Märchen-Onkel-Qualitäten (und ich weiß gar nicht, ob das bei einem Marketing-Podcast überhaupt ein Kompliment ist) – aber egal, wie auch immer du heute von den knallharten Marketing-Facts profitierst – ich freu mich, dass du dabei bist. Und nebenbei bemerkt: Selbst im Schlaf saugt dein Unterbewusstsein noch Content auf – also hier auch gleich ein deutlicher Appell an dein Gewissen: Schlafen erlaubt – Lernerfolg garantiert. OK. Es geht los. Heute insgesamt drei kurze Geschichten. Hier kommt die Zweite. Vor langer, langer Zeit, ebenfalls in den 1950er Jahren da war Marlboro eine müde, dem Tode geweihte Zigarettenmarke. Die Teermischung war mittelstark, es gab keine Filter, Frauen waren die Zielgruppe und es wurde Produkt-Werbung betrieben. Im Gegensatz zu heute: da machen die: Image-Werbung. Und in der Zeit hat das Management von Philip Morris die damaligen Trends auf dem Tabakmarkt untersucht. Und folgendes kam dabei heraus: es war klar, den Trend zu mehr Gesundheit musste man irgendwie aufgreifen. Obwohl zu der Zeit noch fast 90 % aller Raucher Filter los konsumiert haben. Trotzdem haben die dann damit angefangen, Filter in die Marlboros einzubauen. Die neue Zielgruppe sollten junge Männer sein und damit die Zigarette nicht mild und weiblich daherkommt wurden die Rauchinhaltsstoffe verstärkt. Den Filter haben sie eingepackt in Tabak braunes Papier was auch die Optik dann noch mal etwas rauer und männlicher gemacht hat. Und dann wurde ne‘ neue Werbeagentur beauftragt und zwar Leo Burnett. Und die ersten Kampagnen hatten noch ganz andere Motive als nur den Marlboro Mann. Junge männliche Models in harten rauen Jobs wurden gezeigt Piloten, Gerüstarbeiter und natürlich der herbe Typ mit Pferd und Hut. Und der hat sich dann bei der Zielgruppe nach und nach zum heimlichen Favoriten entwickelt und wurde dann natürlich dementsprechend in der Werbung forciert. Dazu kam noch der Slogan: „Come to Marlboro-Country wehre the Flavor is.“ Und die Glimmstängel mit der roten Verpackung entwickelten sich zur weltweit am besten verkauften abgepackten Ware. Und so wurde aus dem drohenden Untergang einer farblosen Marke eine Erfolgsgeschichte. Allerdings nicht so erfreulich für mindestens vier Männer, die im Laufe der Jahrzehnte Den Marlboro Mann in den Werbespots gespielt haben. Die sind – zumindest laut Angaben der Los Angeles Times alle an den Folgen des Rauchens verstorben. Und du merkst schon, das ist der Moment dem jetzt unbedingt eine fröhlichere Geschichte aus dem Marketing folgen muss und die fängt auch gleich mit einer äußerst guten Nachricht an: Kokain ist heute nicht mehr Bestandteil des Coca-Cola–Rezepts. Das Rezept von Erfinder John S. Pemberton 1886 sah da noch n‘ Bisschen anders aus. Der Bürgerkrieg ist zu Ende und hinterlässt auch bei John Pemberton seine Spuren. Eine Kugel hat er sich eingefangen und eine eindrucksvolle Bauchnarbe zeugt von einem Säbelhieb. Morphin ist sein Begleiter und die sucht nach dem Opiat, lässt nicht lange auf sich warten. Gegen die hämmernden Kopfschmerzen, die Magenprobleme und die Morphium-Sucht könnte es eine Lösung geben, denkt er sich. Denn als ausgebildeter Pharmazeut und Apotheker kommt er auf die Idee, sich ein Serum zu brauen. Eine braune, zähflüssige Tinktur. Aufgelöst in Sodawasser, mit allerlei exotischen Stoffen und vor allem auch Kokain – versüßt ihm das Zeug so manche Stunde. So liest man es. Frank Robinson, sein Buchhalter, wittert das Potenzial dieses Getränks, entwickelt den Schriftzug, der bis heute fast unverändert blieb und schaltet die erste Zeitungsanzeige für Coca-Cola. Die Leute lieben es und im ersten Jahr machen Sie mit Coca-Cola um die 50 $. Allerdings liegen die Ausgaben mit 76 $ deutlich höher. Aber die Abhängigkeit holt Pemberton ein. Man munkelt die finanziellen Probleme waren es, die ihn dazu gebracht haben, seine gesamten Rechte an Coca-Cola zu verkaufen. An Asa Candler für 2.300 Dollar. Und der Rest ist Geschichte. Und ich hab‘ mal ein bisschen recherchiert. Die Geschichte, über Coca-Cola, die ich dir gerade erzählt habe, habe ich zusammen getragen aus Fakten vom WDR und Focus.de. Die offizielle Geschichte von Coca-Cola wiederum, stellt sich ganz anders dar. Die ist richtig glattgeschliffen. Keine Rede von Medikamentensucht, und bei denen war es auch der Buchhalter, der die Firma verkauft hat. Und zwar ein ganzes Jahr später als es der Focus-Bericht darstellt. Und wenn du mal Storytelling in seiner Reinform erleben möchtest, dann schau in die Shownotes. Da hab‘ ich dir das YouTube Video verlinkt, eine Dokumentation über die Coca-Cola Geschichte. Und ich denk mal die Version dürfte Der Coca-Cola Company sehr gefallen, zumal da natürlich ausgesuchte Angestellte von Coca-Cola interviewt werden. Aber wie man es auch dreht und wendet - eine richtig gute Geschichte schafft den Mythos und über den spricht heute die ganze Welt. Das fing mit dem Brauen im Messingkessel an und ging durch die Decke, als sich Clark Gable, Greta Gabo und sogar JFK in aller Öffentlichkeit zu Coca-Cola bekannten. Was ist deine Geschichte? Hast du dich schon mal in ein Abenteuer gestürzt, bist durch einen Konflikt gegangen und am Schluss Gestärkt und als Held zurückgekehrt? Denn das sind die Zutaten, die eine gute Geschichte braucht, um ein bisschen Magie und Mythos um deine Marke herum entstehen zu lassen. Vielleicht wurde dir gekündigt, du hast dich daraufhin selbstständig gemacht und mit Leidenschaft deine ersten Kunden angezogen auch wenn’s große Schwierigkeiten in deinem Umfeld gab als niemand an dich geglaubt hat aber trotzdem: der letzte Monat war dein Erster in den schwarzen Zahlen!? Was auch immer dir den Willen verleiht, deinen Weg zu gehen und an dein Business zu glauben, deinen Kunden nicht nur den Dienst nach Vorschrift zu liefern, sondern sie zu begeistern. Das ist dein Rezept. Das ist der Stoff, aus dem Helden hervorgehen. Nutz‘ ihn für dein Storytelling, für deine eigene Geschichte und wenn du gerade erst am Anfang bist, wünsche ich dir jetzt schon einen kometenhaften Aufstieg und … gute Nacht. Bis zur nächsten Episode.
In this installment of "Apocalypse Party" by Sean Gilbert, difficult questions are asked and answered and argued about, such as which section of a human centipede would you rather be? Here's a taste: “You are out of your mind!” I told Alicia. “It’s obvious that C would be better!”“I thought you said A was better!” she contradicted.“Everyone knows A is best! That’s not in question. Beyond that it’s just a matter of whether you’d rather be B or C.”“Then it’s definitely B!” Alicia insisted.“You’re insane. B gets it on both ends. That’s the worst of all!”“But at least B gets to dish it out!”“You’re disgusting.”“At least that way you’re not a total victim. You get to shit in someone else’s mouth.”“Why would you want to shit in someone’s mouth?” “I’m just saying, if someone’s shitting in my mouth...”“You’re terrible,” I declared piously. I have no tolerance for mouth-shitters. ENTER: STEFAN Every now and then there’s a drunk guy so unbelievably obnoxious it’s kind of endearing. That night it wasn’t me. I’m a sweetheart on my worst night compared to Stefan. He was a four foot German who approached our table inexplicably and was just as inexplicably pissed off at the whole of existence. All attempts at conversation ended in bile. He looked confused and disheveled. We were so amused at the idea of him that we didn’t even notice that his right hand was covered in dried blood. Considering he chose to stand in such close proximity with no stated purpose, I decided to extend a greeting.“What’s up?”He moved between me and Dane to sit on a stool near Charlotte. His surly countenance softened somewhat at the sight of her.“Vhat’s up vith you?” he asked of her instead of answering me. “I am Stefan.”“Where are you from?” she humored him. The novelty of any new experience is enough to make it acceptable to the inebriated.“Vhere ze fuck do you sink I’m from?” he said sharply.“Doucheland?” Tracy asked. He had a distinct German accent.“Deutschland!” he corrected her, which was unnecessary since the mispronunciation had been deliberate.“Whatever,” said Tracy, unfazed at the admonishment.Dane decided to try his hand, asking Stefan: “Did you come here for SCAD?”The little man snorted indignantly.“Do I look like a fucking art student?” he complained.“Yes,” I told him. He absolutely did.“Do you like it here?” Charlotte asked him, at this point making conversation out of pure fascination.“No, I fucking hate it here!” he barked angrily, as if all questions were infuriating.“Then what the fuck are you doing here?” I asked him with annoyance. I meant it in every applicable way.“I don’t fucking know!” he admitted.“Well, how’d you get here?” I pressed him.“How did you get here, asshole?” was his curt rejoinder.Without asking, Stefan took a cigarette from the pack of Kools and used my lighter to light it. Scowling at the flavor, he examined the pack with disgust.“I hate fucking Kools!” he spat out with rage.“Sorry, Stefan,” I said insincerely, “they were out of Marlboros.”“I hate fucking Marlboros too!” He took offense at this even though we never offered him a cigarette at all. He was beside himself with anger at the prospect of settling, and banged his tiny fist on the table in defiance. We took no offense, mostly because we couldn’t stop laughing. Stefan was a treasure, an unexplainable force of nature. Like an angry little gnome sent to entertain us with his ire. The conversation tapered off, and after introductions were made Stefan couldn’t remember anyone’s name so he decided to call every-one Ross. Except me. Me he continued to call Asshole.
In this episode of Bloody Angola: A Podcast by Woody Overton and Jim Chapman you are brought back to the 50's as Woody and Jim cover some of the more infamous stories regarding Louisiana State Penitentiary as told through the pages of the Angolite Prison Newspaper.#TheAngolite #1954throughtheinmateseyes #bloodyangolapodcast #convictGET 50% OFF PLUS FREE SHIPPING AT HELLOFRESH!HelloFresh delivers step-by-step recipes and fresh, pre-portioned ingredients right to your door. First, you set your meal plan preferences with options for carnivores, vegetarians, calorie-counters, and more. You'll choose from 30+ delicious weekly recipes carefully put together by the amazing chefs!Click Here to Take advantage of 16 FREE MEALS and FREE SHIPPING!www.Hellofresh.com/BloodyAngola501954 THROUGH AN INMATES EYES: Bloody Angola Podcast TranscriptJim: Hey everyone and welcome back to Bloody-Woody: -Angola.Jim: A podcast 142 years in the making.Woody: The Complete Story of America's Bloodiest Prison.Jim: And I'm Jim Chapman. Woody: And I'm Woody Overton.Jim: And we got some Angolites.Woody: Right? I love these stories, man. True, true history from the past. Before we get started, we want to say our thoughts and prayers are with all our people in Florida and Georgia that are getting slammed right now, or got slammed yesterday and came ashore as a Category 3.Jim: And continue to get slammed. Woody: And it's just bad. And they said they haven't seen a storm like that in 125 years. So, just prayers for them. I guess you call it Idalia, I-D-A-L-I-A. It's just bad, prayer for them. We know what they're going through.Jim: Yeah, we've been through a few of those ourselves. So, our hearts and prayers and thoughts are with those folks and the road to recovery. You will recover. It'll seem like you won't, but you'll come back. Look, we've done a lot of historical podcasts with relation to the Angolite, the prison weekly paper that Angola has put out for so many years. This is an award-winning paper all over the world.Woody: And actually turned into a magazine because I had a subscription to it back in the 90s. Jim: Absolutely. Some of the stories from back in the day, y'all, you just won't believe until we read them. We've had a lot of people ask for us to do another one. Got a lot of messages. So, we're bringing you another one today because we got our hands on a lot of them from the 50s and 60s. So, we kind of cherry pick what we feel like are the best stories out of those magazines, and we go over those with y'all. And I'll start it off. And this is an Angolite from April 21st, 1956. Woody: Wow.Jim: Yeah. That was a heck of a time in America, and even in Angola, as you're about to hear. Woody: Definitely Bloody Angola, man. Jim: Yes, for sure. And as a matter of fact, we're going to start off with a bloody story at Bloody Angola, and it was a headline. It said, "Two Dead, One Hurt. Tragedy trip hammered a triple blow at Angola last weekend, leaving two inmates dead and another maimed for life." It