Podcasts about marlboros

“If they're not fat, they're soft…” Think back to The Sunset Strip and the emerging metal scene of the early 80's, full of sleaze, shred, and riffs, long before the emergence of the “serious glam” and “serious thrash” of the mid to late 80's. METAL HEALTH and OUT OF THE CELLAR, released in 1983 and 1984, by QUIET RIOT and RATT (respectively) both preceded the hair metal movement of the late 80's and ironically (to a great extent) helped to define it.    While both METAL HEALTH and OUT OF THE CELLAR were “more metal than we thought”, each album has its share of pros and cons, with some tracks drowning in 80's nostalgia that sound a bit dated by today's standards, and others possessing a far more timeless heavy metal quality that still holds up and sounds awesome even today.    It's time to “purse the lips up a little bit” and grab the attention of those who smell like “Aqua Net and Marlboros” that are wearing the “bustiers and leopard skin spandex” who just want to “use the bathroom”.   Discover the shared traits which “vegans and wizards” have in common, find out why squirrels are “deadass” the dumbest creatures on earth and why some birds are “a little bit touched”, go ahead and submit your early enrollment for “Juilliard Speech School” and get ready to do some “edging” to try and replicate “the weird feeling” you had when you were 10 when you JOIN US for the SUNSET STRIP EDITION  of our HEAD-TO-HEAD DEATHMATCH featuring 2 of the greatest debut albums in the history of early 80's metal, METAL HEALTH by QUIET RIOT and OUT OF THE CELLAR by RATT.   Visit www.metalnerdery.com/podcast for more on this episode Help Support Metal Nerdery https://www.patreon.com/metalnerderypodcast Leave us a Voicemail to be played on a future episode: 980-666-8182 Metal Nerdery Tees and Hoodies – metalnerdery.com/merch and kindly leave us a review and/or rating on your favorite Podcast app Follow us on the Socials: Facebook - Instagram - TikTok Email: metalnerdery@gmail.com Can't be LOUD Enough Playlist on Spotify Metal Nerdery Munchies on YouTube @metalnerderypodcast Show Notes: (00:01): “He became a recluse…” / “Have you ever seen a fat vegan…ever?” / “If they're not fat, they're soft.” / ***WARNING: #listenerdiscretionisadvised *** / “I was influenced to do that…squigglies and boobs…”/ #downstairssquiggly / ***WELCOME BACK TO THE METAL NERDERY PODCAST!!!*** / #thisepisodesbeeroftheepisode / “I am worried…I'm worried, dude…”/ #NewHaze #MasonAleWorks #ZombieWars #ninepointfiveABV / “Lime green…shag…on the walls, on the floor…that's new corporate condo carpet…this is NOT #daydrinking…”    (05:25): “I feel terrible…” / #RussellsReflections / “It was a squirrel…I went out of my way…”/ #deadass / “Every squirrel looks EXACTLY the same…”/ #squirreldrones / “If the earth is flat, why can't we see #Everest?” / “It's like we're standing on a great big deck…”/ #overlymuch / “Without women, we wouldn't have…”/ “But also…”/ “Not to one up your story…I didn't do it on purpose, but it came from nowhere…”/ “Here's a weird ghost question…did I tell you guys about the time I heard 1 bird chirping at 1 a.m.?” / #touched #specialneedsbird / #JuilliardSpeechSchool    (14:14): PATREON SHOUT OUT!!! / #MetalNerderyPatreon / ***JOIN US over on the #Patreon at patreon.com/metalnerderypodcast *** / #Doomsicle / “You never see a fat wizard, do you?” / #allthepoon / #DraculaLand / “That's where vampires go on vacation…”/ “Are #hemophiliacs the #bloodlight of vampires?” / #theloreofyore / ***JOIN US on the #socialmedia at #metalnerderypodcast on #TikTok #YouTube #Instagram #Facebook, EMAIL US at metalnerdery@gmail.com or VOICEMAIL US at 980-666-8182!!!