says one of the two dead suffered fatal injuries in an accident. The second died of a heart attack. Maimed with his right hand amputated at the wrist was a third.Woody: Wow. Jim: The dead Charles D. Clarkson, 24, of Caddo Parish. He had fallen under the wheels of a tractor last Friday. A broken rib punctured his lung. He died enroute to Charity Hospital, New Orleans. Lawrence Virgil Turley, 55, a carpenter, died Sunday afternoon at the General Hospital of a heart attack. Injured only a half hour after he had been assigned to work on the Mammoth Press at the Tag plant, Venice Landry, 20, had his right hand mangled under the giant bolster ram. Woody: Wow. Jim: Which is the thing, y'all, that stamps it. Woody: Slams.Jim: Yeah, slams that steel and stamps those plates. His hand was amputated at General Hospital Saturday. Pretty, pretty wild stuff going on at Angola. And look, these days, they don't give you those reports. Typically, you really got to dig for them.Woody: The General Hospital really wasn't a hospital. That's when the nurse, the angel-- they call her angel, was there, there was no doctor and all that. It's crazy, right? Jim: That's right. Woody: And the language they use in these, y'all, is really comical. Jim: And you've got to remember, this was a different time. So, you'll hear things like colored and whites. Woody: It's their words, not ours. Jim: That's right. Woody: All right, so the next one says, "Two Fail in Brief Freedom. Wallace McDonald and Norman Stroupe are in a tight, locked cells today following a brief bid for liberty Tuesday night. Security officials said the two took off from the transportation department in Downtown Angola-" That's funny. "In Downtown Angola Tuesday about noon. They were recaptured within a six-hour period by local authorities, both formerly bedded down at Camp H2," the report said. Jim: [laughs] Woody: Kind of brief on that. Jim: Yeah. Basically, they turned a jet-- and that's what I really like about these, is they do tell you about the escapes and stuff. I mean, they don't hold back.Woody: Downtown Angola.Jim: Yeah. [chuckles] Well, how about this one? "Cleaver in an attack tried," says, "John Newton, a new prison kitchen worker, was jailed Monday on a charge of felonious assault with a meat cleaver." Yes, sir. "Newton is said to have sliced Albert Johnson upside his head following an argument. Johnson was hospitalized with lacerations." Woody: Jeez Louise.Jim: Yeah. So, Mr. Johnson got a--Woody: Meat cleaver to the head. Jim: You don't attack people with meat cleavers.Woody: Bloody Angola for sure. Jim: That's right. Woody: So crazy. And then this next one, y'all says, "Heavy equipment acts to rush free houses. Using earth from the miles long embankment of the old Louisiana and Arkansas right of way, the LSP Heavy Equipment department-" That's funny. "Under Superintendent Dennis Johnson was last week engaged in an all-out operation to fill a five-acre plot of ground for the construction of 21 new free personnel houses. The plot is located on the B-Line at the foot of the old receiving station hill. It is to be filled to a depth of 36 inches. Johnson says he expects his department will wind up with the earth fill operation within two weeks. Construction houses will then start, he said." It's funny. They're talking about building part of the B-Line, another 21 houses added.Jim: Yeah. So, this is back, y'all, for those that may just be joining us, the B-Line is where all the free people live. Woody: Inside the wire. Jim: Inside the wire. And this was during the construction of that way back in 1956.Woody: And my mama lived there during that time.Jim: And we'll go on to another page of this one. And there's an article, it says, "More crippled birds. A second group of crippled pelicans, each with the wings broke by hail in the recent storm, were sighted last Sunday by deck passengers on the Angola ferry. The birds have roosted on the log a few feet from the shore and near the middle of the ferry landing. Observers said the wings will heal in time and that it is no rescue operation."Woody: That's crazy. Jim: And the reason we included that one is, it's interesting that they try to keep you up to date with what's going on the outside. And the only way they know that is to look out those bars in that wire and actually see it. A little story on pelicans. Who knew hail could injure their wings? Woody: The news of the day, right? Jim: Yeah. Woody: All right. This one says, "O, let us spray. An old-fashioned mattress spraying bee was held at Camp E last Monday, under the eagle eye of the unit captain, A. Couvillon. The action was aimed at eliminating any wandering insects who had hoped to make the unit their dwelling place this summer." [laughter] Woody: It's spraying for bedbugs, basically.Jim: Yeah.Woody: That's funny.Jim: And something that you had to do up in Angola for sure. Woody: It had to be really bad for them to do it for the convicts. Jim: That's right. And then, we'll continue on. And there's one that says, "Falls upstairs, breaks his jaw." Woody: Uh-oh.Jim: That's right. "Joseph Tornabene, Camp H-1 juvenile, fell upstairs one day last week and broke his jaw in three places."Woody: I bet that didn't happen. Jim: [laughs] "The adolescent was returning to his bunk after a shower, according to the story told to the hospital. He was taken to Charity Hospital in New Orleans for treatment." So, they're basically trying to say-- Woody: They beat his ass.Jim: [laughs] Broke his jaw--[crosstalk] Woody: "You better tell them you fell up the stairs, boy."Jim: Yeah, that's it. Woody: That's funny. Jim: Broke his jaw in three places from a slip. That was one that I really thought painted a picture of the times in prison. Woody: Funny. I think that's when they had the convict guards too. All right, so here we go. The title of this is "Pocketed Razor Draws Jail Time." Says, "He told arresting officers he was just going to shave, but they didn't believe him. He is James B. Shivers of the STU, and he was caught with a straight razor. The board assessed a term on bread and duck because they said only blades for a razor are lawful."Jim: [laughs] [crosstalk] Jesus Christ. And when they caught him, he said, "Well, I was just using it to shave." Woody: "Yeah, I was just using it to shave." Jim: "What's wrong with that?" All right, how about this one? "Fresh fish leave sheltered cloister as labor beckons. 34 fish, until recently swimming unfettered in the administration unit tank-" And, y'all, when they refer to fish, they're talking about new prisoners. "-At the General Hospital have been screened, tested, probed, and activated by members of the classifications board at a recent session. Purpose of the session was to ascertain whether the fish can earn his bed and board. A few whose records indicated they were unlikely to run were made trustys on the spot. Others who must wait and further test went on jobs under the gun. [crosstalk] 18 of the fish are today assigned to the Angola Cane Corn and Cotton Company as field laborers."[laughter] Jim: "In the number were those who will live at Camp A, H and H-2. Culinary work attracted three men, a clerkship and garage work for a third and a welding for a fourth." So, they were classifying them into jobs. And of all those people, 34 fish, only three were made trustys. So, that tells you most of them, they were like, "Eh, you're going to run--[crosstalk]" Woody: Those three had probably been there before, and then the ones under the gun, that's the shittiest job in the world. Can you imagine, like this summer, when it's 105 and then 116 with a heat index out there all day long, swinging a hoe? That's crazy.Jim: Yeah, that's insane.Woody: But they did something to get there.Jim: That's right. Woody: This one says, "Brown bags chops. John Hunt told the man he was hungry, and he had purloined the poke chops-", and they spell it P-O-K-E, y'all, "-for a midnight snack. The man sighed and put his pencil in notebook and told John, 'Put them back.' But on going through the gate again, the same suspicious bulge was evident." Jim: [laughs] Woody: Right. "Searched for chops, were confiscated, as was also Hunt's trusty pass from Pine Ford dormitory, his mail is now being sent to the local jail."Jim: Which means lockdown, basically. Woody: That's funny. Jim: They locked his ass down. Woody: Extra poke chops out the kitchen.Jim: Poke chops. Woody: Poke chops. Jim: Yeah. So that was from that one, and we're going to do another one here from August 11, 1956. And there's a headline on there. It says, "Angola's Informal Hot Seat. Someone at Angola that I'm not going to name, that I neither know nor care was almost burned to a cinder one day last week."Woody: Uh-oh.Jim: Oh, this guy must have been mad at him. "It seems that this 'worker' presumably was doing a little digging under the steel plate that separates the medium from the trusty compounds, which is located beneath the walkway directly below the snitch box at the medium security gate." So, this dude was digging a hole--[crosstalk] Woody: He wanted to get out. Jim: "He quit in a hurry-" it gets better, "-when a bolt of sizzling lightning momentarily blinded him and luckily did not fry his hide. His shovel had cut through one of nine cables, each of which was live with 2300 volts of crackling death."Woody: What? Jim: Yes, sir. "The soil around the cable was burned to charcoal, and if the lucky bum had come into contact with that current in that cable, they'd have been buried right there where they found him."Woody: Wow. Jim: "Take this information for what it's worth and continue grave digging. The Angolite or dig your own grave, literally, with the assurance that the Angolite will make your name famous throughout the state. It's up to you."Woody: That's funny. Jim: [laughs] That guy was [unintelligible [00:15:55] trying to escape. Woody: [crosstalk] -dig out and dug into the cable lines. [crosstalk] -signs you see, "Don't dig here." They didn't have those back then. Crazy. All right, here we go, Bloody Angola. So, this one's called "Dumbbell Opens Passoit's Scalp." Jim: Uh-oh. [laughs] Woody: "Veral Passoit, was removed from the cell block to the hospital, August 8th, with a head wound. Veral, who was removed from the cell block area, August 8th, with a head wound, which he claimed to have suffered when a weight he was lifting fell on his noggin. Hospital records show that he is getting along very nicely despite the 15 or 18 sutures required to close the clean tight wound."Jim: Somebody hit him with a dumbbell. [laughs] Woody: Hit him with a knife. Dumbbell wouldn't leave a clean, open wound, it'd be smashed. Jim: Yeah. Woody: But they weren't going to rat on each other.Jim: Mm-hmm. Woody: [crosstalk] -take your lick.Jim: And y'all imagine this, now this is the 50s. These guys, there is no TV and all that. I mean, this is the only entertainment you get, and the only way you can keep up with what's going on in prison as an inmate. Woody: It was a huge prison, right? Jim: Yes. So, we'll move on. This is February 21st, 1959 edition. And the headline says, "New Prices at the Camp Store." And I really enjoyed this one because I'm going to give you actual prices, but it says, "Mr. James Thornton, Chief Administrative Officer, announced new price levels for many items at the camp store this week. And we have printed the price list on page 6." So, when you go to page six, I just highlighted some of these, and I'm going to read off to you that I found interesting. So, back in 1959, if you needed some Alka Seltzer, it was going to cost you 28 cents. Woody: Really? Jim: 28 cents. Cheez-It's, 10 cents. Woody: I can't believe they still had Cheez-It back then. Jim: Yeah. No, it surprised me. Cigarettes. You want some king size cigarettes? It's going to cost you 30 cents. Woody: What? Jim: So, if you want some kings and then some regulars, 29 cents. Woody: Yeah, but that was their currency back then. That's what they paid each other with. Jim: That's right. Community coffee, 40 cents. Woody: Community coffee, way back then. Jim: Way back then, and it was instant. Noxzema, 19 cents. Woody: I was using Noxzema in prison. Jim: [laughs] That's a great-- Look, they got nail clippers for 20 cents. Woody: Keep yourself properly clean. Jim: That's it. Potato chips, 5 cents. Woody: Really? Jim: Yeah. Shampoo, White Rain brand. Who knew that was around then? 41 cents. Rolling tobacco, 12 cents. Woody: Wow. That's a big deal in prison too, when I used to be there and they still had cigarettes, you could tell who was a really poor convict because they had the Bugler in the can or that blue can. The Bugler was a yellow, red, white, blue, and the other one was just a light blue can. But they were the ones that couldn't afford the Camels or the Marlboros or whatever and had to roll their own cigarettes. And the ones who couldn't afford any of those, when the other ones would throw their butts out, they'd go pick up the butts and smoke the butts. Jim: Oh, come on. Ugh. Toothpaste, everybody's got to have toothpaste. Well, it cost you 12 cents for Colgate. Woody: Wow. It's cheap.Jim: Yeah. Vicks salve, 35 cents. And they had Vaseline hair oil back then. That was 14 cents. So, I'm going to take this and I'm going to post it on the Patreon.Woody: Yeah, because there's a lot of stuff. Jim: Yeah, it's a lot of stuff, but pretty cool to go through. They got pork skins on here. They got all kinds of stuff. Liver pills. Woody: Liver pills. [chuckles] Jim: What they call hives, which are like crackers back then. So, we'll post that on there so you patron members can look through it and really have some fun.Woody: Yeah, that's funny. Jim: Checking that out. And we'll go to September 10th, 1955. Woody is going to start us off on that one. Woody: All right. So, September 1955. "Airport here averages plane per day. Attendance at the Angola airport were a shade busy last week. Logged in and out were three planes." They were real busy, huh? "Monday, the Paul A. Lambert Cessna arrived and departed. Tuesday the Jas F. O'Neill craft. And Wednesday, a Red two plane bearing number N970246." Jim: Oh, my God, they even knew the tag number.Woody: [chuckles] I know my mom when she was on the parole board, they used to fly them around the state because more cost efficient and quicker to get them there and stuff. But I can't believe they had it back in the 50s.Jim: Yeah, planes have been around a while. They were flying them in World War II and all.Woody: Yeah, but not passenger planes. Jim: Yeah.Woody: I mean some, but I guess it was probably military surplus. Jim: Yeah. "One on the lam still running," it says. "Police in four states--" and I'm going to look up this case, y'all, because I was like, wow, this would be a good one to cover. "Police in four states are today looking for Ray Coughron, 28, a 15-year termer, formerly domiciled at Camp H-2. Donning a correctional officer's uniform, Coughron quietly slipped out of the yard gate last Sunday. Bloodhounds failed to pick up his trail." Woody: He must have somebody waiting on him. Jim: Well, they have to have checked out [crosstalk] never heard of that.Woody: I mean, he had a CO uniform and then he got out. And if the Angola Chase team couldn't get on him? He's gone. Jim: Yeah. And he did. Woody: If I was going to run, you--[crosstalk] Jim: He got correctional officer's uniform. Must have worked in a laundry or something. Woody: If I was going to run or you were going to run, you'd have somebody waiting on you, right? Jim: Yeah. Woody: I wouldn't be running those hills or trying to swim the river. Jim: And I guarantee, y'all, one difference because I've read a lot of these Angolites between then and now is they don't post escapes in the Angolite anymore. They don't want any other prisoners reading that.Woody: It's kind of like the mass shootings nowadays. We don't say the shooter's name. Like the one that just did it in Dollar Store, he copied the one in the same city five years before and mentioned it in his manifesto. Jim: That's right. Woody: But anyway. All right, so let's go to September 10th, 1955. That's 73 years ago, y'all, next week or the week after, says, "New laundry washes for all. For the first time in the history of the Louisiana State Penitentiary, a centrally located laundry is now handling washing and ironing for the entire institution."Jim: Oh.Woody: Right. "Today, wheels are rolling at the new prison and a crew of 15 men is daily turning out clean sheets, towels, pants, shirts, and personal linen of male inmates at all camps. The work formally had been done in part at the women's unit. The other part at individual camps. Set up in preparation for the time when all male inmates are housed at the new prison. The laundry, under the managership of Captain Bill Kerr, is currently turning out 1100 pounds of dry wash hourly. With the mangle of four ironing sheets, the plant will later on press pants and shirts. 'Ten pressing units have been ordered and are to be installed,' Captain Kerr said. A schedule has been worked out to handle washing five days per week. Saturday is general cleanup day for the plant. The plant at the woman's camp now handles only free personnel laundry." [laughter] Woody: They want to mix them up. That's your job. Another one building, they didn't have AC and they turned out 1100 pounds. Jim: Oh, yeah. Woody: It's crazy. Jim: And it's interesting that back then, 1955 is when they started just finally having this main laundry facility for the--[crosstalk] Woody: One thing they don't mention in there is underwear. So, when you get in, they give you prison-issued underwear. But when you do send your stuff into the laundry, most inmates keep their underwear and have their bitch wash them. That's why I say you'll be tossing salads and washing dirty drawers. They'll actually rent out their bitch to wash people's dirty underwear in their sinks. And they hand scrub them with soap and wash them and they hang them and make them fresh for whomever for like a couple of cigarettes. Jim: Wow. There you go, straight from the wolf, right there. "Prison guard post reaching skyward," this one says. "Those new two-story steel skeletons you see poking skyward with the yellow-painted girders are indications it won't be long. They're the structural steel columns for the new guard towers at the new prison. Each will be complete with glassed-in cupola and searchlight." Woody: And they're still there today. Jim: And they're still there today. Yeah. They made them to last back in those days, but built those new guard towers way back then. Woody: Yeah. The funny thing about those is when you go up in them, the outside doors lock, but they're manned 24/7, never take off. I've worked them before. You go in, they actually sit on the outside of the fence. So, inmates can't get to that door. So, you have to go to the door and holler up at the guard, the CO, and they lower you a key down and you unlock it and it's on a string. They pull it back up and you go in and you lock it from the inside. And it's got a spiral staircase. You come through, like a trap door, and it's a round room. That's where your rifle and your shotgun is and your lights and stuff like that. Jim: Yeah.Woody: It's pretty cool. Jim: Awesome. Woody: And then a telephone. That's the only other thing you have. You might have a radio, but pretty interesting. All right, so let's go to, again, on September 10th, 1955, says, "Free Ferry soon to open at St. Francisville. According to the Plainsman of Zachary-" That's the plainsman. It is the Zachary newspaper. "According to the Plainsman of Zachary, named The Feliciana, the vessel costs $200,000 and it may take a load off the Angola ferry. Visitors may enter via the front gate." Jim: Interesting. Woody: I have to ask my mom about that one because it didn't run for long.Jim: Yeah. Woody: Now, they have the ferry that still to this day that runs across into-- I think it might be [unintelligible 00:28:20]. It runs across the river and a lot of free people live over there. Or they'll drive into that ferry and the ferry drives them across and they come in. But this one would-- imagine how many COs lived in St. Francisville, which is back then, you had to take that long ass, hour-long road out, then get to St. Francisville another 10 or 15 minutes, I guess, they just ran them right up the river about a 15-minute ride. Jim: Yeah. Back then you had to have a ferry to go across that. Woody: Yeah. There's no bridges. You're right. Jim: Continuing on. This one is hilarious, y'all. It says, "Voodoo-Hoodoo. You've seen those copper wire amulets and necklaces of beans and so on. Voodoo stuff, maybe. Anyway, Edward Harris of Camp A walked up to the man last week and said people were after him. He didn't elaborate whether he had been hexed or just plain conjured. They locked him up lightly in the sneezer until the bug doctor examines his head." [laughter] Woody: We'll call it [unintelligible 00:29:33] of a mental case. The man said, "They're after him, so lock him up." Jim: The funny thing is with that particular deal is this guy's exposing him to the whole prison. Woody: Yeah. Jim: So, these guys, look, they gossip worse than anybody you've ever seen, and they're all nosy. Woody: They've got nothing else to do. Jim: That's right. Woody: Basically, he went to the man and ratted himself out. Crazy. Put him in the sneezer.Jim: Sneezer. Woody: "Ex-guard hurt in camp fracas. Frank Peoples, who until last Saturday was a guard was busted back to trusty-ship that day." So, that means he was an inmate guard. Jim: Yeah. Woody: "The following morning, he was rushed to the General Hospital suffering with a knotted head."[laughter] Woody: "He's resting well on the colored ward today." Think about this, the prison guards and we talked about that was a way for them to save money and everything back then, but at nighttime, they might have had one CO per camp, in nighttime, they just locked them in. And the prison guards in there were like gods. And you can get one taken out, he got demoted, and he got his ass beat that night. Jim: [laughs] Love that. And we got a couple on this page, and they're short, so I'm going to read a couple. I'll let Woody read a couple. The first says, "Bathing to be enforced." Yes. "Beware your long-eared scouts and men of wrath who nothing fear except a bath. White dormitory at the new prison were all set to give one of their number a dunking last week on account that he hadn't put the showers to use since he entered the joint, which is a violations of the rules, besides." [chuckles] So that was a little short one. Woody: Even most of the convicts don't like a stinky ass. Jim: That's right. Woody: You get some people in there, not only have they not ever followed the rules in civilization, but they don't have any personal hygiene. So, I think what they're probably saying is the inmates drug them in there [crosstalk] ass down. Jim: That's exactly what they did. Gave him a GI shower. [laughs] Woody: [crosstalk] -stinky motherfucker.Jim: They basically forced his ass take a bath. He must have been stinking. Imagine you're working out in those fields all day. Oh, my God.Woody: Nasty. No deodorant and everything else. Jim: You would think you'd want to take one. But anyhoo, "Localite knifed in camp affray. Henry Davis at Camp F underwent a ham stitching at the emergency ward of the General Hospital one day last week. Henny ran afoul of a knife in the hands of an unidentified assailant." Woody: [crosstalk] -he's unidentified. Jim: [laughs] Woody: He ran afoul of him. Jim: Yeah. Woody: That's crazy. Jim: Yeah. I love the way they wrote back then. Woody: I love it. Jim: It's a totally different dialect. Woody: Nobody was ratting anybody out. They just did. Jim: Yeah. Unidentified, I'm sure. Woody: And again, this is still September 10th, 1955, and says, "Cuts out early, ends in jail. He was trying to get to camp early for dinner, Calvin Mitchell, a camp aid trusty, told officials last week. Cutting grass with a crew, Mitchell was missed at a field count. A chase ensued and the lad was found wondering. They put him in the hole, pending DB action." The disciplinary board, y'all. Crazy.Jim: Yeah. Basically, he tried to say, "I was just hungry, going early to eat." Woody: [crosstalk] -get that meal. Jim: [laughs] Wandering.Woody: The next one. "Pipe used in knotting spree. When Warren Guidry of Camp of F uses a pipe, he uses a big one. One and a half inches. One day last week, he wielded it with painful and telling effect upon the noggin of Manson Powell, authorities said. Guidry is awaiting the outcome of a trial. Powell is awaiting the taking off of bandages." [laughter] Woody: That's funniest shit.Jim: That's crazy.Woody: It's like every day, this one's getting knifed, this one's getting hit.Jim: I'm telling you-- Woody: In the noggin. Jim: Yes, the noggin. And look, we're going to go way back to 1954, November 27th. And the headline on this one really struck my interest. It says, "34 shot in rabies try-out." Woody: What? Jim: Yeah. Now, y'all got to remember there was a time there was no rabies shot. You got rabies, you just went nuts or whatever. And a