*** / #RussellsReflectionsASMR regarding the #MetallicaConcert / “You never know…so let's just go…”/ NOTE:  not EVERY one of them, but an awful lot of them / “Bands used to make money…now the only way they make money is to go on tour…”/ “You have to own your own music and merchandise…”/ “Of course they're metal!” / #fightingwords / “Wow, he's really fast on guitar…”/ “Have we ever played them on this show?” / “Dude, there was a girl yesterday that walked by…and she smelled like #strawberrynerds…”/ #IceNineKills THE AMERICAN NIGHTMARE (The Silver Scream – 2018) / “See, it's got melody…”/ “As soon as I heard keyboards, I knew it was gay…”   (28:47): #TheDocket / “We've gotta get into the meat because the meat is gonna be fun…”/ METAL NERDERY PODCAST PRESENTS:  HEAD-TO-HEAD DEATHMATCH – QUIET RIOT VS RATT (METAL HEALTH VS OUT OF THE CELLAR) / 1983 & 1984, respectively / #SunsetStripMetal / “Let's be gayer or let's be heavier…”/ “If I purse my lips out a little bit…”/ “I'm fucking that in the bathroom…”/ “You did not play football…”/ #debutalbums    (34:02): “If you were going to pick one…who's gonna be the winner?” / “That was kinda the coolest #mascot because that could be any dude with that mask on…”/ #MTV / #QuietRiot METAL HEALTH (BANG YOUR HEAD) / “That's WAY up there!” / #Ratt WANTED MAN / “Maybe at some point we could do battle of the songs…”   (42:33): “This next song…is probably the biggest song of 1983…”/ #Slade #coversong / CUM ON FEEL THE NOIZE / “If you put your 10-year-old hat on…”/ “Why'd they spell it like that?”/ #drygasm / “Ohhh, the weird feeling?” / #edging / YOU'RE IN TROUBLE / “Is this Bon Jovi?” / “When I hear that one, I smell Aqua Net, Marlboros…and slimy fingers…”    (48:48): “I think Ratt's gonna win the rest of this one…”/ DON'T WANNA LET YOU GO / “Here we go…” / ROUND AND ROUND / “Just give it time…”/ “Every time I hear Warren DeMartini, I hear George Lynch…” / “So between Round And Round and Metal Health…you gotta pick one…”/ “Apparently he was loaded, dude…”   (54:16): “I kinda like it…the first time I heard it, it was very loud…”/ #CBLE / SLICK BLACK CADILLAC / “The tone is weird…” / #midrange / IN YOUR DIRECTION / “It already wins…”/ “That's very #Ozzyish…”/ “I think that's the better song of the two…which one would you remember more?” / #nostalgia   (59:13): LOVE'S A BITCH / “That's a very metal opening…it's dark…”/ “He's using a #wordydird…”/ #CaptainOrigami / “The next one ironically ties in well with Love's A Bitch…” / SHE WANTS MONEY / “I almost hear #VanHalen…”/ “That's why Love's A Bitch…because She Wants Money…” / “That one didn't age as well…”    (1:04:18): “So now we're on to #Side2 for bolth…”/ BREATHLESS / “Power metal, dude…”/ “That aged pretty well…”/ LACK OF COMMUNICATION / #MovingInStereo / #BackOn / #Loverboy #BillySquier #SammyHagar / “Between the 2, Breathless might be more timeless…”   (1:08:44): RUN FOR COVER / “Double bass…”/ “That sounds like Tony Iommi!” / “This album's got way more metal influence to it than we thought…”/ BACK FOR MORE / “I almost feel like this ain't fair…”/ “A Wyla cat?” / “I think that's a blowout…” / “Why do you gotta make it gross!?” / “You know that's pee, right?”   (1:13:26): BATTLE AXE / “The tone is so fucking weird…guitars & midrange…”/ “Kinda has Randy vibes to it a little bit…”/ “It's not even that distorted…it's like a Marshall turned all the way up…”/ “I used to voiceover porn…” / “I got a great story!” / #RussellsReflectionsDocksideASMR / “He got him…”/ #PatreonReference #VanHalenSuprise / THE MORNING AFTER / “He almost has a weird Dave Mustaine vocal affectation…”/ “The sound is the same…in my head…it's weird…” (1:20:34): LET'S GET CRAZY / “Smoke on the cat fever…”/ “Cat scratch water…”/ I'M INSANE / “That's 80's metal all day…”/ “This is almost gonna be Side 1 Quiet Riot and Side 2 Ratt…”/ #dontgiveitup / #RickRoll #BeingRickRolled / #goingviral / #killercloser / THUNDERBIRD / “It's almost like Queen…”/ “Have you ever polished anything off?” / SCENE OF THE CRIME / “Now I think of #SteelPanther …”/ “Those last 2 just cancel each other out…”/ #DonaldJTrumpASMR / “Basically, literally…technically Quiet Riot with 11 and Ratt with 14…”/ #votes / “If we put the last 2 in… / NOTE:  somehow the math doesn't work out if we ended with a tie / #grocerystoresoundtrack / “Whoa, whoa, whoa…”/ #soccerhockey / “As Russell would say…”/ #untilthenext #outroreel

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 #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? 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.

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