lot of times when they would get these shots, they would try them out on like inmates.Woody: New medical procedures. Jim: Yeah. They would be the guinea pig. Woody: Drug companies come in and basically pay the prison to get their test subjects. Jim: Yeah. So, it says, "34 Angola inmates, six of them women, are today nursing slightly sore arms in what is said to have been the first guinea pig effort ever made here in the interest of medical science. The 34 last Saturday and Sunday were given the first of a series of inoculations aimed at testing a new type of vaccine for the treatment of rabies. All were volunteers," the prison management said.Woody: Yeah, bet.Jim: [laughs] They might have paid them something, I don't know. Woody: [crosstalk] -cigarette. Jim: Yeah. "Under the auspice of the School of Medicine at Tulane University at New Orleans, the inoculations were given by Dr. DP. Conwell, a Tulane medical staffer." There you are, at the start of the rabies vaccine in history. And who knew Angola played such a big part in that?Woody: Well, I had actually heard something before about them trying new procedures on convicts, because who were going to complain? And they gave them a couple of smokes. They were like, "Whatever." Jim: That's it. Woody: [crosstalk] "-anyway. Give me the shot." That's crazy. That shit wouldn't fly nowadays. Jim: No. Woody: All right, so let's take you to the next one we're going to do. And it says, "Count soars, official--" And that's spelled count soars, S-O-A-R-S, "Official sore," S-O-R-E, "Fresh fish may find no room." And then, y'all, we're talking about fresh inmates. "Today's inmate population swelled to a total of 2810, brought consternation to camp officials and worried frowns to the management last week. For the headcount is the highest here since the end of World War II, an authoritative source said. Already overcrowded at most units, Angola camp chiefs have been hard put to find sleeping room for their new borders. The count is suspected to hit 3000 by mid-year of 1955."Jim: Dang.Woody: That's crazy. Jim: Yeah.Woody: It's double that now. Jim: And they've added on--Woody: They've got a bunch of other prisons now too. They didn't have DCI and Winn and all those other prisons back then.Jim: Yeah. And so, we're still in 1954. And it says, "Here's that stuff again. Like the old saying about the character who, every time he opened his mouth, put his foot in it, last week, The Angolite carried a story about a patch of that nauseous stuff, okra, [laughs] situated just outside the fence of the woman's camp. And proving that the dames don't look into other people's backyards, as soon as she had read the account, buxom Alice said-," buxom Alice, they called her buxom Alice. "Buxom Alice said, 'Where's the okra? Why, I just love okra.' Yesterday at all units the food service department ordered for supper, you guessed it, boiled okra." Yuck. [laughter] Woody: That's funny. Jim: They didn't like that boiled okra.Woody: They're feeding them-- [crosstalk] Jim: I kind of like okra myself. Woody: [crosstalk] -especially my [unintelligible 00:38:15]-- Didn't cost them a whole lot to feed them. Jim: Buxom Alice, she liked her some okra. Woody: Right. Buxom Alice. That's funny. Well, y'all, I'm going to read you these next two. "Four men fail to rise, shine. Captain says your neck is mine. Four localites who bed down at Camp A were collared by police at that unit one day last week and charged with failing to rise and shine in the morning, as is customary in places like this. The four, Claudius Wall, Victor Stewart, Howard D. Keyes, and Robert Lewis, were escorted to the camp lockup to weigh the action of the disciplinary board. Because the quartet was asleep when they should have been awake, the camp count was snafued. Nothing will irritate a prison management as much as a fouled-up count of heads, it was said." [laughter]Woody: You messed up the count, you were going in a hole. That still happens today. And these dudes just didn't want to get up. That's funny. All right. Jim: Love it. Woody: Let me read this one. "Loader whops, hurts worker. Sammy Robinson of Camp F was hospitalized Monday for injuries when he met up with a cane sling while working on a loader near the unit. Robinson is said to have been whopped about the head by the loader slings, which broke loose." Jim: Oh, my God. Woody: "He's on the colored ward." Wow. So, I guess one of the things flew off the machine or somebody probably hit him in the head with one of those [unintelligible 00:40:02]. That's crazy. Jim: Yeah. They're not going to rat each other up. Woody: Yeah. Jim: All right, we'll go to 1955, June 18th, and this headline says "STU-", and I'm not sure what STU stands for. Woody: It's going to be a Special Lockdown Unit. Jim: There you go. "STU men stage short-lived buck. Residents of the STU, disgruntled over the quality and distribution of the food and a few other items, refused to enter their mess hall Wednesday evening, declaring a camp wide buck."Woody: Uh-oh. That's right. "When the people came, however, the usual conversation settled everything." [laughs]Woody: They're like, "I'm about to shoot your ass." Jim: The usual conversation. I love it. Woody: That's funny. So, bucking up, y'all, and I've been a part of a couple of them, but they were like, "Fuck it, we're not doing it, and we're going to protest." And Warden Burl Cain, we talked about this on an episode, came in. He said, "Give the first one--" They weren't going to work in a crawfish plant. "Give the first one a direct verbal order, and as soon as they say no, arrest them." You still get arrested. So, bucking up. And the usual conversation was had, probably the same thing, like back then, "We're going to shoot you if you don't go to work." June 18th, 1955. "A little girl wants her dog. Tuffy, where are you? A farm-wide search has failed to produce any sign of Tuffy, the six-year-old Boston terrier who was owned by plumber foreman, Harry Dwyer, who'd made his home at Camp E and claimed the yard there as his personal domain. Dwyer says he is sure Tuffy is not dead. His body would have been found by this time, he reasoned. Meanwhile, Tuffy's little mistress, eight-year-old Nickie Dwyer, sent the following message to the Angolite. 'My dog's name was Tuffy. He was eight years old at the time he disappeared. He was a faithful dog and I loved him so. I was raised with Tuffy. He was smarter than most dogs. I do have three other dogs, but they will never mean as much to me as Tuffy. Please bring him back to me, Nickie Dwyer.'" [laughter] Woody: I wonder if my momma knew her.Jim: That's crazy. So, this was apparently a plumber foreman. He had a dog that hung out at the camps.Woody: And they were all inside--[crosstalk] Jim: Daughter sent a plea to the Angolite. Woody: Let me do another real quick, says, "Stray dog round-up now in operation. In accordance with an order from the management, all stray dogs on the farm are being rounded up for disposal each evening. The drive will be in effect through July 4th." So, they were looking for--[crosstalk] Jim: Oh, my God.Woody: Stray dogs, they were killing their ass. Jim: Yeah. For disposal. Woody: Right. Jim: That's crazy.Woody: What if they cooked them? Jim: 1955, y'all. All right, "What's in a name?" This was a good one. "James Williams, who boards at Camp I and has a Yankee accent, which he acquired in Madison County, Wisconsin, wishes the management would learn that he is not James A. Williams. It's a little confusing at first, but not so very difficult once you get the hang of it from Williams. 'Their James A. Williams lives at Camp A,' he explained earnestly, as our eyes began to get glassy. 'Like last October. I almost went to the Red Hats,' he continued. 'Or November, when they called me to the visiting room and walked me into a family of total strangers,' he continued. 'It's getting so I never know who I am, much less where I am.' Williams said it happened again last week. He came within a split second of appearing before the parole board with a lawyer and four relatives, but not his relatives. 'I keep wondering what's going to happen when this other boy's time is up,' he sighed, shaking his head dolefully. It is an interesting thought at that." Woody: What was his name? Jim: James A. Williams. But they had two James A. Williams. Woody: They probably had five of them. He's from Wisconsin. Boy, you know he was doing a hard time [crosstalk] Wisconsin the other day, it was 50 degrees in the morning. I got in Louisiana, it was 100 degrees. Jim: Come on. Jesus. Well, James A. Williams, hopefully they released the guy-- Woody: [crosstalk] -Madison County where the guy was from. Jim: Wow. Woody: All right. "Busy tag plant takes short order," from June 18th, 1955. "An order for 40 large game preserve signs, each with replicas of the bobwhite quail in the corners, was turned out on time by the tag plant last week. They are on 24-hour duty producing a million new auto licensed tags for 56." Jim: Unbelievable. Woody: "Plus hundreds of steel bunks for the new prison. Sheet metal gutters and what have you." [laughter] Woody: Most of these, y'all, are just like a little bitty short articles. All right, the next one says, "Knife victim has loss of memory." I can imagine. "Hyde Walker of Camp F was hospitalized Tuesday with superficial knife wounds on his left arm and shoulder. Stricken with a lapse of memory, says he was unable to recall how he got hurt. Security officials suggested that he might have got careless while shaving."[laughter] Jim: That is great.Woody: They weren't even worried about him. Jim: And they might have been the ones that hurt him. He might have got lax while shaving. Yeah, that's crazy. Here's one I found interesting. It says, "Dental clinic cracks own record. The biggest week in the history of the dental department went on record during the seven days from June 5th through the 11th of 1955, according to their bookkeeping department. The figures show a total of 115 patients were handled. Seven plates were complete and fitted, and 12 others were put into process. There were 51 extractions, 34 marked miscellaneous, and a variety of other entries." So basically, they're pulling teeth left and right. That one week, they pulled 51 teeth. I thought that was interesting. Woody: [crosstalk] -too many feelings when they could just rip them out. Jim: Yeah. And I'll give you this one. It says, "Two use razorblade, put cells in stitches. Two unidentified colored women from Camp D were treated for minor lacerations at the emergency ward last Tuesday. Weapons used is said to have been a razorblade. Following treatment for both, they were released and returned to camp." So, they tried to commit suicide. Two women.Woody: I wonder if they got in a fight with each other. Maybe they did. Two unidentified women from Camp D were treated for minor-- They might have gotten in a knife fight with each other. Jim: Maybe.Woody: Maybe it was suicide. I don't know. All right, September 18th, 1954, y'all. "Uniforms for free personnel soon. For the first time in the history of Louisiana State Penitentiary, correctional officers will be garbed in uniforms." Wow, this is interesting. "'Hats, coats, trousers, and shirts are on order and will be issued,' Secretary Chief W. H. Maynard said Wednesday. The uniforms will be of a forest green hue with beige-colored shirts, the official said. There will be no badges, however, nor any marks of rank worn. A shoulder patch will designate the wearer as an LSP officer."Jim: How about that?Woody: 1954 is when they had got the first uniforms. That's crazy.Jim: That's crazy. It had been around since 1901 as a state prison, and it took till 1954 to get-- so they just wore whatever they wanted, I guess. Button up shirts or something.Woody: Blue jeans and something. Real quick, at the top of this page, it says, "Dixie's only prison weekly, The Angolite." And it gives Volume 2, number 41. Angola, Louisiana. September 18th, 1954, 10 pages. But then, it had this box that says "Warning!!!! Laggards are warned. Monday, September 20th is the deadline for filing your petition for the October Pardon Board. Don't get stuck out."[laughter] Jim: Even in Angola, inside of Angola, you have thieves that steal from other inmates. "Dees, the barber shop got looted. The barber is offering a reward." In this article, it says, "Yes, sir. It never rains, but when it rains, it pours. Seems a fella has to get down in bed sick to find out who his friends are. Monday, Dees, the rotund Camp E ex-barber, woke up one day at the General Hospital where he is suffering from a diabetic onset, to find out that his shop at Camp E had been burglarized. Missing, he said, is $300 worth of barber tools and unfurnished leather goods. Dees has posted a $25 reward for the arrest and conviction of the miscreant. Or, he'll pay it for the return of the goods, no questions asked."Woody: $25 back then, shit, you can always buy a car for it. Jim: Yeah. And he was basically saying, "Look, if you took it, if you just give it back to me, I'll give you $25, or I'll pay someone $25 to find out who it was."Woody: That's pretty much their craft. And each camp would have one. That's an esteemed position, most of them-- Jim: And $300 worth back then? Inside prison, that's a million dollars.Woody: Yeah. September 18th, 1954. "Free inmate menus now the same. For what is believed to be the first time on Angola, menus for free personnel and inmates were identical last week, with the exception of breakfast. The innovation is by order of food services manager, J. H. Bonnette. A huge saving is expected to result from the consolidation, the food department said. Breakfast in the inmate dining rooms are planned, but for free personnel consists of short orders only." [laughter] Woody: I guess if you're free personnel, you can order your eggs over easy or whatever, and the rest of them are just getting shit on a shingle. That is funny.Jim: Yeah. So, you actually have a choice if you're free personnel. If you're not free personnel, you get what they throw on that plate. I'm going to read a couple of these, and I'll let Woody read the last one we're going to do for you today. And this was a correction from Old Wooden Ear. And he says-- Old Wooden Ear. He says, "Irate Camp Fers have asked for a correction. Seems one Freddie Armstrong, whom The Angolite said last week had been stabbed in a humbug, was not from Camp F, but from Camp A. The Angolite is happy to make this correction and with the hope that if any others get stabbed at Camp F, they won't bleed." Woody: That's funny. Jim: Even The Angolite had to issue retractions. And then, this one says, "Escapee, guards play hide and seek. Guard lines were still out yesterday for Ulice Baker, 28, a colored Camp C trusty who was found to be missing last Saturday. Baker, serving a seven-year sentence, is thought to still be hiding somewhere on the farm." How about that? Look, they were escaping left and right back in them days.Woody: The way it was they're still trying to, but they got a whole lot more security stuff in place, razor wire and all that and the wolfdogs. All right, this one says, big headlines, "Frazier is oldest! A glance at the records settled the question once and for all who's the convict with the longest time in point of service on Angola. Records showed Charlie Frazier--" We need to talk about him. Jim: Yeah. Woody: "Records show Charlie Frazier Camp H-2 hospital steward was received in September of 1933 with one sentence of 18 years, one of 28 years, and a life term, all stacked on top of the other. Charlie is registered number 23409, is the oldest on the books. His discharge date, however, is still 20 years away. The book says December 3rd, 1974." Now, look in the DOC, you're known by your inmate numbers. Now, they're alone. Fucking that means he was the 23409th inmate when he came in, ever to go to the gates of Angola. After the Civil War when they started.Jim: And probably one of the most notorious-- really, in American history, there's a whole big, long story for Charlie Frazier, and we will tell his story one day. He's a tough one to research because this was so long ago, but I'm going to come up with some stuff for him. Just two quick short ones, and then we got to wrap it up for today. This one says, "Toe whacked off. Andrew Peters, a resident of the STU, lost the third toe on his right foot via surgery last week. The operation was performed at the Angola General Hospital." So, something happened, he had to whack his toe off. Woody: He had diabetes or something. Jim: And then, the one below it says, "Three and a hassle. Three juveniles at H-1 were sporting an assortment of moused eyes, puffed lips, and other sores today as the result of a free-for-all hassle last Tuesday. The trio, all of whom were unidentified, were given first aid, a piece of steak for their eyes and sent home--" Woody: And they run a piece of steak with a baloney. Jim: [laughs] Yeah, there was no steak, I can promise you.Woody: We need to look in that too, because they're housing the juveniles there now and they're so fucking pissed off about it. But [crosstalk] back then they had women and juveniles too. Woody: Yeah, they sure did. And so, we'll be bringing you stuff on that. Appreciate all you patrons out there that follow. Look, we dropped a bonus episode Monday just for patrons, where we covered the first 20 death row inmates that are requesting clemency and got those hearings. We went into an in-depth breakdown of each of those, dropped that on Monday. So, if you're not a patron, join Patreon, you can get that. Another quick announcement, Apple Podcast. For those that don't do Patreon for whatever reason, we're now on Apple Podcast as a subscription option as well. You just go to your Apple Podcast app, and you'll see it. I'm going to label all those. It'll say Apple Podcast Bonus Episode.Woody: Yeah. Also, what happens on Apple Podcast, anytime you go to the Apple Podcast player, and you type in "Bloody Angola," it'll pull it up and it'll give you, like, I think it's free trial for whatever, for seven days. It'll list episodes and everything else. Pretty cool deal, I think. Jim: If you're not and you want to try it, there's a free trial going on. Woody: Some people [crosstalk] either they don't know what Patreon is or they don't want to use it. I have that on the regular Real Life Real Crime. Jim: Well, some people want-- and they want to listen to their podcast through one particular app and not have to go different places. So, Apple Podcast enables that. Woody: So, if you like it and you want to try it and then get your free seven-day trial and go listen to some bonus episodes because we got a ton of them. Jim: We got a ton. Woody: And thank y'all and we love you so much. We appreciate each and every one of you. Jim: Yeah. And until next time, I'm Jim Chapman. Woody: And I'm Woody Overton.Jim: Your host of Bloody-Woody: -Angola. Jim: A podcast 142 years in the making. Woody: The Complete Story of America's Bloodiest Prison.Jim and Woody: Peace. [Bloody Angola theme]Our Sponsors:* Check out Factor and use my code bloodyangola50 for a great deal: https://www.factor75.com/ Advertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy
Woody Overton and Jim Chapman tell the story of Casey White and Vickie White who just last year led authorities on an 11 day manhunt following Casey White's escape from prison in one of the most adrenaline filled escapes in United States history.#CaseyWhite #VickieWhite #PrisonEscape #Podcast #WhenEvilEscapesCheck out past episodes on our website by clicking hereFULL TRANSCRIPTJim: Hey, everyone. Welcome back to another edition of Bloody-Woody: -Angola.Jim: A podcast 142 years in the making.Woody: The Complete Story of America's Bloodiest Prison.Jim: And I'm Jim Chapman.Woody: And I'm Woody Overton.Jim: And we're back with a new episode.Woody: We're back, y'all. And, hey, patrons, thank y'all so much for supporting us. And as any show does, eventually, we took, what, a two-week hiatus? Jim: Yeah, we dropped just for patrons for a couple of weeks.Woody: Right. But we've had meanwhile-- it's funny, we take the little break, and we go to number five again and we're kind of going viral on Bloody Angola and we won't take much time off, y'all, but sometimes it is what it is. That being said, we want to thank everybody and we welcome all you new listeners to this edition of Bloody Angola. What we told y'all, or I've told y'all in every episode of Bloody Angola, is you're always going to get something different. Today's case is really different, because while the story is not directly related to Angola, I can tell you it's directly related to Angola.Jim: [laughs]Woody: The case is about a guy named Casey White, who was a convict, and Vicky White, who was a correctional officer. And we're going to get into it but let me tell you this. I can tell you, I've seen it, I've arrested people inside the prison for doing it. What it boils down to is correctional officers and inmates fucking. Jim: Yeah.Woody: You wouldn't think, Jim, that that would happen, but it probably happens more than inmates doing it. I think the convicts use-- certainly some of the people locked up in prison are geniuses and they are master manipulators for whatever the crimes may have been. They find that weak person, male or female. We've done an episode on Bloody Angola about the lieutenant who was banging a convict. But it happens, male and female. So, it's a very real deal inside the prison. I told you, anytime you go behind those gates or the walls, that that normal rules don't apply. And it is what it is.Y'all, I've actually seen it. I'll tell you one case that really sticks in my head. There was a politician's daughter, and she was an attractive female, who was a correctional officer. Now, naturally, he got her the job and they gave her a cush job. She was in the canteen. She worked where they got all the snacks and shit from. She had an orderly who worked with her when-- we called him, really working her from behind, literally. Jim: [laughs] Woody: And somebody else had snitched on them. So, we set it up and waited for the opportunity and busted in. They were butt naked, and he was balls deep. She didn't get arrested because of who she was, but she got fired, and he got swung to the working cell block. Jim: Oh, very nice.Woody: But this story is super, super interesting. You know what? I told you correctional officers, some of the best people in the world, and then some of them that you work with that are worse than inmates. This story really shows how the human psyche can roll out, because you can be the best correctional officer for years and then sugar turns into shit. Jim: That's right. This is a good example of it. As Woody just told you, it's one hell of a story. The best place to start is, I want to give you guys and gals an idea of the background of these two subjects that we're going to talk about. The first one is Casey White, y'all. Now, to call this guy a stone-cold killer would really be putting it mildly. The first thing you notice when you see Casey White is his size. He's just flat out a giant of a human being. Woody: Like a freak of nature giant.Jim: Freak of nature, 6'9", weighed 330-- [crosstalk] Woody: There's not that many players in the NBA that are 6'9". Jim: There's probably not a bunch of people on Earth that are 6'9" and 330 pounds. And, y'all, this ain't fat. This is solid prison muscle. And prison muscle, as you've heard Woody talk about many times on Real Life Real Crime, is different than free people muscle. [laughs] Woody: Jim and I have been here before, and somebody came in to be a guest on the show, and I was like, "Oh, shit, that's prison muscle." Jim: Oh, yeah. You spot it right off, and that's what he had. The next thing you'll notice about this guy is his tattoos. Now, he has tons of them, but this isn't your typical barbed wire or if you're in the navy, you've got an anchor on your bicep or something. These are mostly white supremacist related tattoos. He was associated with the Alabama-based white supremacist prison gang, Southern Brotherhood. So, not a nice individual. In addition to being a freaking Jolly Green Giant. Woody: We need to cover this one day, and we will on prison gangs, different ones, maybe episode on each one. Let me tell you about the Aryan-based prison gangs. They're like the military. On your yard time, you have to work out. They work out in formation. They stay to themselves, etc. The prison muscle deal, if you don't work out and you're not swole, they'll beat your ass. If you don't do what they order you to do, they'll kill you. But at 6'9", 330 pounds, I bet you he was a shot caller.Jim: Oh, yeah. What we're trying to do here is paint y'all a picture of how intimidating this guy is before you even know even a shred of his criminal record. Now, you may wonder what's that look like. Well, get ready for this. Woody: Well, in 2006, Casey White was arrested on a domestic violence charge. But, Jim, it wasn't his wife. Domestic violence doesn't mean it's your spouse. In this case, he was arrested for beating his mama's ass. His own mother. Four years later, in 2010, he pled guilty to attacking his brother, another domestic violence, with an axe handle, and was sentenced to six years in prison.And, y'all, in December 2015, Mr. White went on another crime spree where he tracked down and tried to kill his ex-girlfriend. The rampage spanned both Alabama and Tennessee as he held victims at gunpoint, shot one woman in arm, killed a dog, and carried out a home invasion and staged multiple carjackings before he was finally captured in a dramatic police chase. Now, this spree unfolded on the morning of December 1st, 2015, when he broke into a home and stole two guns. Later that night, he turned up at his girlfriend's house armed with the stolen guns and opened fire on her and two men inside the home.Jim: Didn't even hesitate.Woody: He had it on his mind. After that, White then broke into another home and stole a man's car and another gun. Around an hour later, he shot another woman in the arm in an attempted carjacking in Tennessee before carjacking another person at gunpoint.Jim: This is all the same freaking weekend.Woody: He's just rolling. I mean, he's just straight up thug life. White was finally captured in a dramatic 100-mile-an-hour police chase that ended in a standoff back over the border in Alabama. Now, he's in a standoff. And during the standoff, he demands to speak to the sheriff and threatened to shoot himself in the head. He asked for a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and a Sun Drop soda before he surrendered. Jim: [laughs] Got to have them Marlboros. Woody: Got to get me them reds. Jim: That's crazy.Woody: Got to get that voice right. Well, he knew he was going back to prison. In 2019, White was convicted on multiple charges over the rampage, including attempted murder of his ex-girlfriend, and he got 75 years in prison. Jim: So, that's what kind of guy we're dealing with here. Woody: Real winner.Jim: I guess you could say, walks the walk and talks the talk when it comes to it. Woody: When you tat yourself up with Swastikas and shit, you're pretty much not going to get a job as a whatever, as an accountant. I mean, you're in for the thug life. He's proven it, and he has total disregard for the law and anything going on with it.Jim: Yeah, so he's right where he belongs. And while serving this 75--Woody: He's the reason they build Bloody Angolas. Jim: Yeah, that's right. While serving this sentence of 75 years, he's also awaiting a trial for the 2015 stabbing and murder of a 58-year-old mother of two named Connie Ridgeway. Now shortly after he got locked up for that 75-year stint, he provided a confession for that particular murder. Now, she was found stabbed to death in her apartment. This was in Rogersville, Alabama on the 23rd October of 2015. The case went unsolved for five years until White sent a letter to the Lauderdale County Sheriff's Office confessing to the crime. During a subsequent interview with authorities, he allegedly gave details about the crime that had not been made public which only the killer, y'all, would have known. Prosecutors say he was paid to carry out that hit. Woody: Got to make a living. Jim: Got to make a living. Look, his whole life, that's how he generated money, I'm sure. In 2020, he was charged with two counts of capital murder. Now, after confessing to the murder in which he initially pled guilty, he changes his plea to not guilty by reason of mental illness. Woody: See how that works out for him.Jim: Yeah, primarily because they were going for the death penalty if he was convicted in that case. So, there's no way at that point he's going to plead just straight up guilty. Now, if that's not enough to paint a picture of how evil this guy is, there's also the mysterious disappearance and death of his 2008 girlfriend. Casey White's then girlfriend, back in 2008, Christy Shelton, was shot in the chest by a sawed-off shotgun inside an Alabama home belonging to White's mother. Woody: The same mother he beat the shit out of. Jim: Same one he beat the shit out of. Ms. Shelton, who was 31 at the time, died at the scene. Now, White was in the home with her at the time of the shooting, but somehow, Woody, was ruled out as a suspect. Woody: Ah, look at that.Jim: That was his history. Back then, officials ruled the 31-year-old deaths as a suicide and the case was closed. So, he probably made it look like a suicide somehow. Ms. Shelton's family, of course, always doubted that version of events and it was never solved. That is the crimes, Casey White was convicted of and the ones he still faced justice for in 2022 when the incident we're about to tell you about took place. Woody: It's just a long, long storied history of being a piece of shit. Jim: His whole life. Woody: A hardcore piece of shit. Jim: Start out beating his mother and his brother. Woody: I mean, he's just the gift that keeps on giving. But again, that's why we build prisons, for murderers and pieces of shit like this. Let me tell you about the other side of this story. And that is about Ms. Vicky White. Now listen, they have the same last name, y'all, her and Casey White, but they're not related at all. They weren't married, not blood related, nothing. Just chances, I guess. White is a pretty common name. But Vicky White was a total opposite of Casey. At 56 years old, Vicky White was almost getting ready to retire from her career as a correctional officer. Rick Singleton, the sheriff in Lauderdale County, Alabama, was quoted as saying she was a model employee in all her coworkers. All the employees in the sheriff's office, the judges and all had the utmost respect for her. Now, Vicky White was a widow with no children and never had so much as a speeding ticket in her entire life. She was clean as a whistle. She is 5'5" and weighed 145 pounds. Now, we told you about him, 6'9", 330.Vicky, in 1997, she joined the Lauderdale County Sheriff's Office and she went on become the office assistant director of corrections. That's something special for a female. I mean, that's a big deal. In 2002, she and Tommy White got married. Now, that's not Casey White, y'all. That's her husband. They got married and she was six years younger than him, and they raised cattle on a farm. She later left him when his drug problems got out of hand in 2006 and she divorced him. But she was so respected and well liked. In fact, between 2015 and 2022, her peers voted her as supervisor or employee of the year four times.Jim: Wow.Woody: I mean, she was just jam up. After her divorce with her husband, Tommy, she remained friendly with him. In January 2022, he died from complications related to Parkinson's disease. She's getting ready to retire. She's 56 years old. She's put in almost her 30 years. She's risen as high as she can get in corrections, sans a warden, I guess. Then, she's liked by everybody. Jim: Yeah. Just a stand-up citizen in all--Woody: All aspects. Jim: Total opposite of the other guy. Now, I know you're wondering, you're probably saying to yourself, "What happened? How the hell did these two completely different individuals just get intertwined?" Well, in 2020, while serving down his sentence at the William E. Donaldson Correctional Facility, which is in Jefferson County, Alabama, Casey White came into contact with Vicky White. Let me tell you how they came into contact. He was at a state prison, but they would transfer him to her jail whenever he would have court appearances. He'd get transferred to the jail, he'd see Ms. White and he wanted to get him a little something-something, probably wink at her or whatever. Look, this is a big dude now. He ain't blended in nowhere. Woody: Yeah. I'm sure he started out, he floated her a little wink or something and she didn't reject it. So, that opens up his can of worms. Like, "Every time I'm going down, I'm going to try to lay a little smackdown on this girl."Jim: That's right. Woody: If can be honest with you, I'm totally confident in my sexuality, I could say this. But I think you look at a 6'9" guy that's 330 pounds, and you think everything is big on that dude. [laughter] Woody: He probably got 14-- [crosstalk] Jim: An anaconda in his pants? [laughs] Woody: At 14, his anaconda, but he don't fold it in half for anybody. [laughter] Jim: Indeed. And I'm sure she was thinking the same thing at the time.Woody: She's 56 and [crosstalk] husband for a while. That's still cracker. Jim: So, they would see each other. Speculation now is that the flirting started, and she started calling him. She would call him at his state prison, and they just shoot the breeze. Look, this became a two-year thing.Woody: Yeah. Once I submit to you on that first phone call, it's going to be a shitty--Jim: Yeah. "What are you wearing?" That was what that question was on that first phone call. "Is it red panty night?" [laughs] [crosstalk] Woody: That may have been the second phone call. The very fact that he got it across that line of calling me-- now, I'm sure they say, "This is a collect call from an inmate at correctional center, da, da, da," she had to take the charge. Jim: That's right. They start this kind of phone thing and visiting thing, and it becomes a two-year ordeal. As a matter of fact, during the next two years, they formed a relationship and other inmates-- and look, inmates talk and inmates after the fact, after all the dust settled and this case became obvious, they came forward and said he would get extra food and special privileges from Vicky White every time he was at that jail. And they were pissed. They're not going to rat out the 6'9", 330-pound beast for sure. Now,in the months and weeks leading up to what will become his escape from prison, aided by Vicky White, and of course, unbeknownst to officials, Vicky was preparing. Vicky announced plans to retire on April 29th, 2022, which incidentally, y'all, was the same day of the escape. She sold her home on April 18th of 2022 for $95,550. Now, that's important because it was well below the market value of $235,000.Woody: Yeah. She wanted that quick money. She had plan.Jim: She wanted that quick money. Yeah. First person looked at it, "What if I charge you 95,000?" They were like, "Okay." She ended up selling it for a third of its value. She then moved in with her mother, Pat Davis, for about five weeks after selling that home. She started taking money out of the bank. She had a number of different banks. She was taking cash out of everywhere. So, she was preparing. She even went shopping for men's clothing at a local department store, Woody Overton. Then, she goes to the adult store.Woody: The men's clothing, she had to look in the big and tall section. Jim: Oh, yeah. You had to get probably some special stuff there. She goes to the adult store even and buys lingerie and sex toys. Woody: We had to put on the kinky.Jim: Yeah. Woody: [crosstalk] Jim: Yeah. This is all going on the weeks before the actual escape, and she even purchased, which would become an important point, a 2007 Ford Edge that was orange under a false name. Woody: Right. Now, we set it up for you. You know who he is, what he's about. The two faces that she put on, the professional face and now she's got-- well, they had a common face. She's lining it all, and he's telling her to do all this. But I think $95,000, we can get by, have some good times on that. On April 28th, 2022, Vicky White stayed at a Quality Inn hotel in Florence, Alabama. It was this day that she positioned the orange Ford Edge at a parking lot about 10 minutes from the detention center.On the day of the escape, at 09:30 AM, Vicky White told another deputy that she planned to take Casey White to a mental health evaluation in court and then would seek medical attention because she wasn't feeling well. While the jail policy states that inmates are always accompanied by two deputies, because she's who she was, Vicky White, and everyone loved and trusted her, no one even second guessed her decision. That's really using your power and your authority and your reputation.Vicky White then took Casey White, who's wearing an orange jumpsuit and shackles, and put him in a patrol car, and she drove away. As they left the prison, Florence City Council member, Bill Griffin, was outside shooting a commercial for his council district, and he saw Vicky drive past him with Casey White in the backseat. Well, not unusual. Griffin knew White and waved at her, and she waved back to him twice before driving off. Just a day at the office. She drove the patrol car from the detention center to a nearby shopping center parking lot and left the vehicle there. They then got into the orange Ford Edge that had been left there the night earlier and drove away. The patrol car was found abandoned in the parking lot around 11:00 AM by someone on a lunch break. Imagine that, right? Jim: Yeah. Woody: When we say patrol cars, even every jail or prison, especially sheriff's offices, they have jail units. It looks just like a patrol car, like a uniform deputy patrolling in. But they have jail units that they can transport one inmate or time or go do whatever jail functions they need to do. That's what she did in this case. Officers at the jail became concerned and tried to call her but her phone kept going straight to voicemail. Then, they realized that Casey White had not been returned to the jail. The Ford Edge was found locked and abandoned in the middle of the road in Williamson County, Tennessee, about a two-hour drive north of Lauderdale County. Unaware of its origin, a tow truck driver, Robert Keynes, transported the vehicle to a local tow lot. At about 03:30 PM, officials realized Vicky and Casey White were missing. Now y'all remember when she bought the Ford Edge, she did it under assumed name so it's not tied to her. Once they realized that Vicky and Casey were missing, the Lauderdale County sheriff's office put out an alert on their Facebook page just before 6 o'clock in the evening. Jim: Wow. You can imagine the panic, y'all. This guy was a stone-cold killer. He just escaped your jail. I mean he is the worst of the worst. There's probably going to be violence at some point. Now in addition, you're assuming Vicky is a victim. Nobody is thinking at this time Vicky helped this guy escape. They're all thinking he must have overpowered or got out of his handcuffs or something. So, you call the cavalry. And that's just what they did. On May 1st, the US Marshals offer up to a $10,000 reward for information leading to the capture of Casey White. Vicky White was described as missing and endangered.Woody: In case you don't know, anytime there's an escaped inmate or convict, the US Marshals, they have a specialized division just in tracking down escapees. Everybody else would have been looking for them also, the sheriff's office and all the state police. But when you call in the US marshals, this division, all they do is eat escapees. Jim: Yeah. As Woody said, they start investigating and they figured out, and they figured out pretty fast. As a matter of fact, by the next day, they figure out that Vicky White was somehow involved in aiding him in this escape. On May 2nd, a warrant is issued for Vicky White, charging her with permitting and facilitating escape in the first degree. So, something happened. Woody: I'm sure they figured out that he actually didn't have doctor's appointments. She made all that shit up. Jim: Absolutely. And some other things. Actually, she and Casey White were caught on camera as well, which in reality, look, that was going to happen sooner or later. People don't realize it, but all of us are on camera. An average, y'all, you, whoever's listening right now, all of you, you're on camera an average of 70 times per day, whether it's going in and out of stores, pumping gas, sitting at red lights, whatever. Woody: Considering the Chinese spy balloons. Jim: Yeah, that's right. [chuckles] The particular video of the two that kind of tied it in for them shows Vicky White driving the patrol car straight from the detention center to the parking lot where it was found. She made no stops in between and that was an indication to police that there was some planning involved. On May 3rd, the Marshal service releases images of the orange Ford Edge that the fugitives were last seen driving, what they picked up in the parking lot. They left the patrol car, they got in the orange Ford Edge and the marshals added a $5,000 reward for information leading to the capture of Vicky White. So it's up to 15,000 now. The subject should be considered armed and dangerous and may be armed with an AR-15 rifle or a shotgun, the marshal's office also reported.Woody: And that would have been out of the marshal unit, y'all, the jail unit, they keep them in the trunk. Jim: It was at this point and still not discovered by police that Casey and Vicky ditch the Ford Edge and they pay $6,000 cash for a Ford F150. It is also at this time that they purchase a Cadillac, and they continue their escape with one following the other into Indiana.Woody: Interesting.Jim: Yeah. Look, this was actually well planned. Just to set the scene for, y'all, there's panic now. This guy is as bad as they get. He's on the loose. Now, you've got a former employee on the loose with him, because I'm sure she got fired quick. Casey and Vicky White drive that car into a car wash in Evansville, Indiana.Woody: That's a long ways from Alabama. Jim: Yeah, that's right. Their last location before that that was known was Tennessee, a place called Williamson County, which was 175 miles north or south of Evansville.Woody: And then, to Indiana is a long ways from there.Jim: Yeah. Period. Woody: He's smart. They're putting in miles. The more miles in, the less news coverage and all that. Jim: There you go. So, they pull into that car wash. They leave the F150 sitting in the car wash stall, and they get into the Cadillac, and they drove away from the car wash. Now, at this point, law enforcements still assume they're in that orange Ford Edge. Woody: Right. Well, what they did not know was that tow truck driver had towed the Ford Edge two days earlier after it was left in the middle of a roadway. When he saw a news report on May 5th looking for that vehicle, he recognized it, and he called the cops and told him what tow yard it was in, and he brought them to it. The US Marshals found the Ford Edge in the tow lot and confirmed it was the one used by Vicky and Casey White.On May 8th, a few days later, another big break in the manhunt took place when investigators were notified about the Ford F150 abandoned at the car wash and its possible connection to the fugitives after the curious car wash attendant viewed surveillance video to try to find out who left the truck in his car wash and then recognized the fugitives. Jim: Naturally. Woody: And they're pretty easy to recognize. Remember, it's anaconda and shorty. [chuckles] Woody: So, on May 9th, US Marshals release images dated May 3rd from the Evansville car wash surveillance camera of a man believed to be Casey White in the Ford F150. Y'all, they're also established in what direction they're headed, basically and that they're swapping vehicles. And the car wash surveillance video showed the suspects leaving the F150 and getting into that Cadillac. Jim: So now, they know what they're driving, at least at that point. Woody: Right. At this point, the Evansville police, where the two were last seen, had the Cadillac burned into their brain and they were looking everywhere for it. An Evansville police officer spotted the Cadillac vehicle at a Motel 41 and alerted other investigators. They began the surveillance of the motel and observed Vicky and Casey White exiting the motel and getting into the Cadillac. Police began to pursue the Cadillac and the fugitives fled north on the US Highway 41 in Evansville in the Cadillac. In the pursuit, Casey White and Vicky White drove onto a grassy field and parking lot near an industrial area of the city. A law enforcement officer rammed a vehicle into the car, flipping it onto its side in a ditch. It's like movie shit. You can't make this up, right? Jim: Yeah. And this was the Evansville, Indiana police. Woody: That's called a PIT maneuver. And maybe they didn't do it correctly. They flipped a Cadillac, dude. Officers reached the duo in the car, and they took Casey White into custody and found Vicky White with a gunshot wound to the head, and what investigators believed the time to be a self-inflicted or suicide y'all. She died in the hospital that night from her injuries. The Indiana coroner's office ruled the death as a suicide. During the arrest, Casey White referred to Vicky White as his wife and said he did not shoot her. They were not believed to have been married, talking about Vicky. Jim: Yeah, he just called them. They weren't legally-- Woody: Hell, he might have got an ordained minister through the thing or whatever, he might have married them in the hotel room. It's funny, it's not the Motel 6. It was the Motel 41. Jim: Motel 41. Only the best for that guy. Woody: Investigators found four handguns, a semiautomatic rifle, three magazines. That's not GQ magazines. People commonly refer to them as clips, magazines with bullets. They found wigs and about $29,000 cash in the vehicle. Casey White spoke for a lengthy period with investigators and said that they had planned to have a shootout with the police. The fugitives had been staying at the Motel 41 in an attempt to lay low for a while and had paid for a 14-day stay after paying a homeless man $100 plus the room cost to book the room for them. So, they had somebody else book it for them. Jim: Yeah. A homeless man at that. Woody: Now let me tell you this, anytime I had a BOLO for somebody that might be in my area, guess where I'm going to check first? The Motel 41 or whatever the local one is. In Albany, it was the Albany or whatever. I mean, you're going to cruise those places first. What they didn't know was cops had the Cadillac. If they didn't have a Cadillac, they'd have got away with it. If they didn't have the Cadillac on video like you're talking about, we're all on video so many times. Jim: That's right. That was a big key. There were a lot of questions to be answered, especially in regard to Vicky's death. We're going to play the 911 call for you now. One thing we didn't tell you in what we just told you was that right before the Cadillac got rammed, Vicky placed a 911 call. However, the operator picks up and she doesn't respond to the operating. They pick up, they say, "911, what is your emergency?" Normally, someone would say, "I'm in a chase with the cops," or something. "We don't want them shooting at us." She doesn't respond to that. It sounds like someone that would have dialed the phone in their lap and just left it sitting there so that the operator could hear what was going on. This is my impression, but I'm going to kind of let you gather your own impression. Right now, we're going to play that audio for you. This is Vicky White calling 911.Vicky: Hi. Operator: Evansville 911. Vicky: Oh, my Good. Operator: 911.Vicky: Please stop, the airbags are going to go off and kill us. Operator: Hello?Vicky: Casey. Oh, God. Airbags are going off. Let's get out and run. We should've stayed at the fucking hotel. [screams] [police sirens going off] [background noise] Operator: Hello?[police sirens going off][background noise] Jim: You hear things in that audio like, "Wait," "Stop," "Airbags are going to go off and kill us." Soon, you hear a loud noise. Now, the first of at least four loud noises to happen in about 15 seconds. It's unclear in each instance what the noise represents and it's kind of unclear from the audio when the car was rammed, when it rolled over and when the gun was fired. You do hear a woman, which is Vicky, saying, "God, airbags are going to go off. Let's get out and run." And she even mentions a hotel. The second noise you hear, you hear kind of shriek. And at least two more noises follow, followed by another shriek. You can hear sirens in the background. But this is the question I want y'all to ask yourselves, and that I certainly asked was if you're about to kill yourself, you're not worried about airbags going off, you're certainly not worried about getting out and running. So, I kind of call bullshit on that.Woody: And you wouldn't have dialed 911. Jim: And you wouldn't have dialed-- yeah, I call bullshit. Woody: I personally think what you're thinking is at some point in her pursuit, she realized, "Holy shit, he's going to kill me. I want 911 to at least be able to listen to it." Basically, what you just played is Vicky, a voice from the grave saying-- naturally, she knew she was culpable in all this, and at some point, she realizes, "Holy shit, he's going to kill me." Jim: Yeah.Woody: Jim, you may be 100% correct, but while Casey has not been charged with pulling the trigger against Vicky, he is being charged with felony murder in connection to the death of Vicky White and he's been indicted. The indictment says Casey White is responsible for Vicky White's death because it happened during Casey White's escape. Well, I get that, and that's a whole lot easier to prove than the fact that he killed her in a car. But I'm saying that he killed her in the car. Y'all want to read you a news release from the Lauderdale County Alabama's District Attorney. This news release is titled "Casey Cole White indicted for the felony murder and the death of Vicky White, July 12, 2022." On July 6, 2022, a capias warrant was issued for the rest of Casey Cole White for the offense of felony murder regarding the death of Vicky White. The warrant was issued based on the grand jury indictment. White, who is in the custody of the Alabama Department of Corrections serving a 75-year sentence due to the convictions from Limestone County, was served with the warrant yesterday at Donaldson Prison. He is also charged with capital murder for the 2015 murder Connie Ridgeway. The felony murder indictment alleges that during the course of an in furtherance of committing escape in the first degree, White caused the death of Vicky White, who died from a gunshot to the head. As are all criminal defendants, White is presumed innocent of the charge. No further information will be released by this office at this time. Chris Connolly, Lauderdale County District Attorney." Jim: That's pretty interesting because even though they're still saying that she killed herself, they're saying because of his involvement with her, that was almost the cause of it.Woody: It's the same thing. I go to rob a bank and you're driving a car and I kill somebody inside the bank, you're getting the murder charge also. In this case, because of the pursuit and whatever, she wouldn't have been in that situation.Jim: Right. Very interesting. One thing I will throw in here is a little caveat and a fun fact for y'all. The Motel 41 that you brought up, get this. Six months after that murder, tt was completely booked up. The same room that they stayed in for all that time. Woody: Yeah. Jim: Yes, people love it. "Yeah, I want Casey White's room." They could actually say that they slept in Casey White's room at the Motel 41. Woody: That's crazy. Jim: So, Motel 41 was loving it. [laughs] Woody: They're probably still loving it. Jim: Probably still loving it.Woody: They're going to love it after this episode. Jim: Yeah. Go check out the Motel 41. Maybe they'll sponsor Bloody Angola. [laughs] Woody: Yeah. Right. They can give us a free room when [crosstalk] Casey White room. We do a TikTok. Jim: The Casey White honeymoon suite. Woody: Very unique story. Jim: It really is.Woody: It happens every day. Think about all the ones, especially Angola, where these people, 6000 of them, certainly a certain percentage have to be masterminds and master manipulators. I've dealt with a lot of them. Like David Constance. He's not as dumb as he looks. He looks like a little troll, but the dude's a genius. Not formally educated, but he's a genius on playing people. It happens. Correctional officers are begging inmates, correctional officers are the largest reason that inmates get contraband, whether it's cell phones or dope or whatever. You can get more dope in prison than you can on the street. And it's probably cleaner, less fentanyl. But the sex part, everybody is here because two people screwed. Everybody on this earth, they just happen to find the vulnerable ones. Jim: That's right. Woody: And do what they do. Jim: You may wonder what's next for Casey White. I mean, he lived. He's back in jail. Well, in August of this year, 2023, he'll finally go on trial for the 2015 rampage that we told y'all about.Woody: Yeah, he should get death penalty.Jim: In that particular instance, he's charged with killing two people. As Woody discussed earlier in this podcast, he will most assuredly spend the rest of his life, if not get the death penalty for that.Woody: Some people just don't-- a rabid dog need to be put down because if he gets out-- he's proven, if he ever gets out, he's going to kill and maim and do whatever. This dude's definitely living for the moment. They found $26,000 out of the $95,000 something she sold her home for. He's living for the moment in the end. He planned on shooting out with cops anyway. He's like, "I'm going to be the--" [crosstalk] Jim: He told them that in interviews after.Woody: "I was going to shoot it out with y'all. I was going to kill as many of y'all as I can." Basically, he wanted to get killed too. Jim: That's right. Woody: He wanted to be that bad ass motherfucker, right? Jim: Yeah. The thing is, Woody, he's even said many times that had the vehicle not been flipped, he would have had that shootout. He just couldn't get out. He was pinned in.Woody: So, that 6'9", 330-pound anaconda. [crosstalk] Jim: Monster, man.Woody: Big dude. I don't know if I've ever met anybody-- Well, Shaq, I think it's a little taller than that, but that's a monster of a dude. Think about this, y'all, for every extreme case like this where they help him escape and all that, think about all the correction officers that are getting laid every day by convicts that never get found out. Jim: Never get found out. And you mentioned Shaq. Look, we're going to deviate just a second because I got a good Shaq story for y'all that I'm going to tell y'all, you may like. For those of you that may not realize, we record out of Baton Ridge, Louisiana area. And, of course, Shaquille O'Neal, Shaq played for LSU and back when he was in his college ball days, he was very well known around here. And much like Casey White, and it's worth pointing out those sized people stand out no matter where they're at. So, the first thing that I wondered with Casey White was he never would have been able to ever, ever, ever go in public anywhere for the rest of his life anyway because he stands out like a sore thumb. Just look for the guy that's 6ft 9in tall with tattoos. Woody: With swastikas.Jim: Yeah, I mean, it would have been obvious in that situation. But back to my Shaq story. I was in the mall and at the time, I was dating a girl and she was like 5ft tall, literally. I was probably 17 at the time. He might have been a sophomore at LSU. We're walking through a mall in Baton Rouge, and there he is. He's like looking at watches like in the breezeway there. I was coming out of Dillard's with my girlfriend. I asked the lady for a paper bag and a pen. So, she gives it to me. I told my girlfriend, I said, "Go get Shaq's autograph." She walks up to him and gets it but, y'all, Shaq is like 7'2". Standing next to my girlfriend, he's signing this thing, this is before cell phone cameras, sadly, but I saw it in person, it was like a two-year-old standing next to a full-grown adult. That was the size difference between those two.Woody: I got a couple I'll throw on you real quick. The same time, Shaq and Chris Jackson and all of them [crosstalk] I was at LSU. Reggie's, which we talked about on the last episode of Real Life Real Crime Daily, it's where Madison Brooks got overserved, that used to be called the Tiger. I lived in the first apartment right behind the Tiger. I'd go to the Tiger every night. Shaq, he was in the bar, and I went up, stood beside him, he was like a mountain of a man. Jim: Yeah. And Woody's tall. Woody: Yeah. I'm 6'2". But fast forward, I don't think anybody knows this. Shaquille O'Neal was a commissioned officer with the Killian Police Department. Jim: I forgot.Woody: Now I am going to tell you why. Not only did he have a house down there, but he is a big diver, scuba diver. He bought all the scuba diving equipment and the boat and everything for Killian Police Department. They're on the water down there on the [unintelligible 00:46:52]. He was instrumental in funding the dive rescue team and recovery team. Jim: Really? Woody: Killian Police Department. Yeah.Jim: I didn't know that.Woody: And he's [crosstalk] with them. Super, super cool guy, down to the earth. He's getting up there in age like me. But it is what it is. One of the best. Now, how we got on that from Bloody Angola, I don't know. Jim: [laughs] Well, we're talking about height and how these people stand out and that was just a few little for me and Woody, but just an enormous human. Woody: You're right. They absolutely would stand out like that. But this dude took it-- I'm talking about Casey White, took it to the whole next level, on getting tatted up with racist tats. Who's going to come up to him and say shit? Shaq might have said something to him but anyway.Jim: He is, Woody, the prime example that you can point to as someone who never, ever needs to be out of prison, ever. Woody: Yeah. Absolutely. Jim: Just a horrible human.Woody: They build prisons for that dude. Jim: They build prisons for them. Woody: Patreon members, thank you so much. Jim: Couldn't do it without them. Woody: I couldn't do it without you. Y'all, if you want to be a Patreon member, there's a ton of episodes locked up and get commercial-free early releases. Jim: And let me say this, Woody. I had a few people reach out, and I just want to explain this. They were asking with the regular episodes weren't dropping them every week. I just want to explain, and we appreciate all of you. Look, I love it when people say, "Where's the next episode?' I love that. I want everyone to understand, when you're a patron member, you don't miss any weeks. We're going to give you something, whether it's just Woody, whether it's just me, whether it's both of us, you're going to get extra and you're going to get bonus stuff. Sadly, this stuff is not free. And it is expensive for us to produce this podcast. It requires a lot of time, a lot of research. And so, with the regular feed that is just absolutely free, we unfortunately have to limit what we can put out there. If we were to a point where Nike would sponsor us or something, look, we're all over it. But if your Patreon member is $10 a month for the starting tier, and you get episodes every week.Woody: Even the higher tiers, I came in yesterday to record, you had a stack of packages that were going out. Jim: The Warden Team members. Woody: Warden Team members. I'll be looking for those. [crosstalk] Jim: I've got some good little swag this time. Woody: We give you a lot of benefits in that, and that's just a way to help us keep going and we give back, whether it's in the form of the commercial-free episodes or the episodes that nobody else is getting, the ones that are locked up. Look, some of those, I consider to be my favorite, the ones that are locked up haven't been released to the public. Jim: That's right. We've got probably about 10 of those now. If you're not a patron member yet, look, you can go to Patreon right now. It's $10 a month for that opening tier, and you got 10 episodes in there you ain't never heard.Woody: And you get commercial-free early releases. Basically, you get episodes if we have weeks of not dropping them.Jim: That's right. Don't forget about the other things we do. Woody, Real Life Real Crime Daily, Real Life Real Crime.Woody: Real Life Real Crime Daily. I would have let the cat out of the bag here first. Real Life Real Crime Daily has been such a success, about to take it from three days a week to four. Jim: Boom. Woody: Starting-- that's next week.Jim: Big deal, y'all. That means you're going to get either a Real Life Real Crime original or a Daily every day of the week. Woody: Five days a week. And Bloody Angola. It's a lot of recording, it's a lot of time. But you know what? The numbers don't lie. Y'all are the best fans in the world, and we appreciate you. Jim: That's right. We love doing it. Woody: And we're blessed. Jim: Yeah, don't forget about the app. Bloody Angola. You can get episodes straight through the app. Woody: That's the Real Life Real Crime community app. Jim: The Real Life Real Crime community app. So, you can download that on Apple Podcast. You can also do it on whatever Google's-- for Android. Woody: Yeah. Jim: Google Play Store. Woody: Yeah, just go you go to the App Store and download it. Jim: Yeah. So, that makes it easy, y'all, you can get it there. Woody: Respond to everybody in one place. We just have so much other social media, it's almost impossible now. Jim: That's right. Woody: It's a good problem to have, Jim. Jim: Yeah. [crosstalk] Woody: Y'all are a great problem to have. We love you. Jim: We love you very much. And until next time, I'm Jim Chapman. Woody: And I'm Woody Overton.Jim: Your host of Bloody-Woody: -Angola.Jim: A podcast 142 years in the making. Woody: The Complete Story of America's Bloodiest Prison.Jim and Woody: Peace. Our Sponsors:* Check out Factor and use my code bloodyangola50 for a great deal: https://www.factor75.com/ Advertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy