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Vicar's wife, Jenna, decides to give up sex for Lent!A series in 17 parts, by Blacksheep. Listen to the Podcast at Steamy Stories. The Jenna series started with ‘Jenna Goes To Church', followed shortly after with ‘Jenna, the Vicar's Wife'. It resumed recently with Jenna's New Year'; and now it continues with a Lentil 2-part story. Other episodes will follow.It was the last Sunday of Shrovetide, known as Quinquagesima. At St. Michael's Church, Reverend Morris had amassed a pile of old palm crosses, intending to burn them on Ash Wednesday."Shouldn't be long before the first members of the faithful arrive," he said to his wife Jenna, who was adjusting the flowers at the side of the pulpit."Oh before I forget, I've got something for you to burn on Ash Wednesday," she smiled, handing him a pair of her panties."This is an unusual-looking palm cross!" He replied. "I think I'd better burn this separately from the others! Is there some reason why you want your undies reduced to ash?""Well Simon, I've been thinking. And I've finally decided what I'm going to give up for Lent.""You're giving up wearing underwear?""Ha-ha. Tempting, but no. I'm giving up sex."Reverend Morris almost dropped the box full of crosses. "What? Sex? No, you can't be serious!"Jenna nodded. "I'm 100% serious, my love. Lent is supposed to be hard, and you're always going on about how part of being a good Christian is making sacrifices and so on. It's traditionally a time of fasting and abstaining from something to repent and focus our hearts and minds on the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ.""Yes, but within reason, Jen! I don't expect you to suffer hardship as bad as that!""I can do it, Simon. I'm committed to seeing it through. It's only forty days.""B-but, that's six weeks!" the vicar whined, looking as if his entire world was about to end. "I, I'm not sure I can, er, go without for so long!""Now Simon, you're a man of God. You're stronger than most. I know you can do this. And just think how wonderful it will be when Easter comes, everything in calf, bursting out in spring glory, sap rising, mating seasons beginning, shoots thrusting upwards, days getting longer, ""Vicars dying of horniness, " Reverend Morris sighed."Exactly. And it won't just be you going without. The other chaps of this church will have to go without as well!""Oh my goodness, Jenna. There's going to be a lot of frustration building up in this church! When you say no sex, does that mean, ""No physical contact whatsoever, my dearest! No blowjobs, no kissing, no cock in cunt, nada! Just like social distancing."Reverend Morris' lip was trembling. "Not even a kiss?""Nope. I'll be sleeping in the spare bedroom until Easter. I can blow you a kiss. And whilst we can't do anything involving physical contact, there are other naughty ways we can get through Lent.""Like what?""Use your imagination, Simon!"He thought for a moment. "So I'll have to make do with dating Rosie Palms until Easter?""If it helps you cope, yes!"The reverend took a deep breath. "You're absolutely right, Jenna. I can get through this. I admire you so much for deciding to have a sex ban. In fact, I think I love you even more, and I didn't think that possible!""Aww. Ditto." She kissed him. "We'll make the most of Shrove Tuesday," she added, with a wink. "I'm going to do some creative things with pancakes."He slipped his arms around her. "Remember that morning after the Candlemas service, when we got soaking wet in the rain and we just ravished each other once we got back to the vicarage?""Hee hee, yes. Or that time last month during that short holiday in Lincolnshire when we stayed in that weird hotel, and the ghost gatecrashed our passion?""Bit early in the morning for that, isn't it? Then again, I'm not complaining!" A voice shouted, and they both looked round. Gordon the organist had just arrived.Moments later, Josh the curate appeared."Morning guys!" Jenna smiled. She turned back to her husband. "You'd better get your robes on. Looks like some of the congregation are here already. I'll go and hand out some hymn books."He nodded and headed off to the vestry. "Forty days," he sighed. "God, .I will really need your help through this difficult time!"And just how were some of the other male members of St. Michael's Church going to cope for forty days without any 'spiritual guidance' from the vicar's wife?Shrove Tuesday (the eve of Lent)On Shrove Tuesday, Jenna spent all afternoon mixing pancake batter. It would've been quicker to buy some ready-made pancakes from Tesco, but where was the fun in that? She looked at the kitchen wall clock."Come on Simon, you're late. How long does a meeting with the Bishop take?"Her husband had been out all day. At last, she heard his car pull up on the drive."Good. Now the fun begins."The front door opened and Reverend Morris came rushing in. "Sorry I've been so long. Bishop George kept prattling on for ages and then coming back home there's been a road accident so I had to take the long way home, oh I see you've been busy!" He noticed his wife was completely naked except for an apron."Welcome home," she smirked. "It's time to flip some pancakes. Is my randy reverend able to provide some batter?"He licked his lips. "What sort of batter would you be requiring?""Hmm, let's see. That special 'anointing oil' you used during my 21st birthday?" She whirled a frying pan in her hand and flipped a pancake. "Here's one I prepared earlier."His hands found her shoulders, and turned her to face him. His hands moved up to cup her face and Jenna felt his lips close around hers in a tender kiss. She returned it with rising passion, slipping her tongue into his mouth. As their tongues danced, Jenna quickly unfastened her apron, letting it slide down over her smooth skin to the kitchen floor.She could hear Reverend Morris unfastening his own garments, and when he embraced her tightly, she felt his bare skin press against hers with delicious warmth. Her husband's mouth left her lips, trailing down her neck to her chest. He took a nipple in his mouth and teased the erect tip. It was perhaps the upcoming sex ban enhancing his senses, but Jenna's breasts had never felt so full, and had never tasted so sweet. His hands roamed down over her arse, savoring her curves.Reverend Morris moved back up her body, his lips playing over her breasts, then back up her neck. Jenna's hands slid down his chest and at last reached their goal. She gripped his throbbing member, took a few steps backward, pulling gently but firmly, and he promptly followed her. She felt the edge of the kitchen countertop meet her lower back, and she swiftly heaved herself on to the cool granite surface and lay back, spreading her legs.Reverend Morris had a sudden urge to taste his wife; his tongue met with her soft skin just above her clit, then down into her folds, tasting, discovering and exploring all that she had to offer. He began to suck and lick her clit. How he loved to worship at this altar.Jenna reached for the bowl of pancake batter. A wooden spoon was sticking out of the bowl. Without hesitation, she began spooning the batter down her breasts."It tastes alright," she murmured, placing a blob of batter on her husband's nose. "But it needs an extra ingredient, ""Umm, I think I can help you there.""Fuck me religiously, darling." Jenna said hoarsely.A pair of strong, silky legs wrapped around the vicar's arse. He lowered himself onto her and felt those glorious batter-coated breasts rub against his chest as he began thrusting into her. He tried to set a steady, leisurely pace to begin, but the legs around him urged him on faster and harder. Reverend Morris responded with enthusiasm, and within moments he was pounding into his wife with all his strength, mindful that after tonight he wouldn't be able to do this for six weeks."Yes, yes, oh my God yes, I've never felt anything like it!" Jenna moaned."Bloody hell, I'm coming, oh Jenna!" Reverend Morris yelled as his stream of hot cum filled up her cunt and flowed back out onto the kitchen countertop.Jenna lay back on the countertop, eyes closed. It was several minutes before her breathing had calmed enough for her to speak."Did I provide enough batter?" Reverend Morris asked."Your holy offering was more than generous!""Forty days without from this moment on. You've still time to change your mind.""I'm sticking to it, Simon. We'll get through Lent. We'll have to think up some creative contactless ways to get our rocks off."The smell of burning interrupted them. They both glanced at the stove. To Jenna's dismay, the pancake she'd been cooking had been virtually cremated in the frying pan."Oh dear," she said, gazing at the remains of the pancake, which now resembled a lump of coal."Now that's what I call a perfect burnt offering for Ash Wednesday!" Reverend Morris replied.The Organist is Entertained.Gordon Leesmith always looked forward to Thursday evening arriving. This was when he had organ practice at church, and for the past few months he'd been teaching Jenna to play the organ. These lessons were really just an excuse for a passionate romp with the stunning vicar's wife, who was always more than willing to get her hands on the organ in his trousers, rather than the church one.Gordon hummed to himself as he brewed himself a cup of tea. He checked the time. It was only just after midday. Six hours to go. He was impatient and horny, but in a very happy mood. He'd just returned from seeing his Primary Care physician. That in itself something of a miracle in modern Britain; and received good news. His benign prostate enlargement wasn't as bad as he'd feared. Despite being a bit overweight, the doctor had given him a clean bill of health. His blood pressure was low, and so was his cholesterol.Today was his birthday. He was fifty six. A year ago, Gordon had been a miserable, short-tempered man who didn't endear himself to anyone else in the church. Long-divorced, impotent and frustrated with being alone for so long, his life had turned upside down when a young woman by the name of Jenna Fox had started attending St. Michael's Church. A few months later, she'd turned her attentions to flirting with him. Never in a million years did Gordon think he'd end up getting his cock sucked by a stunning redhead whilst he sat on the organ stool.As Gordon sipped his tea, his phone vibrated."Oh, an email from Jenna," he smiled, checking the message.Happy Birthday Gordon! About tonight. I'm afraid I can't make tonight's organ practice. I won't be able to until Easter arrives. Thing is, I've chosen to give up sex for Lent. I know you won't to hear this and it's going to be so hard for me to stick to this, but you've got to test yourself and set a challenge, right? It's what being a Christian is all about. I truly hope you'll understand. But - that doesn't mean we can't still have some fun! Make sure you visit the church - I've left a birthday present for you on the organ stool, trust me, it'll see you through this hard time. And when Easter comes, Jesus won't be the only person that rises, wink wink. It'll be worth the wait, keep your organ pipe warm for me.Love Jenna. xxx"She's abstaining from sex?" Gordon almost dropped his cup of tea. "Wait, what? Oh no! This is a nightmare! I won't be able to have a fuck for six weeks? Bloody hell! I'll go round the bend, I can't even call on Yulia's mate Martika anymore. Damn it, why did she have to bugger off back to Ukraine?"He wasn't sure whether to scream or burst into tears, but after he overcame the initial shock, he took a deep breath and composed himself."Well if she's gone on strike that means the vicar, the churchwarden, the curate and the bishop won't be getting any cunt either. Ha! Misery loves company, as the old saying goes. Gordon suddenly felt much better, knowing he wasn't the only one being denied the pleasure. Still, six weeks, God, this was going to be a struggle."Hmm, oh well. I've endured worse. I once had to endure that ‘Brotherhood of Man' tribute act in Skegness. I wonder what Jenna's got me for my birthday?"He picked up his car keys. There was only one way to find out.When Gordon arrived at the church, he discovered that the door was unlocked. Usually he had the place to himself, and he was thankful for that, given the sort of "organ practice" he liked to engage in with Jenna. Cautiously, he entered the church. The sound of a vacuum cleaner could be heard. Mrs. Wilcox, one of the many "old church biddies" as Gordon secretly called them, was busy cleaning up the aisle. Noticing the organist approaching, the slightly-built pensioner switched off the vacuum."Ah, hello Gordon! Are you here to tickle the ivories? I'm just finishing off here and then I'll be out of your way." It wasn't at all fair to describe Gladys as an ‘old biddy'. She kept herself fit and classy, and besides the rotation of sanctuary cleaning which she took part, she also headed up an outreach to single mothers in the community."Hello Gladys. No need to stop on my account. I usually come here in the evening, but, er, change of plans. You know, you really should lock yourself in when you're here by yourself. You know what it's like these days. Quite a few crackheads and drunks hang around the churchyard, some can be intimidating."The old woman rolled her eyes. "Oh they don't concern me, dearie. I carry a small can of mace in my apron pocket. My grandson Dwaine bought it for me online. He'll be arriving soon to give me a lift home."Gordon raised an eyebrow. "Blimey. There's more to you than meets the eye. Is that stuff even legal?""Maybe not, but you won't rat on an oldie, will you?" She looked back over her shoulder at him, then winked.Gordon laughed. "My lips are sealed, Gladys."Gordon's Lentil Gift From JennaHe hurried to the organ. "Crafty old gal," he said to himself. On the stool was a red gift bag. "Ah, this must be Jenna's little present for me," he said sitting down on the stool and opening the bag. A large red envelope and something wrapped in pink tissue paper were inside. He opened the envelope, and pulled out a birthday card. Inside, Jenna had written a little rhyme.Organists are sexyNone more than youOpen your presentIt'll help you get through!Xxxx"Ha-ha," Gordon chuckled. "Well whatever is this present?" He began tearing off the tissue paper. "What's this? A torch?" He held up the plastic object, then removed the cap on the end. "Bloody hell. She's bought me one of those fleshlight sex toys!" He peered closely at the silicone vagina. "Nice cunt lips, even if they are artificial, oh wait, there's a piece of paper stuffed inside." He pulled out the note.Hello Gordon. I had this specially made for you. Now you can still put your organ pipe inside me all through Lent! P S - don't forget to use the lube!"Wow, she had a cast of her own cunt made just for me! What a great birthday present! Last year all I got was a pair of slippers from my cousin." He noticed the small bottle of clear lube in the bottom of the gift bag, but didn't pay much attention to it, being too distracted by the sex toy. His erection was straining painfully against his underpants and trousers. Despite Mrs. Wilcox still busily vacuuming the pew cushions, Gordon unzipped and pulled out his cock. He peered over the top of the organ. The old girl had her back to him and besides, you had to walk round to the side of the organ to see anything. He was safely concealed behind the instrument. She wouldn't notice him having a quick wank,"Never used a sex toy before," he muttered to himself, sticking a finger into the fleshlight. "First time for everything though. It feels really tight, let's give it a go." He attempted to slide his cock inside."God, this is really tight, oof!" He managed to slide his cock halfway in, but instantly regretted it."Bit too tight, ouch!" He tried to pull out, but his cock was fully stuck inside the toy.The realization hit him. "Shit. I should've used the lube."Gordon bit his lip, as he tried to ease the thing off this manhood, but to no avail."Oh no."Gladys the paramedicMrs. Wilcox switched off the vacuum cleaner and glanced round. She could just see the top of Gordon's head. The organ was completely silent."Is he playing with the volume turned down?" She wondered.Gordon was starting to panic. If he didn't get this toy off soon, things could become embarrassing. He didn't want to have to drive up to an emergency medical center to get it removed."Come off, damn you, come off!" He grunted."Having problems, dearie?" Mrs. Wilcox said, appearing at the side of the organ. "Oh my!"Gordon looked mortified. "Um, hello Gladys," he mumbled. "I've got a bit of a problem.""I can see that, you silly boy. What on earth have you been doing? I trust that's not an outsized organ stop?"The organist blushed crimson. "Er, no. It's not. It's a, look, it's got stuck. I can't get it off my, thing.""Let's have a look." Before he could protest, she grabbed the fleshlight and pulled on it."Oww!" Gordon yelled. "Don't yank it like that, Gladys! I don't want to end up like John Wayne Bobbitt!""Needs some lubricant or something. That should help. When I was a child, I got my father's chamber pot stuck on my head. Mother used lard to get it off.""There's a bottle of lube in that bag," Gordon winced, as his cock started to hurt.Mrs. Wilcox wasted no time, and squirted a generous amount of the clear gel on her hands, before smearing some round the base of Gordon's cock. He gave an awkward cough as her gnarled old fingers probed around his privates. He'd never be able to look this eighty-something woman in the eye again during a church service. Going to A & E would be more embarrassing, he kept telling himself. Then again, perhaps not!"Alright, let's try easing if off. Nice and slow." Mrs. Wilcox gripped the base of his cock, and with her left hand began to gently pull the fleshlight. It began to slide off. "That's it! It's coming off now! Gently does it!""Almost," Gordon said, gritting his teeth.She continued to pull and finally, the toy slid off, with a popping sound."There we are! Pop goes the weasel!" Mrs. Wilcox smiled. She handed him the offending toy."Thanks so much," Gordon gasped, relieved that his cock hadn't come to any serious harm."What a big, thick willy you've got!" Mrs. Wilcox replied. "No wonder that thing got stuck!""Er, thanks," Gordon mumbled, feeling more embarrassed than ever."No need to be shy, dearie. A man who is blessed like you shouldn't hide his light under a bushel, no! It's so much bigger than my late husband's was. Dear old Bert, he used to love it when I played with his willy. Of course that was over twenty years ago. I wish I could give yours a proper sucking, but I'd have to remove my dentures, and I've used the Poligrip, "The mention of dentures being removed was almost sufficient to make Gordon lose his erection. He was about to say something, but she continued."On the other hand, an opportunity like this doesn't come my way very often! You don't mind letting an old lady have a little bit of fun before she ends up down the cemetery or in a nursing home do you, Gordon? I'm eighty-six. My mouth is pretty much all that works these days, so that will have to do. Think of it as my reward for rescuing your phallic treasure." She dragged over a nearby kneeling bench, knelt, and motioned for Gordon to step to offer her some ‘communion'.He hadn't the heart to say no. "Um, you go ahead, Gladys." Gordon closed his eyes as she removed her false teeth. He hadn't planned on getting a gum-job from a granny. He presented His cock on the padded velvet counter of her communion kneeler. She gasped in marvel at the glorious treat laying near her covered breasts. Then took his shaft slowly in one hand, and cupped his balls with her other hand. Her eye's sparkled as she beheld the phallus. And then her mouth engulfed his cock.Grasping the base of the shaft, Mrs. Wilcox took the organist's throbbing cock in her mouth and started to move her head back and forth, taking it deeper and deeper."Oh," Gordon sighed. He leaned back, gripping the sides of the organ stool and enjoyed the wonderful sensations as she sucked his manhood. She was good, no, she was very good! This was better than he ever could've imagined. The white-haired pensioner's head continued bobbing up and down on Gordon's cock, tasting some of the pre-cum."Oh yes!" He gasped. God, it felt so good!She withdrew and licked the tip of his cock, swirling around the purple head, as her fingers softly stroked the shaft. Her old skills began to come back to her. Her head and lips moved in an erotic performance. Her tongue provided a private performance that only his cock would ever experience. And the sultry ora she exuded was masterful. This woman was a sex god that only her husband ever worshipped. And now, Gordon was added to that exclusive clan of devotees."Gladys, I'm going to come," Gordon panted. "Uh!""Then fire away, dearie! I'd love a taste!" She felt him tense and then he climaxed. With that, he filled her mouth with streams of his thick, sticky cum as it spurted to the back of her throat. Mrs. Wilcox slurped and swallowed it all. Then she pressed her nose hard against his pelvice, and his thick meat pressed her larynx.As his final spurts tapered off, she very slowly pulled her head back, until his cock flopped down on the velvet padding where Gladys' grandchildren receieved their first holy Eucarist. "Umm, tastes just as good as I remember! There we go, Gordon. I'm sure you feel better now that you've emptied your plums!" She patted his cock, before lovingly tucking it back into his briefs and trousers and zipping him up. "You know something, a fine young man like you could easily pull a lady. Why, I bet there's loads of ladies who'd jump at the chance to get their hands on you! You're such a talented organist too, and you've been divorced a long time. Oh, If I were thirty years younger."Young? She thinks I'm young? I suppose to an octogenarian, fifty-six is young."Oh, I don't want to get married again," Gordon replied, wiping his brow. "I'd prefer something, casual." He cleared his throat. "Thanks for, helping me Gladys!""Well we're all good Christians here, yes? We should help each other!" Gladys looked at where she was kneeling. “Did you know, Gordon; The Greek word for communion is ‘koinonia'. It's also the Greek word for ‘intercourse'? I'll always cherish this special treat you've shared with me.”The door of the church opened and a hulking, six-foot young man came strolling in. He was covered in tattoos and obviously a regular visitor to the gym, as his massive upper arms and shoulders proved. The man looked like he could break necks merely by flicking his finger."Gran, are you here?"Gordon froze in horror as he peered over the top of the organ. "Who the hell's that?" The man resembled Lewis Hamilton bulked up on steroids."Oh that'll be Dwaine, my grandson," Mrs. Wilcox replied. "Be with you in a minute, sweetie!" She called out. "I've just been helping Gordon to polish his organ!"A Sermon That's More Stimulating Than Usual.Reverend Morris was struggling to write his sermon. It was only the second week of Lent, but he was finding this one harder than he ever imagined. The sex ban that his wife had imposed was starting to bite. Jenna seemed to be coping much better than him, and he felt ashamed at his weakness."Help me to be strong, Lord!"Suddenly, his phone beeped. A message from Jenna.Hello Simon. It's lunch break here at work. I figured you're still home alone and maybe feeling a bit, stressed? Why not look up Write-Erotica for some inspiration?She added a winking emoji"Write-Erotica? What's that?" the vicar wondered. He eagerly opened the laptop's browser. "A site for writers of erotic fiction? Hmm. I've never heard of this before. I'm always years behind everyone else, when it comes to things. Okay, let's have a browse. I wonder if there are any naughty fictions about clergy on here?"Reverend Morris soon discovered that the tags for "priest" "vicar" and "church sex" brought up a massive number of results. He was spoilt for choice and clicked on several stories. Some were much-better written than others."Jessica and Father Andrew broke the kiss, a trail of saliva still connecting their lips together. Their mouths were still so close to each other. Jessica let out a small breath as the priest grabbed her tight little ass. "You can go inside, if you want," she told him, then she pressed her lips on his mouth again and soon enough Father Andrew's tongue was in her mouth now, not that she minded at all. They had to be very quiet because they were in the confessional booth,"Reverend Morris read out loud."But the church was empty, so why did they need to be quiet? Eh, I'm just nit picking. This is a pretty hot story!" Feeling himself getting hard, Reverend Morris unzipped his trousers and slipped a hand inside, pulling out his cock. As he continued to read, he started jacking his cock slowly.Jessica unzipped the priest's pants, ‘oh yes,' he said. He began to moan and groan as he continued pleasuring himself.Her sweet, heavenly lips worshipped his holy shaft in ways he never imagined,It felt so wonderful jerking his throbbing cock whilst reading this erotic fic. Reverend Morris began to move his hips around and his legs straightened out under the desk. Soon he laid his head back and stretched his body further. Next thing he know, he let out a rather loud, "Oh, yes, yes that's it!" and started to cum.His milky fluid spurted out and all over his laptop keyboard."Ah,"Write-Erotica had done its work and provided Reverend Morris with some much-needed relief, as well as inspiration."I still don't know what to write about for my sermon, but I'd love to have a go at writing an erotic story just for Jenna," he smiled, getting some wet wipes and cleaning up his keyboard. "I've never tried writing erotica before, but first time for everything! Maybe we could write a chain story or something, and get it finished just before Easter? That could be fun!"Excited by this new idea, the vicar opened a new Word document and began typing away."I'll just write a few paragraphs of smut and then I must finish my sermon!" At the Sunday Eucharist,Reverend Morris was joined by another vicar, who was standing in for Josh the curate, who was attending a conference in Birmingham, as part of his ongoing religious training."A very warm welcome to everyone this morning," Reverend Morris began, addressing the congregation. "As we continue our journey through Lent, I'd like to introduce Reverend Jones from St. Wilfrid's church in Manchester. It's a great honor for her to be here today - she'll be reading the sermon I've been laboring over all week,""Poor woman," someone in the congregation muttered, leading to some muffled sniggers.While the vicar was talking, Gordon was idly peering over the top of the organ. He noticed Jenna sat in the front pew and winked at her. Moments later, Mrs. Wilcox, who was sat next to her, winked back at him and gave him a little wave. Gordon gave an awkward smile and shrunk back behind the organ,"Without further ado, I shall now hand over to Reverend Jones," Reverend Morris said.The vicar of St. Wilfrid's was a dumpy, bespectacled woman, aged about fifty, with grey hair in a bowl cut."Looks like the identical twin of that MP woman," an old man muttered. "What's her name? Therese, something. She's the secretary of state.""No idea," another old man replied. "Oh wait a minute! I know who you mean. Norman Lamont! I thought those eyebrows looked familiar,""No you daft git, he's a bloke!""That vicar looks like a lass to me. Mind you, one can't tell these days,"Reverend Jones stepped up to the pulpit and placed some papers on the book stand."I haven't had a sneak-peek at this sermon," she began. "So it will be a wonderful surprise for me as well as you. I'm sure Reverend Morris has gone the extra mile, as he usually does, and written something that'll make us all think."Reverend Morris gave a proud smile as he looked up at her.Gordon gave a subtle yawn. He always dreaded this part of the service. Reverend Morris had the ability to cure insomnia with his sermons, despite Jenna's best efforts to inject a bit more fun into them,"They say the Devil makes work for idle hands," Reverend Jones said, as she began reading the sermon. "That's a phrase we're all familiar with. This morning, I woke up, and my hands were rotting in idleness. My mind had been drifting to places, sinful places all week. I wouldn't say I'm a regular user of PornHub but," she paused.A look of horror appeared on Reverend Morris' face. "That isn't my sermon," he said to himself. "Oh no,"In the pews, there were a couple of awkward coughs and raised eyebrows. At the organ, Gordon suddenly perked up. This had to be the first time ever that the word PornHub was mentioned in a sermon!"The site just wasn't doing it for me," Reverend Jones continued, "so I decided to go for a walk in the park. I can't tell you how my spirits were instantly lifted. Light was filtering through the trees. It was golden and bright. How blessed we are that God has made all this for us, I thought, and then something in the bushes caught my eye. There was no-one else around. It was then that I saw her, naked as Eve in the Garden of Eden, about to take a dip in the lake. Her sweetly, up-tilted bare breasts reflected the glorious morning aura and her rose-pink nipples were as full and hard as ripe apples,"Reverend Jones paused. "What an excellent use of adjectives. I'm sure we can just imagine this scene in our heads can't we?"Never had the congregation of St, Michael's been so engrossed by a sermon before!"Not half," someone said out loud.Poor Reverend Morris' face had flooded several shades of red. He stood up and hurried to the pulpit."Angela, that's not the sermon I wrote!" He mumbled, begging her to stop."I've started, so I'll finish," she replied. "Everyone seems to be enjoying this.""Her name was Giselle, and she loved to unburden herself and swim in the lake. Freed from her clothes, I watched her in the nude and was convinced I was seeing the embodiment of an angel. She knew I watching, and she knew I liked to watch. I knew she liked me to watch, but this morning, we decided to do more than watch.""How romantic," Mrs. Wilcox said, turning to Jenna. "Your husband has a fine turn of phrase. It's better than his usual sermons, dearie. You should encourage him to write more like this. This church will soon be packed to the rafters if he keeps this up!""Oh, thanks very much!" Jenna replied innocently. She gazed at poor Reverend Morris, who was squirming with embarrassment at the side of the pulpit. He'd mixed up his sermon with some erotic fic, did he write the fic himself or find it online? She was curious to find out."What could be more divine than seeing a beautiful woman naked in a park?" Reverend Jones continued, reading out the story without a care in the world. "Personally, I think Tom Hiddleston naked in a park would be more divine, but that's just my opinion, ""I shouldn't say such things as I'm in a church, but I wouldn't mind seeing the organist naked," Mrs. Wilcox whispered to Jenna, who did a double take. This was one of those rare occasions when even she was left speechless for a few moments!"Really Gladys! You dark horse. Didn't know you had the hots for Gordon!""Just because there's snow on the roof, doesn't mean the fire's gone out!" the old lady replied."Oh this next paragraph has been all scribbled out," Reverend Jones said. She flipped the page over."My pearly-white ejaculate looked perfect dripping off her pink-nosed puppies. I got some on my hand and remember being surprised that it was so hot. I pulled my cassock off and wiped the cum off my hand with it. I walked home that night with a huge smile on my face and love bites on my little reverend."Reverend Morris snatched the papers off the book stand. "Er, my sincere apologies everyone, I made a terrible mistake!""Such a shame, it was building up to a nice conclusion," Reverend Jones said."No, that wasn't my sermon at all. I, I have no idea how that piece of writing ended up mixed up with my church papers!""Dat some good shit right there, Vicar!" Tony the reformed drug addict said, standing up and clapping.The flustered vicar attempted to move on. "Hymn, let's all stand for the hymn! Lo, He Comes With Clouds Descending!""You know something Simon," Reverend Jones said as she headed down the pulpit steps, "you need to get yourself signed up to an adult fiction site. You have talent. I'm on A o 3 myself - under a pseudonym of course. I like writing slash fanfiction about British politicians, I can send you a link if you're interested in reading them?""Er, no thanks, Angela. I'm sure they're very good, but I prefer to avoid anything relating to politics!"To be continued in part 2.By Blacksheep, for Literotica.
Al and Codey talk about Mini Mini Farm Timings 00:00:00: Theme Tune 00:00:30: Intro 00:01:33: What Have We Been Up To 00:11:26: I Know What You Released Last Month 00:13:57: Game News 00:28:37: New Games 00:41:43: Other News 00:56:24: Mini Mini Farm 01:33:42: Outro Links Piczel Cross: Rune Factory Release Date Space Sprouts Release Date Luma Island: Pirates Ranch of Rivershine “1.7” Update Horticular: Frozen Frontier Melobot: A Last Song OST Sky Harvest Pheonix Labs Layoffs ConcernedApe NPR Interview Reuters Cozy Gaming Interactive Article Contact Al on Mastodon: https://mastodon.scot/@TheScotBot Email Us: https://harvestseason.club/contact/ Transcript (0:00:30) Al: Hello farmers, and welcome to another episode of the harvest season. My name is Al, (0:00:36) Codey: And my name is Cody! (0:00:37) Al: and we are here today to talk about cottagecore games. (0:00:42) Codey: Oh woo! (0:00:44) Al: It’s like a pack of wolves. (0:00:50) Codey: I’m never gonna un-hear that now. (0:00:51) Al: We this episode, we are going to talk about many, many farm because apparently we’re doing two (0:00:59) Al: mobile games in a row because you did Animal Crossing last week. And then we’re doing many, (0:01:00) Codey: Mm-hmm. (0:01:04) Codey: Yeah. (0:01:05) Codey: Yeah. (0:01:06) Al: many farm this week. And yeah, I just realized that today. I was like, Oh, yeah, (0:01:08) Codey: Yes, I forgot about that. (0:01:13) Al: two in a row. Interesting. Oh, well, we’re making Cody work for their title of (0:01:19) Al: mobile correspondent. (0:01:20) Codey: Yep, I’m here for it. For sure. And I am still actively playing mobile games. (0:01:21) Al: Before that, well, yes, so before that we have news, I’m going to overview the (0:01:31) Al: January releases because it’s now February. But first of all, Cody, what have you been up to? (0:01:36) Codey: Um, so, uh, definitely been playing many, many farm. Um, because of the last episode. (0:01:42) Al: Oh yeah, that’s what MMF stands for. (0:01:44) Codey: Yeah. (0:01:44) Al: I was like, what’s MMF? (0:01:45) Al: Many, many fun, of course. (0:01:46) Codey: And many, many farm. (0:01:48) Codey: Um, because of Johnny, I am now cursed to be playing Animal Crossing pocket camp. (0:01:54) Al: A game which you hadn’t played for the podcast, you know, playing (0:01:59) Al: because of the podcast. (0:02:00) Codey: Correct. (0:02:01) Al: Oops. (0:02:02) Codey: Um, I had played it when it was like not the complete. (0:02:06) Codey: Like paid version. (0:02:06) Codey: Um, but because we were talking about it and I saw that it was like cheap and then it was possibly going to become less cheap. (0:02:14) Codey: And I’ve been doing really well with budgeting lately. (0:02:16) Codey: I was like, you know what? (0:02:18) Codey: I can, I can afford 10 bucks. (0:02:18) Codey: So, and I don’t, I don’t know. (0:02:20) Al: Yes. Do we have the actual date? I know that it’s very soon, or it’s, like, just in the (0:02:26) Al: past, but it wasn’t when the podcast episode came out. (0:02:30) Codey: And unfortunately I have now bought it. (0:02:32) Codey: So I have no way of checking because I’m pretty sure. (0:02:35) Al: Ah, it was the 31st of January. So, if you bought it when the last episode came out, (0:02:36) Codey: Okay. (0:02:38) Codey: So now it is what? (0:02:38) Codey: 20 bucks. (0:02:42) Al: or the two days after that, you were good. Otherwise, sorry, too late. And now it’s, yeah, $20. (0:02:48) Codey: So, I’ve been playing that. I’ve also been playing, still been playing Honeygrove, still (0:02:58) Codey: really sucked into Honeygrove. And I, you know, it’s so funny because we, whenever we would (0:03:01) Al: You’re just playing all the mobile games. (0:03:06) Codey: cover them before, it’s like, yay, I can uninstall it now. And the last couple ones, I’ve been (0:03:12) Codey: like, oh, no, I want to keep playing this. So, yeah, I do. (0:03:14) Al: Mm-hmm, oops. (0:03:19) Codey: But it’s nice because I’m, you know, nearing the end, the other thing, quote unquote, I’ve been (0:03:24) Codey: doing is is a PhD. And it is crunch time for sure now. So I pretty much like, I’m doing a lot of (0:03:34) Codey: stuff all the time. If I’m not doing specimens, I’m writing if I’m not doing that, either of those (0:03:40) Codey: two things I’m like, I’m always doing something. So this, this gives me a nice little like, okay, (0:03:46) Codey: I’m gonna sit down for like a half an hour and just like (0:03:48) Al: Mm, are you rotating through them or? (0:03:48) Codey: brain off play these silly little games. Yeah, so every (0:03:56) Codey: well, I guess I’m also playing too many games. I’m also playing (0:04:02) Codey: Pokemon TCG pocket and the new thing just released. And so I (0:04:08) Codey: always check that first. Let me look at my guess. I always (0:04:11) Codey: check that first. And then I do honeygrove because I can like (0:04:14) Codey: send everything off, like my little bees off on their (0:04:17) Codey: or expeditions. (0:04:18) Codey: And then I do pocket camp and then I do mini, mini farm for a little bit. (0:04:23) Codey: And then if for whatever reason, I am bored after that, um, or not (0:04:28) Codey: sucked into mini, mini farm, uh, I have my cross-stitch coloring out. (0:04:30) Al: Hmm (0:04:33) Codey: But yeah, that’s, that’s my, my, my brain off time now. (0:04:33) Al: Fair enough (0:04:40) Codey: Was it? (0:04:40) Al: Nice, I have been playing a lot of Pokemon. (0:04:45) Al: So I think last time we talked, Cody, (0:04:47) Al: I was just nearly finished, (0:04:47) Codey: Mm-hmm. (0:04:50) Al: Brilliant Diamond and Shining Pearl. (0:04:51) Codey: Mm-hmm. (0:04:53) Al: I have now finished that, thank goodness. (0:04:54) Codey: Okay. (0:04:55) Codey: Yeah, you’re free. (0:04:57) Al: So that one’s done. (0:04:59) Al: And I was going to kind of maybe stop there, (0:05:02) Al: but then I was like, no, I need to do Let’s Go as well. (0:05:05) Al: So I did the Let’s Go Pokedex, (0:05:08) Al: and I rushed through. (0:05:10) Al: Uh, another save because I hadn’t recreated my Pokemon. (0:05:15) Al: Let’s go Pikachu save. (0:05:18) Al: So I did that. (0:05:18) Al: So that now is done. (0:05:19) Al: So all of my home DEXs are done except sword and shield. (0:05:25) Al: So I’ve got the let’s go one. (0:05:27) Al: I’ve got brilliant diamond, shining pearl. (0:05:29) Al: I’ve got let’s go. (0:05:30) Al: Arceus and I’ve got all this scarlet and violet ones. (0:05:32) Al: They’re all done. (0:05:33) Al: I haven’t done the sword and shield ones. (0:05:35) Al: Um, and I now have a post game. (0:05:40) Al: Save of every Pokemon Switch game, except shield. (0:05:45) Al: So I’ve recreated all my saves, except that. (0:05:46) Codey: Okay. Wow. (0:05:49) Al: And I have done a professor Oak challenge now of every pair of games, except can you (0:05:55) Al: guess? (0:05:56) Al: No, no, there’s certain shield. (0:05:56) Codey: Brilliant. I’m in shining girl. Oh, I don’t know. Okay. Okay. (0:06:03) Al: So, so at some point, I would like to do a professor Oak challenge in shield. (0:06:10) Al: Uh, and that does all three of those things. (0:06:12) Al: It does a professor Oak challenge in, in that series of games. (0:06:16) Al: It basically completes my home pocket X, right? (0:06:19) Al: Cause you’re catching everything anyway. (0:06:22) Al: Um, and it, it then me, it will mean I have a shield save in post game as well. (0:06:27) Al: But I don’t think I’m going to do that now because I’m worried I might burn out on Pokemon. (0:06:31) Codey: Mm-hmm. (0:06:35) Al: And we don’t know yet when the new games coming out. (0:06:38) Al: I don’t expect it to come out until- (0:06:40) Al: november but we don’t know for certain and I don’t want them to be like come out and like me (0:06:46) Al: spend the next month doing this and then they come out and then I burn out and I’m like okay (0:06:50) Al: I’m done with pokemon for like six months and then they come out and say oh legends za is actually (0:06:57) Al: coming out in April and I’m like oh no that is really soon so uh but I’m also worried that they (0:07:05) Al: might do the release of pokemon for the home decks very soon and yeah sure I don’t- (0:07:10) Al: need to do it as soon as it’s done of course I don’t need to but I will feel the drive to (0:07:15) Al: do it at that point so I’m like do I actually just do the home decks just now and then leave (0:07:21) Al: the professor oak challenge for another time but then why why not just do the professor oak challenge (0:07:28) Al: but then I’m also the reason I was playing those games in January was because there weren’t any (0:07:32) Al: games coming out that I was planning on playing for the podcast and now we have a billion of them (0:07:35) Codey: Yeah, but it would be really inefficient to not just do it, do them together. (0:07:38) Al: them coming out in February and March. (0:07:40) Al: I’m probably going to just wait and do it all at the same time, probably next January. (0:07:54) Codey: yep. yep. (0:07:57) Al: Because January does tend to be quite a quiet period, but I guess that depends on when ZA (0:08:04) Al: comes out. (0:08:05) Al: Because if ZA comes out in November, I’m probably not going to want to do a Professor Oak challenge (0:08:08) Al: of SHIELD. (0:08:10) Al: In January, so maybe, maybe I’ll just wait till Pokemon Day and they’ll all they will almost definitely tell us the release date then right like there’s no way they’re not going to do that. (0:08:22) Al: That reminds me, we want to do Pokemon Day predictions. (0:08:26) Codey: Oh, okay, okay. (0:08:28) Al: And Pokemon Day reactions greenhouse episode that gets us to this month. (0:08:29) Codey: Mm-hmm. (0:08:33) Codey: Mm-hmm. (0:08:39) Al: so (0:08:40) Al: all that to say I have played a lot of pokemon in the last month and a half a lot a lot a lot (0:08:48) Al: of pokemon and I think like maybe like 120 hours over the last month and a half we’ve just pokemon (0:08:56) Codey: Mm hmm. I’m shocked. (0:08:58) Al: still not found a brilliant diamond shining pearl (0:09:02) Al: still a big big fan of let’s go great games love them second best pokemon game (0:09:11) Codey: Yeah, I really have been wanting to go back and replay. I have Eevee, but I also have (0:09:17) Al: Mm-hmm. Yes, fair, fair, fair. So yeah, I’m probably Pokémon’d out for now, but we’ll see. (0:09:21) Codey: else going on. So, yep. (0:09:30) Al: I’ve also been keeping up with Harvestmen, Home Sweet Home. Look at me actually playing a farming (0:09:36) Al: game a little bit a day. What a crazy idea. I know. So I’m now in chapter five, enjoying that. (0:09:37) Codey: Wow not guzzling (0:09:40) Codey: - I’m done. (0:09:44) Al: I don’t know. (0:09:45) Al: I don’t know what to do with that. (0:09:47) Al: Yeah, actually, yeah, no, I will. (0:09:49) Al: I’m enjoying it. (0:09:51) Al: I’m enjoying playing this game. (0:09:52) Al: This is a fun game. (0:09:53) Codey: Mm-hmm. (0:09:54) Al: It still has issues. (0:09:56) Al: Absolutely. (0:09:58) Al: The Cloud Save still not working for me two months later. (0:10:02) Codey: I’m shocked. (0:10:04) Al: But controller support has made it playable. (0:10:07) Al: And it’s actually fun. (0:10:10) Al: It’s no Stardew Valley. (0:10:11) Al: I don’t care about the characters as much. (0:10:14) Al: But there’s a lot to like about it. (0:10:16) Al: and I’m hopeful for… (0:10:17) Al: and I have also started playing Hello Kitty Island Adventure, which I did play when it came to Apple Arcade, so I played it for about a month and enjoyed it. (0:10:33) Al: But then I was like, I am so fed up with playing on the touchscreen and let me tell you, playing with the controller infinitely better. So good! (0:10:37) Codey: Yeah. Okay. (0:10:41) Al: So I’ve been playing on my Steam Deck, I know that I know some people who are playing on… (0:10:47) Al: which may or may not come up in a future episode, but yeah, no, it’s a good game. It is way better than it had any right to be. (0:10:50) Codey: - Ooh. (0:11:02) Al: I completely forgot until I started the game how the game starts and I’m like, I just love… it’s so ridiculous that it basically starts with a plane crash. (0:11:11) Al: Because who would expect that in a Hello Kitty game? Alright, I think that’s everything. That’s what we’ve been… (0:11:17) Al: We are going to continue the new segment, the month’s releases and the previous month’s releases. We’re going to talk about last month’s releases. (0:11:18) Codey: Oh, woo. Oww, ow, ow, ow. (0:11:31) Codey: Last month’s what what was released last month? I got you (0:11:36) Al: Listeners, write in and tell us what this segment should be called, this monthly segment. What released last month? (0:11:44) Al: January 2025 edition. Or should it be fae- (0:11:47) Al: Maybe the 2025 edition, because last month would be January, but it’s like what would (0:11:51) Al: have- what released last month? (0:11:53) Codey: What are you what do you call it so like in? (0:11:57) Codey: Start in stardivale correlate whatever when you go to sleep, and there’s like that recap screen (0:12:02) Al: This summary… (0:12:03) Codey: That’s all you call it. That’s all it’s called (0:12:07) Al: He gla-la… (0:12:07) Codey: Like the daily summary listeners. Let us know (0:12:10) Al: I don’t know… (0:12:11) Codey: What do you call that screen like when it tells you what you did for the day how much all your stuff sold? (0:12:16) Codey: I think that whatever that is called is what this segment should be called because it’s like we just fell asleep on January (0:12:23) Codey: And we’re waking up and it’s February, but let’s like think about the things that occurred last last month (0:12:30) Al: I’m really struggling to Google this. (0:12:31) Codey: Don’t work yeah, don’t worry about looking it up. They got a listeners have to tell us (0:12:35) Al: Okay, so January, what released in January? (0:12:41) Al: We have four releases in January 2025. (0:12:44) Al: We got Harvest Hills, releasing mid-January the 15th. (0:12:48) Al: We got Into the Emberlands, Not Wonderful, released on the 20th of January when we had (0:12:54) Al: Hello Kitty Island Adventure on Steam and Switch that released on the 30th of January. (0:12:58) Al: my little life which is our first (0:13:01) Al: game of Rusty’s Like or as a developer of Rusty’s retirement is calling them bottom of the screen game (0:13:06) Codey: boss game which he he like talked it up on the um on blue sky he like was like y’all (0:13:06) Al: and that released on the 31st of January. So a kind of (0:13:17) Codey: should get this game and now i’m looking at it oh it’s only five dollars and 39 cents (0:13:24) Al: Yeah, it is dangerous. (0:13:25) Codey: oh no it’s only it’s only windows oh I almost clicked it y’all I almost we good okay i’m (0:13:34) Codey: I wish. (0:13:36) Codey: Let it be not just Windows, my little life developer. (0:13:39) Codey: I want to play this game. (0:13:40) Codey: Thank you. (0:13:42) Al: Yeah, so that’s the January releases, wild that I’m about to say this, but that’s a (0:13:47) Al: quiet month. Four games is a quiet month, apparently. (0:13:51) Codey: Yeah, not a lot going on. (0:13:57) Al: Okay, so we’ve now got a bunch of news. We’re going to start with the gaming news. So first (0:14:04) Al: up we have Pixel Cross Renfractory, they have announced a release date for this. So this is (0:14:09) Al: like the pixel cross Stodio seasons. (0:14:12) Al: It’s a Picross type game, but not Picross because Nintendo on the trademark to that kind of. (0:14:21) Al: Yeah, you do your nonograms. I think that’s what the generic term people have been using, (0:14:27) Al: nonograms. You do your nonograms and in the story seasons one, it like built up a farm (0:14:34) Al: in the background as you do it. Yeah, I don’t know. I don’t know if they’ve shown (0:14:36) Codey: is that is that what it is because it also says customize like in this trailer they say customize (0:14:40) Al: and I’ll see you next time. (0:14:42) Al: Yeah. (0:14:43) Codey: your farm and I don’t and it like looks like you choose what like where things are placed and so (0:14:50) Codey: that was one that was my only question was like I mean it’s coming some when it comes out folks (0:14:55) Codey: can tell me unless people have been playing I don’t know if there’s a dummy (0:14:57) Al: I don’t, I, yeah, oh, interesting. (0:15:01) Al: So it does look like you can change things in this one. (0:15:03) Al: So I’m pretty sure on the story of seasons one, (0:15:06) Al: you just saw the farm build up and things grow (0:15:09) Al: and you didn’t have any control over how it looked, (0:15:12) Al: but you’re right, it does. (0:15:13) Al: So it says customize your farm (0:15:14) Al: and it shows different animals or monsters. (0:15:17) Al: And then it shows you actually selecting (0:15:19) Al: what weapon you want your character to have, (0:15:21) Al: including a massive lollipop as an option. (0:15:25) Al: So yeah, it looks like it’s more in depth. (0:15:28) Codey: Well, I’m wondering if it’s just like you can control what it looks like in the background (0:15:34) Codey: while you are, yeah. (0:15:34) Al: I think that, yeah, I think that’s all it is. (0:15:36) Al: I don’t think you’re actually doing any farming (0:15:39) Al: or any battling, that just happens in the background (0:15:41) Al: as you’re doing it, but in the story seasons one, (0:15:44) Al: I’m pretty sure you couldn’t change how it looked. (0:15:46) Codey: is it like learn how to do a carrot by doing a carrot learn how to plant (0:15:52) Codey: carrots I like okay (0:15:52) Al: It wasn’t even that much in the study seasons when it was literally, you do stuff and things grow in the background you weren’t really. (0:16:00) Al: Yeah, there was nothing else. (0:16:02) Codey: Sounds good. Some people are probably jumping for joy that (0:16:06) Codey: there’s a new across game coming out. New an Autogram coming (0:16:10) Al: nonagram yeah yes yeah anyway space sprouts have announced that they’re (0:16:13) Codey: it’s like Kleenex. It’s like people say get a Kleenex but (0:16:17) Codey: that’s a brand. (0:16:21) Al: releasing on the 31st of March (0:16:24) Codey: Mm-hmm. They’re also participating in Steam’s next fest, so… (0:16:28) Al: Cody who isn’t (0:16:30) Codey: Oh, okay, fine. They’re also moving on to the next part. Uh, I guess the only thing… (0:16:33) Al: I mean I’d like I just I find the steam next fest stuff so funny because it’s (0:16:40) Al: it doesn’t really mean anything it’s like it’s it’s like it’s like being part of (0:16:45) Al: a sale right you can still do a sale whenever you want you can put your price (0:16:48) Al: down whatever but it’s like if you do it at a specific time you might get on a (0:16:50) Codey: Right. But that’s the thing, like there’s a specific list that they’ll get clicked on. (0:16:52) Al: list (0:16:55) Al: but the list is too long (0:16:58) Codey: Okay, but like not every it is still selective, right? Like not hashtag not everyone gets on the (0:17:02) Al: no I don’t I don’t think so I think anyone even get in the list (0:17:03) Codey: list. Well, anyways, that’s from February 27 to March 3. But they are also looking for playtesters. (0:17:12) Codey: So if you go to the show notes, go to the Steam page, etc, etc, you can figure out how to become (0:17:18) Codey: on my playtester for space sprout. (0:17:20) Al: Whoo! Yeah, what was this game again? I can’t… Oh yeah, it was like the 2D space. It was like, (0:17:28) Al: yeah, I’m not describing that very well. But yeah, it was a 2D world where you’re floating around, (0:17:30) Codey: Mm-hmm (0:17:33) Codey: 2D floating in space. Yeah (0:17:36) Al: yeah. Yeah, I’m very interested in this one. I wonder how it’s going to feel playing (0:17:42) Al: farming in 0G. Although it does look like some of it has gravity, and some of it has gravity, (0:17:44) Codey: Mm-hmm. I mean it’s interesting. (0:17:50) Codey: Well, if I learned anything from the Martian, farming in 0G contains the recycling of human waste. (0:17:58) Codey: So, very excited for that. (0:18:00) Al: for sure next we have a free update coming to luma island and this is called pirates (0:18:12) Codey: With an excolate your boy, pirates! (0:18:15) Al: just pirates um it’s literally called luma island pirates what uh although I don’t think (0:18:22) Al: the exclamation mark is actually part of the title because later down they say what’s coming (0:18:26) Al: in Luma Island Pirates without the exclamation mark. (0:18:29) Codey: Uh, I choose to believe, yes. (0:18:30) Al: Don’t you always? (0:18:32) Al: So this brings a pirate themed zone with new minigames, a new temple, traps and enemies, a new profession. (0:18:44) Al: Johnny and Dallin I think, they both play it. They’ll be excited about a new profession. (0:18:51) Al: A full screen map, that’s definitely something it needed. I was annoyed about not having the full screen map. (0:18:56) Al: three new game modes, (0:18:58) Al: including (0:19:00) Al: hero mode and cozy mode. (0:19:02) Al: I wonder what the third mode is. (0:19:04) Al: I love how they’d say three modes (0:19:04) Codey: I’m curious what the new profession is. (0:19:06) Al: and they mentioned two of them. (0:19:10) Codey: Is it piracy? (0:19:12) Al: Oh, interesting. Yeah, that’s a good point. (0:19:14) Al: It could be. (0:19:14) Codey: Like goats? (0:19:16) Al: Even if not actually, (0:19:18) Al: piracy definitely could be related to that. (0:19:20) Codey: Or like treasure hunting? (0:19:20) Al: Yeah, that is a good point. (0:19:22) Al: Yeah, well they do have a treasure hunter one already, I’m pretty sure. (0:19:26) Codey: Okay, so it is piracy. (0:19:28) Codey: Destroy this city and loot the people. (0:19:30) Al: Maybe. You never know. You never know. Also, new outfits, quests, NPCs, Lumas, powers, (0:19:34) Codey: Mutiny, mutiny your own. (0:19:38) Codey: I’m very curious. (0:19:44) Al: bonuses, and achievements. Yes, yeah, that is a free update. That is not a DLC. That (0:19:46) Codey: Ooh, that’s a lot of content in a free update. (0:19:52) Codey: Yeah. (0:19:53) Al: is a free update. Coming soon. No date yet. Coming soon. (0:19:58) Al: Speaking of updates. (0:20:00) Al: RiverShine have announced their 1.7 update. (0:20:05) Al: This is called Azure Coast Trail. (0:20:08) Codey: what? No, say it, say it how you say it again. Oh, that’s so cool. We just say Azure. I like (0:20:08) Al: Azure. (0:20:09) Al: Azure. (0:20:10) Al: How would you say it? (0:20:13) Al: Azure. (0:20:14) Al: Oh, no, Azure. (0:20:18) Codey: your way of saying it. Continue. (0:20:20) Codey: you. (0:20:21) Codey: You’re welcome. (0:20:21) Codey: You’re welcome. (0:20:21) Al: Thank you. (0:20:25) Al: This brings new competitions, horses, music, accessories, and loading screens. (0:20:30) Codey: Oh, whoo, the loading screens look really good, like the the art. (0:20:35) Codey: I mean, I’m betting that they have like a ton of humans that love this game (0:20:39) Codey: and just are like, take here, take my art. (0:20:41) Codey: The loading screens look really cool. (0:20:43) Codey: And the new horse is like a cool new wild horse species. (0:20:48) Codey: I almost look I. (0:20:48) Al: Rabi Rabbi Kano, Rabbi Rabbi Rabbi Kano, I think Rabbi Kano. (0:20:55) Codey: Let me it’s probably something like Robicano or Robic Robicano or something. (0:21:00) Codey: Um, yeah, I didn’t look up to see if those are actually like a thing. (0:21:06) Codey: I almost did and then I didn’t. (0:21:07) Codey: Oh, yep. (0:21:08) Codey: They’re a type of Arabian horse. (0:21:10) Al: rare horse coat color pattern that features white. (0:21:15) Codey: Oh, so it’s just a whatever. (0:21:17) Codey: It’s they’re really cute. (0:21:21) Codey: Yeah, and they also announced that the next update is going to introduce (0:21:27) Codey: a new character and that is the veterinarian. (0:21:30) Codey: Also introduce, you know, care for your horse. (0:21:34) Codey: So different, you know, that care like they might maybe they get sick. (0:21:39) Codey: Maybe they have certain nutritional needs and you didn’t need to make sure (0:21:43) Codey: you meet them. (0:21:44) Codey: I’m not entirely this is all just me. (0:21:46) Codey: Just I don’t know. (0:21:47) Codey: Just like trying to like think of what it could be, but that’s cool. (0:21:52) Codey: I’m all for it. (0:21:53) Codey: Can I be the veterinarian? (0:21:58) Codey: Aww. (0:22:01) Codey: We need a game where you’re like the veterinarian. (0:22:03) Codey: We don’t have that. (0:22:04) Al: Go make it. (0:22:05) Codey: No, I’m good. (0:22:06) Codey: Someone should make it though. (0:22:08) Codey: Or like a wildlife biologist. (0:22:08) Al: Let us know. (0:22:11) Codey: I don’t know. (0:22:12) Al: Is that not just research story? (0:22:14) Codey: Go play research. (0:22:16) Al: I mean, tell me if I’m wrong, you’re the one that’s played it. (0:22:17) Codey: No, I’m trying to. (0:22:18) Codey: Yeah, no, I’m trying to think of like, no, (0:22:20) Codey: like a game where you’re a rehabber. (0:22:22) Codey: Where you rehabilitate wild animals that people bring to you. (0:22:25) Codey: I think the only issue with that is that it’s sad because they die. (0:22:28) Codey: die, but hey. (0:22:30) Codey: There was a Bluey episode about a bird dying, so it’s okay these days. (0:22:36) Al: Blue can do anything. (0:22:38) Codey: Bluey did it. That means it’s child approved. (0:22:42) Al: Let me tell you, right, me and Craig watch Blue together, (0:22:46) Al: and he’ll be sitting and laughing at the jokes and watching it and stuff, (0:22:48) Al: and then I’ll just be sitting behind him, just sobbing. (0:22:50) Codey: stopping. Yeah. Yeah, I just just finished it. And it I am (0:22:52) Al: Like, “Oh, no, what is happening? What’s the doing to me?” (0:23:00) Codey: upset. And I need more. I watched all of it. Thanks. I’ve, (0:23:04) Al: Nice. Well done. (0:23:07) Codey: I just I crave distraction in the background while I run (0:23:11) Codey: meaningless analysis. They’re not meaningless analysis. They’re (0:23:14) Codey: just tedious analysis correction. But yeah, cool that (0:23:21) Codey: give me a game mode where I can play as the veterinarian and I (0:23:24) Codey: will play this game. Developers if you’re like, man, what do (0:23:26) Al: I mean, I feel like that’s just a whole different game, not just a different game mode, but… (0:23:31) Codey: people want these days? I bet a vet mode like a vet game would (0:23:37) Codey: crush. Yep. And I would pay probably $30 for it. So if it (0:23:39) Al: There’s at least one person who would buy it, that’s for sure. (0:23:45) Codey: takes more than $30 to make. I’m out. (0:23:48) Al: I’m not even promising there’d be two people because I’m not sure who the second person (0:23:50) Codey: Listeners. Let me know. Can you contribute $30 we can offer $60 (0:23:53) Al: would do it for the podcast. (0:23:57) Al: I’m sure there are I mean, look, if you could make a game for $60 you’d be rolling in it. (0:24:02) Codey: to developers. There’d be a lot of really bad games. Yeah. (0:24:14) Al: For sure for you. (0:24:15) Al: Well, yeah, you probably can make a game for $60. (0:24:18) Al: Absolutely dreadful. (0:24:21) Al: Just a Skinner box. (0:24:22) Al: All right. (0:24:24) Al: Next we have Particular have announced a free update and a paid DLC. (0:24:33) Al: They’re both releasing on the same day, 28th of February, and the paid DLC Frozen Frontier (0:24:39) Al: has a new story, world quests, new items and creatures. (0:24:45) Al: written snowshoe hair. Is that a creature? (0:24:47) Codey: Yeah, yeah, they specifically say snowshoe hair well, that is just one that they blurbed (0:24:48) Al: Is that a creature that’s there? Just one creature. (0:24:55) Al: blurb. No, I know what you mean. That’s a great example of verification. (0:24:55) Codey: It could be (0:24:59) Codey: Where did that word come from it is keep going I’m gonna look up what that where that came from (0:25:05) Codey: - Um. (0:25:07) Al: And the free update includes new creatures, some temp mechanics. What do you mean by that? (0:25:14) Codey: - Temperature, sorry. (0:25:15) Al: Oh, temperature was like temporary mechanics. Yes, temporary temperature mechanics, snow, (0:25:16) Codey: Now, (0:25:22) Al: And then obviously, quality of life improvements. (0:25:26) Codey: Yeah, so they both yeah, they both kind of include like, adding snow as a as a thing that you can see in the game. But one just adds like a whole new world. Also, I wanted to note that they say on in the beginning of this show notes, whatever, what is this called, like a, thank you. (0:25:48) Al: release notes or well it’s not really release notes because it’s not released (0:25:51) Codey: It’s a (0:25:51) Al: teaser (0:25:54) Codey: Teaser, they say… (0:25:56) Codey: “As spring arrives in the northern hemisphere, we’re not quite done with the cold weather. We got you southern hemisphere folks.” (0:26:02) Codey: Correction. We are also not ready for spring. (0:26:08) Codey: The United States weather predicting rodent has proclaimed that there are six more weeks of winter. (0:26:16) Codey: So, yeah, we’re not ready. (0:26:18) Al: Do I need to tap the sign? Seasons aren’t universal, Cody. (0:26:20) Codey: What’s the sign? (0:26:26) Codey: They specifically say “As spring arrives in the northern hemisphere.” (0:26:28) Al: Seasons aren’t universal in the northern hemisphere, Cody. (0:26:32) Codey: There’s six more weeks of winter. I don’t know what to tell you. (0:26:35) Al: Look, okay, so not every country has the same definitions of seasons. Not every country even (0:26:41) Al: has four seasons, and certainly not every country is going to listen to America when they say that (0:26:46) Al: that a rodent has decided it’s- (0:26:49) Codey: Okay, there’s like certain things that they should listen to us on and the majority of (0:26:54) Codey: things that other countries should just ignore Americans on, especially these days. (0:27:00) Codey: But one thing y’all should really listen to is our, our groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil, (0:27:07) Codey: who is an immortal groundhog that has bespake unto the cultists or whomstever and told them (0:27:18) Codey: in Groundhog E’s! (0:27:20) Codey: There will be six more weeks of winter and a bunch of people just went. (0:27:22) Al: Yeah, I have watched Groundhog Day. I do know the idea behind it. (0:27:27) Al: Finally, in the game news in bit, we have MeloBot, a last song, have released their (0:27:34) Al: original soundtrack on Steam. It is $12.99 on its own, or it’s also included in the Deluxe (0:27:42) Al: Edition for which is more expensive. It’s actually a really good deal if you get the (0:27:46) Codey: Oh, whoo. Yeah. (0:27:49) Al: deluxe edition, though, right? Because it’s like… (0:27:52) Al: 20 quid for the game. I’m back into pounds here because you confused me with your whole (0:27:57) Al: dollars. 20 quid for the game or is it 25 quid for the 25 dollars for the game? (0:27:58) Codey: - Yeah, sorry, I put dollars, I put US dollars. (0:28:00) Codey: $13. (0:28:04) Codey: $25 for the deluxe edition and then $13 if, (0:28:08) Codey: for just the soundtrack. (0:28:10) Al: Yeah. Well, how much is the base game is that is that $20 then? (0:28:13) Codey: - Man, I didn’t look at that. (0:28:14) Codey: Let me look. (0:28:16) Al: See, it is 20 quid or 10 and 10 quid for 20 or 27 quid. (0:28:22) Codey: Oh I had it wrong! The game is 25. The bundle that includes the digital deluxe upgrade is 35. (0:28:22) Al: Ah. (0:28:32) Al: OK, so it’s still a good deal, but it’s not as good a deal. (0:28:35) Codey: You save 8%. (0:28:37) Al: All righty, so that is the game news. (0:28:41) Al: We also have two new games announced. (0:28:43) Al: Well, kind of. (0:28:44) Al: One of them is a new game. (0:28:44) Codey: - In quotes. (0:28:46) Al: One of them is actually two that are not– (0:28:50) Al: should we talk about the one that’s actually new first? (0:28:52) Al: So that is Sky Harvest. (0:28:52) Codey: - Yes. (0:28:57) Al: The blurb for this one is, “Armed with hand-me-down tools (0:29:01) Al: and some cash. (0:29:03) Al: You begin your new life as the chief farmer, a position your (0:29:07) Al: grandfather once excelled in. Can you honor his legacy and (0:29:10) Al: transform the overgrown, untamed and desolate floating island (0:29:14) Al: into a flourishing farm abundant with produce? (0:29:19) Codey: produce is weird in that trailer was was grandfather sleeping (0:29:26) Al: I didn’t actually watch the trailer give me two seconds. No, he did (0:29:33) Al: Again, yeah, no he did (0:29:36) Codey: so as a child you come upon your grand your beloved grandfather deceased at the (0:29:44) Al: Dead, at the kitchen table, reading his hopes and dreams. (0:29:47) Codey: kitchen table with (0:29:49) Codey: a book in front of him. (0:29:53) Codey: The book says, if I wish I could have gone back one last time and it’s got like a ticket and then it shows you taking that ticket and going and honoring his legacy. (0:30:04) Al: This is how this is how I know that he’s dead because if he’s not dead that is horrific. You’ve just stolen his ticket (0:30:05) Codey: But like, (0:30:12) Al: The one thing he wanted to do you’ve stolen his ticket and gone without him (0:30:16) Al: Let waited a while because you’ve grown a beard now. You’re an adult now (0:30:16) Codey: also, (0:30:20) Codey: Yeah, there’s a whole beard, a mustache, wild. (0:30:21) Al: Goodness me. That’s dreadful (0:30:23) Al: You (0:30:24) Codey: But like, if I came upon my grandmother deceased, (0:30:29) Codey: I say this because my grandfather is already deceased. (0:30:34) Codey: If I came upon my grandmother deceased, and (0:30:37) Codey: I don’t care what’s in front of her, I’m not looking at that. (0:30:42) Al: Yeah, he just like rests his head on his grandfather’s dead arm and sheds one singular tear before stealing his ticket, his boat ticket. (0:30:45) Codey: And then… (laughs) (0:30:50) Codey: I don’t know how beloved that grandfather was, if that’s your reaction, my guy. (0:30:55) Codey: Anyway, this is me just… (laughs) (0:30:56) Al: One, he’s one tear’s worth a little bit. (0:31:00) Codey: Alright, this looks cool though. So you’re on floating islands, you’re flying around with a jetpack, you can manage a restaurant. (0:31:07) Codey: It just says manage a restaurant, but it just shows you telling the person what the one meal that you guys are making in the day is. (0:31:20) Codey: Not what restaurants do. (0:31:23) Codey: And it’s a really bad restaurant. (0:31:24) Al: It’s what really bad restaurants. (0:31:28) Codey: And then it also says make friends, and then there’s a dog with a scroll in its mouth, so I’m guessing you befriend a dog. (0:31:36) Codey: And unfortunately that wasn’t in the trailer, it was in this thing. (0:31:40) Al: I mean the trailer didn’t show you much, lesbian. (0:31:43) Codey: Right, the trailer was very teaser-y, but underneath that, on the post, they have… (0:31:50) Codey: I watched that video where there’s a dog 10 times to see… I wanted to see more of the dog. (0:31:59) Codey: What kind of dog is it? All that. (0:32:03) Codey: It’s definitely a tricolor something, but other than that, no. (0:32:08) Al: So I will say I’m not particularly enamored by the graphics in this game. (0:32:17) Al: Not that it looks bad, it’s very definitely trying to look how it looks, I think. (0:32:23) Al: What I find a bit weird is the graphics of the game and the graphics of the heads-up display, (0:32:30) Al: like the menus and stuff, they feel like they’re from different games. (0:32:31) Codey: Mm hmm. Yeah, like they had two different people designing those, (0:32:38) Codey: and one understood the assignment and one didn’t. (0:32:38) Al: Yeah. Yeah, so it’s a little bit weird. Very, very. I do like the flying. The flying looks fun. (0:32:45) Codey: The character also looks lanky. This is a tall character. (0:32:53) Codey: Yeah. Mm hmm. Cosine. I don’t. (0:32:57) Al: Yeah, I don’t know what else to say. That looks interesting. I love how it calls it sky farming (0:33:01) Codey: It’s farming, but in the sky. Or are we? Are you farming the sky? (0:33:04) Al: when it’s just farming. (0:33:08) Al: In the sky? Okay. No, no, no, no, it’s just you’re on a sky island. Which I feel like this whole (0:33:12) Codey: Like is there part you’re like collecting the sky? (0:33:16) Codey: You don’t know that. What if they what if you collect the sky? (0:33:21) Al: let’s this game has sky islands was a fun idea five years ago and now half the games are doing (0:33:26) Al: it. Which is I guess the problem with game development, right? It was even before that (0:33:30) Codey: It’s the tears of the kingdom like. (0:33:35) Al: people were doing it. They didn’t. (0:33:38) Al: No, I know. Yeah, yeah. No, I get it. I feel like this could be possibly interesting. (0:33:46) Al: I’m not really sure what it’s… The flying is the thing that is most interesting to me, (0:33:51) Al: but other than that, I’m not really sure what it is that they’re doing that’s unique, (0:33:54) Al: which is always the problem with cottagecore games is why should I play you over Stardew? (0:34:01) Codey: I think that’s correct. I think like that’s the thing about this is it’s just to get your (0:34:06) Codey: attention and we will continue. It’s not like I saw this and I’m like, yep, not going to play (0:34:11) Codey: that because there’s not a lot here. I want to, I want to see more. They’re going to probably (0:34:15) Codey: release more. And so far they just say Q2 2025 in the trailer. (0:34:16) Al: Yep. Yeah, where did you see Q2? I just see 2025. Oh, in the trailer, okay. Because on (0:34:28) Al: Steam just says 2025. Okay, I will update my list then. I didn’t pay attention to the (0:34:31) Codey: Yeah, he didn’t watch the trailer. (0:34:38) Al: trailer, there’s a difference there. All right, we also have the brand new and exciting (0:34:39) Codey: Oh, my bad. I get that though. (0:34:47) Al: Harvest Moon, Skytree Village, and The Lost Valley are for some reason coming to Switch. (0:34:55) Al: The good thing about this is it is a bundle, so it’s like you’re not buying the game separately, (0:35:00) Al: which is good, because my word that would be not worth any sort of money. I’m not sure who (0:35:06) Al: wants these games. It’s like they went, “Oh, when we did…” Because they worked with… (0:35:09) Codey: Yeah, so you– (0:35:16) Al: Because the rights are complicated to the old Harvest Moon games, right? So they’ve done some, (0:35:22) Al: they released the original Harvest Moon on, what’s it called, Nintendo Switch Online, (0:35:31) Al: and they had to do that in collaboration with Marvelous, because Marvelous owned the game, (0:35:36) Al: but they owned the name, and so they had to both agree to that. Anyway, whatever, it doesn’t matter. (0:35:41) Al: And I feel like that combined with Marvelous redoing a wonderful… (0:35:46) Al: life has made them go, “Oh, people like when we remake Harvest Moon games and knock on which ones (0:35:55) Al: is it that people actually want to play, because I guarantee you it’s not Skytree Village in The (0:35:59) Al: Lost Valley.” (0:36:00) Codey: - Yeah, I will say, okay, so two things. (0:36:04) Codey: First of all, I looked, so one social media user, (0:36:08) Codey: to your question of who’s asking for this, (0:36:10) Codey: one social media user named Chrissy said, (0:36:13) Codey: “Cozy gamers have really been winning lately.” (0:36:16) Al: I wonder whether that person has ever actually played either of these. (0:36:16) Codey: To which another, (0:36:23) Codey: to which another user said, (0:36:25) Codey: “These games are more like a loss.” (0:36:28) Al: The funny thing is they did the whole, “Oh, we’re going to announce an announcement.” (0:36:34) Al: And they were like, “Oh, we’ve got an exciting announcement coming for you.” (0:36:34) Codey: Yeah (0:36:37) Al: And you’re like, “Okay, fine.” (0:36:40) Al: And then they did this and people were like, “Really? (0:36:43) Al: That was your… (0:36:44) Al: Please tell me this wasn’t everything.” (0:36:46) Al: Because it’s just, they’re like, I am not the sort of person who just hates on Harvest (0:36:50) Al: Moon, you know, Natsume, Harvest Moon games for the sake of it. (0:36:54) Al: You know, I am literally playing Harvestman, Home Sweet Home, as we’re recording. (0:36:58) Al: The podcast, right? And I’ve talked about how I like that. I’ve talked about how I like the ideas (0:37:02) Al: in One World and Winds of Anthos. I think they’re very interesting and I think that they’re very (0:37:07) Al: close to legitimately having a good game. These games are not that. These games are just bad. (0:37:10) Codey: Mm hmm. This ain’t it chief. Yeah, I will say so. I was listening to another podcast (0:37:22) Codey: about metal music lately and they were talking about I had there’s a point fault. Stay with (0:37:27) Al: I look forward to it. (0:37:28) Codey: me. They were talking about how this one band re like, is republishing like re thank you (0:37:37) Al: - Remastered. (0:37:38) Codey: remastering. (0:37:40) Codey: I think they’re actually just straight up rerecording an (0:37:42) Codey: entire album and like reproducing it. (0:37:42) Al: - Oh, okay. (0:37:44) Al: They’re Taylor-swifting it. (0:37:45) Codey: Basically, they are that’s the they literally made a joke about (0:37:49) Codey: that and they had the same question like what who’s asking (0:37:53) Codey: for this and a bunch of people on social media were like, (0:37:56) Codey: ah, this is thanks, but I’d rather have no music, etc, etc. (0:38:00) Codey: But they actually said they made a really good point, which (0:38:02) Codey: is if there are people who have not played these games or (0:38:07) Codey: listen to this music or whatever. (0:38:10) Codey: Kind of an introduction to that to that content for them (0:38:13) Codey: because there might be people who have heard of this Harvest (0:38:17) Codey: Moon thing, but they haven’t really played it yet or whatever (0:38:22) Codey: and then maybe they see this bundle and they’re like, oh (0:38:24) Codey: wow, there’s two of them in here. (0:38:26) Al: They’re first and last Harvest Moon games (0:38:27) Codey: And so it’s not. (0:38:30) Codey: Well, yeah, so that’s the thing. (0:38:31) Codey: So I mean that they were talking about an actually good album (0:38:35) Codey: versus– (0:38:35) Al: Yes, I think that’s that is the key difference here Cody (0:38:39) Al: I think like I am NOT against remakes. I think remakes can be really good (0:38:40) Codey: - Yeah. (0:38:43) Al: I think I’m doing a wonderful life last year was good because that is a very beloved game (0:38:43) Codey: Yeah. (0:38:47) Al: That is a lot of people’s first farming game (0:38:51) Al: And you just have to listen to Kevin for five minutes to know how much some people were waiting for that (0:38:55) Al: Nobody has that about (0:38:56) Codey: Oh, yeah. That’s fair. (0:38:56) Al: these games. (0:38:59) Codey: Yeah, I I’m trying to give them the benefit of the doubt, but, uh, yeah, (0:39:04) Codey: I think that the thing is that it’s not just if they’re not being remade (0:39:08) Codey: or or bundled in for the switch for the fans. (0:39:14) Al: No. This is the problem is there aren’t games that Natsume can nostalgia grab on. (0:39:15) Codey: It’s to try and get new people into the into the fandom. (0:39:26) Al: Because they’re all owned by Marvelous. They only own the name. And Marvelous aren’t going to do (0:39:33) Al: anything about it. I think it was very different when they did the original on Nintendo Switch (0:39:38) Al: Online because that is the actual original game. They’re just porting. (0:39:44) Al: It’s not even porting. It’s literally just an emulator. They’re just literally allowing (0:39:51) Al: the game to run on it. And that’s very different to remaking games. And there’s no way Marvelous (0:40:00) Al: have remade multiple. They remade Friends of Mineral Town, which was a fun one to do. They (0:40:05) Al: remade A Wonderful Life. I can’t remember if they’ve done any other remakes recently. (0:40:10) Codey: Yeah, I don’t know, because I’m not ever going to touch it, so. (0:40:14) Al: They want to jump on the bandwagon. They have to just release bad games again. (0:40:20) Al: This is the thing. So many people have this be in their bonnet about Natsume and they’re like, (0:40:25) Al: oh, they’re just jumping on the name and using it to sell bad games. And yeah, that’s kind of true. (0:40:31) Al: Or at least it was kind of true. I do think now they’re actually getting better and they’re (0:40:36) Al: actually trying to make good games. They’re getting there. But the problem is that releasing (0:40:42) Al: they’re bad games again. (0:40:44) Al: They’re not going to convince anybody that they’re doing anything other than money-grabbing. (0:40:44) Codey: Yeah, it’s like there’s someone at the company that remembers when all these games first (0:40:55) Codey: came out and like the hype the hype of it and they’re trying to like regain that the (0:41:01) Codey: glory days and the it’s sometimes you just got to let things go and like when Bluey and (0:41:08) Codey: Bingo had to get rid of a bunch of their stuffies. Yeah. (0:41:10) Al: Oh, we watched that the other day. That was a good episode. (0:41:17) Al: Yeah, it’s painful to watch what they’re doing, because it’s like one step forward, 73 steps (0:41:24) Al: back. Like, I just… Why do this? And I… Oh, goodness. Yes, right. (0:41:24) Codey: like the American government. So we have some other people one year forward 73 years backwards. (0:41:40) Al: So… Yeah, a section we don’t often have, because normally it’s just game updates and (0:41:41) Codey: We have some other news. Uh-huh. Oh. (0:41:47) Al: occasionally new games, we do have the other news section. So we have three pieces of other (0:41:53) Al: news to talk about. The first one is super… Let’s start off with the negative one, shall we? (0:41:54) Codey: You got to be more specific. Oh, oh, you’re right. You’re right. You’re right. I needed. (0:42:01) Al: There’s only one negative one. Okay. (0:42:04) Codey: I had to look through it again. Yeah. (0:42:10) Al: So Phoenix Labs, the developers of Fae Farm and Dauntless, and were creating other games (0:42:15) Al: until last year when they laid off almost everybody who was working on any game other (0:42:20) Al: than Fae Farm and Dauntless have now laid off almost everybody else. Huzzah! (0:42:26) Codey: - Yay. (0:42:27) Al: They’re like, “What’s the point in a game studio that makes games? (0:42:30) Al: We don’t want to make games. We don’t even want to continue making our existing games.” (0:42:34) Codey: Yeah, you don’t have yeah, but you know, they really said, the developer said, quote, It’s unfortunate, but necessary. (0:42:44) Codey: Yeah, so I did do a dive into this, more than just like, just the top of the of the article or whatever I start, I really got into reading this article and like kind of looking at some stuff because I was just like, what is going on here? (0:42:45) Al: Yeah, I guess the games aren’t failing then. (0:43:00) Al: - Were you rage reading? (0:43:02) Al: Were you rage reading? (0:43:04) Codey: I was so after basically, the developer, the Phoenix lab, whom’s ever the whole the whole Phoenix lab people. Correct. Thank you. You’re so good with the words today. So they, they were, they were acquired by a blockchain company called forte labs. (0:43:14) Al: the company. What can I say? I’m on a roll. Words is my whole thing. (0:43:30) Codey: And when they were acquired, they then laid off (0:43:34) Codey: as you already mentioned 160 people and quote the new owner (0:43:39) Codey: reportedly pressed developers to draft methods for integrating (0:43:44) Codey: blockchain technology in its games for the purpose of buying (0:43:49) Codey: and selling and trading in game goods, according to former (0:43:52) Codey: employees. So the crypto market has has joined games y’all. (0:43:58) Codey: Uh. (0:43:58) Al: are we back on NFTs? I thought we killed NFTs like four years ago, what are you doing? (0:43:59) Codey: Yeah. (0:44:04) Codey: NFTs and crypto, man, they’re here to stay, I guess. (0:44:08) Al: Well no, crypto isn’t dead, but come on, when was the last time you heard about NFTs? (0:44:14) Al: Especially in games, they’re so 2022. (0:44:18) Codey: I believe Ascentient Cheeto recently gave more NFTs. (0:44:24) Codey: Continuing on, apparently after releasing Dauntless, (0:44:28) Codey: they were “criticized by players for its new in-app monetization design,” (0:44:32) Codey: which was probably the blockchain, (0:44:34) Codey: but erasing previous progression with the new Awakening update. (0:44:38) Codey: So they had an update and it released, it erased all the previous progression. (0:44:38) Al: Oh no! No! What?! (0:44:42) Codey: The game still has an overwhelmingly negative number of reviews on Steam. (0:44:49) Al: I miss that happening. I wasn’t really aware of this very much. I was aware of it when (0:44:50) Codey: And the… (0:44:54) Al: it initially released because it was like, “Oh, it’s gonna kill Monster Hunter.” And (0:44:56) Codey: Yeah. (0:45:00) Codey: It did not. (0:45:02) Codey: It really had it was nowhere new (0:45:04) Codey: because when it first launched, there were probably about 3200 concurrent players like people playing at the same time online. (0:45:12) Codey: Nowadays, it’s only ever around about 150 people. (0:45:18) Codey: So yeah, not sure what they’re doing. (0:45:22) Codey: I would suggest well, I guess I would I would say that I would suggest them to back off the blockchain, but they are literally owned and acquired by a blockchain company. (0:45:32) Codey: So I don’t think that’s going to happen. (0:45:36) Codey: So I’m not not really sure what this means for Fae Farm. (0:45:41) Al: What I find really funny is like, so I think crypto is most often a scam. (0:45:48) Al: I do think there are some interesting applications for blockchain as a concept. (0:45:56) Al: NFTs is not it. (0:46:01) Al: It has never been it, even on their own. (0:46:04) Al: And then when people started putting them into games, I was like, I don’t even know why. (0:46:10) Codey: I mean, I feel like it’s to try and like have an introduction. (0:46:11) Al: Like, what is happening, and why would you do this? (0:46:18) Codey: It’s like when they put smoking in movies so that they would get more smokers, right? (0:46:23) Codey: It’s like a, it’s a, it’s a possible way to normalize something. (0:46:26) Al: It’s like the Transformers series for selling more Transformers. (0:46:29) Codey: Yeah. (0:46:31) Codey: Uh, which it’ll probably have a small, well, it would have a small bump if it wasn’t for (0:46:38) Codey: uh, cozy gamers. (0:46:40) Codey: Cause I don’t think cozy gamers are the people or, or monster hunters style players. (0:46:46) Codey: I, you really gotta go for like the call of duty people. (0:46:48) Codey: I feel like they, they would do NFTs because they basically, that’s basically all they (0:46:53) Codey: do with their, uh, skins and stuff on all the, all the guns and whatever. (0:47:00) Codey: So like, it’s not monster hunter people, uh, with dauntless and then cozy games with fave (0:47:08) Codey: farm. (0:47:10) Codey: It’
Vicar's wife, Jenna, decides to give up sex for Lent!A series in 17 parts, by Blacksheep. Listen to the Podcast at Steamy Stories. The Jenna series started with ‘Jenna Goes To Church', followed shortly after with ‘Jenna, the Vicar's Wife'. It resumed recently with Jenna's New Year'; and now it continues with a Lentil 2-part story. Other episodes will follow.It was the last Sunday of Shrovetide, known as Quinquagesima. At St. Michael's Church, Reverend Morris had amassed a pile of old palm crosses, intending to burn them on Ash Wednesday."Shouldn't be long before the first members of the faithful arrive," he said to his wife Jenna, who was adjusting the flowers at the side of the pulpit."Oh before I forget, I've got something for you to burn on Ash Wednesday," she smiled, handing him a pair of her panties."This is an unusual-looking palm cross!" He replied. "I think I'd better burn this separately from the others! Is there some reason why you want your undies reduced to ash?""Well Simon, I've been thinking. And I've finally decided what I'm going to give up for Lent.""You're giving up wearing underwear?""Ha-ha. Tempting, but no. I'm giving up sex."Reverend Morris almost dropped the box full of crosses. "What? Sex? No, you can't be serious!"Jenna nodded. "I'm 100% serious, my love. Lent is supposed to be hard, and you're always going on about how part of being a good Christian is making sacrifices and so on. It's traditionally a time of fasting and abstaining from something to repent and focus our hearts and minds on the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ.""Yes, but within reason, Jen! I don't expect you to suffer hardship as bad as that!""I can do it, Simon. I'm committed to seeing it through. It's only forty days.""B-but, that's six weeks!" the vicar whined, looking as if his entire world was about to end. "I, I'm not sure I can, er, go without for so long!""Now Simon, you're a man of God. You're stronger than most. I know you can do this. And just think how wonderful it will be when Easter comes, everything in calf, bursting out in spring glory, sap rising, mating seasons beginning, shoots thrusting upwards, days getting longer, ""Vicars dying of horniness, " Reverend Morris sighed."Exactly. And it won't just be you going without. The other chaps of this church will have to go without as well!""Oh my goodness, Jenna. There's going to be a lot of frustration building up in this church! When you say no sex, does that mean, ""No physical contact whatsoever, my dearest! No blowjobs, no kissing, no cock in cunt, nada! Just like social distancing."Reverend Morris' lip was trembling. "Not even a kiss?""Nope. I'll be sleeping in the spare bedroom until Easter. I can blow you a kiss. And whilst we can't do anything involving physical contact, there are other naughty ways we can get through Lent.""Like what?""Use your imagination, Simon!"He thought for a moment. "So I'll have to make do with dating Rosie Palms until Easter?""If it helps you cope, yes!"The reverend took a deep breath. "You're absolutely right, Jenna. I can get through this. I admire you so much for deciding to have a sex ban. In fact, I think I love you even more, and I didn't think that possible!""Aww. Ditto." She kissed him. "We'll make the most of Shrove Tuesday," she added, with a wink. "I'm going to do some creative things with pancakes."He slipped his arms around her. "Remember that morning after the Candlemas service, when we got soaking wet in the rain and we just ravished each other once we got back to the vicarage?""Hee hee, yes. Or that time last month during that short holiday in Lincolnshire when we stayed in that weird hotel, and the ghost gatecrashed our passion?""Bit early in the morning for that, isn't it? Then again, I'm not complaining!" A voice shouted, and they both looked round. Gordon the organist had just arrived.Moments later, Josh the curate appeared."Morning guys!" Jenna smiled. She turned back to her husband. "You'd better get your robes on. Looks like some of the congregation are here already. I'll go and hand out some hymn books."He nodded and headed off to the vestry. "Forty days," he sighed. "God, .I will really need your help through this difficult time!"And just how were some of the other male members of St. Michael's Church going to cope for forty days without any 'spiritual guidance' from the vicar's wife?Shrove Tuesday (the eve of Lent)On Shrove Tuesday, Jenna spent all afternoon mixing pancake batter. It would've been quicker to buy some ready-made pancakes from Tesco, but where was the fun in that? She looked at the kitchen wall clock."Come on Simon, you're late. How long does a meeting with the Bishop take?"Her husband had been out all day. At last, she heard his car pull up on the drive."Good. Now the fun begins."The front door opened and Reverend Morris came rushing in. "Sorry I've been so long. Bishop George kept prattling on for ages and then coming back home there's been a road accident so I had to take the long way home, oh I see you've been busy!" He noticed his wife was completely naked except for an apron."Welcome home," she smirked. "It's time to flip some pancakes. Is my randy reverend able to provide some batter?"He licked his lips. "What sort of batter would you be requiring?""Hmm, let's see. That special 'anointing oil' you used during my 21st birthday?" She whirled a frying pan in her hand and flipped a pancake. "Here's one I prepared earlier."His hands found her shoulders, and turned her to face him. His hands moved up to cup her face and Jenna felt his lips close around hers in a tender kiss. She returned it with rising passion, slipping her tongue into his mouth. As their tongues danced, Jenna quickly unfastened her apron, letting it slide down over her smooth skin to the kitchen floor.She could hear Reverend Morris unfastening his own garments, and when he embraced her tightly, she felt his bare skin press against hers with delicious warmth. Her husband's mouth left her lips, trailing down her neck to her chest. He took a nipple in his mouth and teased the erect tip. It was perhaps the upcoming sex ban enhancing his senses, but Jenna's breasts had never felt so full, and had never tasted so sweet. His hands roamed down over her arse, savoring her curves.Reverend Morris moved back up her body, his lips playing over her breasts, then back up her neck. Jenna's hands slid down his chest and at last reached their goal. She gripped his throbbing member, took a few steps backward, pulling gently but firmly, and he promptly followed her. She felt the edge of the kitchen countertop meet her lower back, and she swiftly heaved herself on to the cool granite surface and lay back, spreading her legs.Reverend Morris had a sudden urge to taste his wife; his tongue met with her soft skin just above her clit, then down into her folds, tasting, discovering and exploring all that she had to offer. He began to suck and lick her clit. How he loved to worship at this altar.Jenna reached for the bowl of pancake batter. A wooden spoon was sticking out of the bowl. Without hesitation, she began spooning the batter down her breasts."It tastes alright," she murmured, placing a blob of batter on her husband's nose. "But it needs an extra ingredient, ""Umm, I think I can help you there.""Fuck me religiously, darling." Jenna said hoarsely.A pair of strong, silky legs wrapped around the vicar's arse. He lowered himself onto her and felt those glorious batter-coated breasts rub against his chest as he began thrusting into her. He tried to set a steady, leisurely pace to begin, but the legs around him urged him on faster and harder. Reverend Morris responded with enthusiasm, and within moments he was pounding into his wife with all his strength, mindful that after tonight he wouldn't be able to do this for six weeks."Yes, yes, oh my God yes, I've never felt anything like it!" Jenna moaned."Bloody hell, I'm coming, oh Jenna!" Reverend Morris yelled as his stream of hot cum filled up her cunt and flowed back out onto the kitchen countertop.Jenna lay back on the countertop, eyes closed. It was several minutes before her breathing had calmed enough for her to speak."Did I provide enough batter?" Reverend Morris asked."Your holy offering was more than generous!""Forty days without from this moment on. You've still time to change your mind.""I'm sticking to it, Simon. We'll get through Lent. We'll have to think up some creative contactless ways to get our rocks off."The smell of burning interrupted them. They both glanced at the stove. To Jenna's dismay, the pancake she'd been cooking had been virtually cremated in the frying pan."Oh dear," she said, gazing at the remains of the pancake, which now resembled a lump of coal."Now that's what I call a perfect burnt offering for Ash Wednesday!" Reverend Morris replied.The Organist is Entertained.Gordon Leesmith always looked forward to Thursday evening arriving. This was when he had organ practice at church, and for the past few months he'd been teaching Jenna to play the organ. These lessons were really just an excuse for a passionate romp with the stunning vicar's wife, who was always more than willing to get her hands on the organ in his trousers, rather than the church one.Gordon hummed to himself as he brewed himself a cup of tea. He checked the time. It was only just after midday. Six hours to go. He was impatient and horny, but in a very happy mood. He'd just returned from seeing his Primary Care physician. That in itself something of a miracle in modern Britain; and received good news. His benign prostate enlargement wasn't as bad as he'd feared. Despite being a bit overweight, the doctor had given him a clean bill of health. His blood pressure was low, and so was his cholesterol.Today was his birthday. He was fifty six. A year ago, Gordon had been a miserable, short-tempered man who didn't endear himself to anyone else in the church. Long-divorced, impotent and frustrated with being alone for so long, his life had turned upside down when a young woman by the name of Jenna Fox had started attending St. Michael's Church. A few months later, she'd turned her attentions to flirting with him. Never in a million years did Gordon think he'd end up getting his cock sucked by a stunning redhead whilst he sat on the organ stool.As Gordon sipped his tea, his phone vibrated."Oh, an email from Jenna," he smiled, checking the message.Happy Birthday Gordon! About tonight. I'm afraid I can't make tonight's organ practice. I won't be able to until Easter arrives. Thing is, I've chosen to give up sex for Lent. I know you won't to hear this and it's going to be so hard for me to stick to this, but you've got to test yourself and set a challenge, right? It's what being a Christian is all about. I truly hope you'll understand. But - that doesn't mean we can't still have some fun! Make sure you visit the church - I've left a birthday present for you on the organ stool, trust me, it'll see you through this hard time. And when Easter comes, Jesus won't be the only person that rises, wink wink. It'll be worth the wait, keep your organ pipe warm for me.Love Jenna. xxx"She's abstaining from sex?" Gordon almost dropped his cup of tea. "Wait, what? Oh no! This is a nightmare! I won't be able to have a fuck for six weeks? Bloody hell! I'll go round the bend, I can't even call on Yulia's mate Martika anymore. Damn it, why did she have to bugger off back to Ukraine?"He wasn't sure whether to scream or burst into tears, but after he overcame the initial shock, he took a deep breath and composed himself.
Vicar's wife, Jenna, decides to give up sex for Lent!A series in 17 parts, by Blacksheep. Listen to the Podcast at Steamy Stories. The Jenna series started with ‘Jenna Goes To Church', followed shortly after with ‘Jenna, the Vicar's Wife'. It resumed recently with Jenna's New Year'; and now it continues with a Lentil 2-part story. Other episodes will follow.It was the last Sunday of Shrovetide, known as Quinquagesima. At St. Michael's Church, Reverend Morris had amassed a pile of old palm crosses, intending to burn them on Ash Wednesday."Shouldn't be long before the first members of the faithful arrive," he said to his wife Jenna, who was adjusting the flowers at the side of the pulpit."Oh before I forget, I've got something for you to burn on Ash Wednesday," she smiled, handing him a pair of her panties."This is an unusual-looking palm cross!" He replied. "I think I'd better burn this separately from the others! Is there some reason why you want your undies reduced to ash?""Well Simon, I've been thinking. And I've finally decided what I'm going to give up for Lent.""You're giving up wearing underwear?""Ha-ha. Tempting, but no. I'm giving up sex."Reverend Morris almost dropped the box full of crosses. "What? Sex? No, you can't be serious!"Jenna nodded. "I'm 100% serious, my love. Lent is supposed to be hard, and you're always going on about how part of being a good Christian is making sacrifices and so on. It's traditionally a time of fasting and abstaining from something to repent and focus our hearts and minds on the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ.""Yes, but within reason, Jen! I don't expect you to suffer hardship as bad as that!""I can do it, Simon. I'm committed to seeing it through. It's only forty days.""B-but, that's six weeks!" the vicar whined, looking as if his entire world was about to end. "I, I'm not sure I can, er, go without for so long!""Now Simon, you're a man of God. You're stronger than most. I know you can do this. And just think how wonderful it will be when Easter comes, everything in calf, bursting out in spring glory, sap rising, mating seasons beginning, shoots thrusting upwards, days getting longer, ""Vicars dying of horniness, " Reverend Morris sighed."Exactly. And it won't just be you going without. The other chaps of this church will have to go without as well!""Oh my goodness, Jenna. There's going to be a lot of frustration building up in this church! When you say no sex, does that mean, ""No physical contact whatsoever, my dearest! No blowjobs, no kissing, no cock in cunt, nada! Just like social distancing."Reverend Morris' lip was trembling. "Not even a kiss?""Nope. I'll be sleeping in the spare bedroom until Easter. I can blow you a kiss. And whilst we can't do anything involving physical contact, there are other naughty ways we can get through Lent.""Like what?""Use your imagination, Simon!"He thought for a moment. "So I'll have to make do with dating Rosie Palms until Easter?""If it helps you cope, yes!"The reverend took a deep breath. "You're absolutely right, Jenna. I can get through this. I admire you so much for deciding to have a sex ban. In fact, I think I love you even more, and I didn't think that possible!""Aww. Ditto." She kissed him. "We'll make the most of Shrove Tuesday," she added, with a wink. "I'm going to do some creative things with pancakes."He slipped his arms around her. "Remember that morning after the Candlemas service, when we got soaking wet in the rain and we just ravished each other once we got back to the vicarage?""Hee hee, yes. Or that time last month during that short holiday in Lincolnshire when we stayed in that weird hotel, and the ghost gatecrashed our passion?""Bit early in the morning for that, isn't it? Then again, I'm not complaining!" A voice shouted, and they both looked round. Gordon the organist had just arrived.Moments later, Josh the curate appeared."Morning guys!" Jenna smiled. She turned back to her husband. "You'd better get your robes on. Looks like some of the congregation are here already. I'll go and hand out some hymn books."He nodded and headed off to the vestry. "Forty days," he sighed. "God, .I will really need your help through this difficult time!"And just how were some of the other male members of St. Michael's Church going to cope for forty days without any 'spiritual guidance' from the vicar's wife?Shrove Tuesday (the eve of Lent)On Shrove Tuesday, Jenna spent all afternoon mixing pancake batter. It would've been quicker to buy some ready-made pancakes from Tesco, but where was the fun in that? She looked at the kitchen wall clock."Come on Simon, you're late. How long does a meeting with the Bishop take?"Her husband had been out all day. At last, she heard his car pull up on the drive."Good. Now the fun begins."The front door opened and Reverend Morris came rushing in. "Sorry I've been so long. Bishop George kept prattling on for ages and then coming back home there's been a road accident so I had to take the long way home, oh I see you've been busy!" He noticed his wife was completely naked except for an apron."Welcome home," she smirked. "It's time to flip some pancakes. Is my randy reverend able to provide some batter?"He licked his lips. "What sort of batter would you be requiring?""Hmm, let's see. That special 'anointing oil' you used during my 21st birthday?" She whirled a frying pan in her hand and flipped a pancake. "Here's one I prepared earlier."His hands found her shoulders, and turned her to face him. His hands moved up to cup her face and Jenna felt his lips close around hers in a tender kiss. She returned it with rising passion, slipping her tongue into his mouth. As their tongues danced, Jenna quickly unfastened her apron, letting it slide down over her smooth skin to the kitchen floor.She could hear Reverend Morris unfastening his own garments, and when he embraced her tightly, she felt his bare skin press against hers with delicious warmth. Her husband's mouth left her lips, trailing down her neck to her chest. He took a nipple in his mouth and teased the erect tip. It was perhaps the upcoming sex ban enhancing his senses, but Jenna's breasts had never felt so full, and had never tasted so sweet. His hands roamed down over her arse, savoring her curves.Reverend Morris moved back up her body, his lips playing over her breasts, then back up her neck. Jenna's hands slid down his chest and at last reached their goal. She gripped his throbbing member, took a few steps backward, pulling gently but firmly, and he promptly followed her. She felt the edge of the kitchen countertop meet her lower back, and she swiftly heaved herself on to the cool granite surface and lay back, spreading her legs.Reverend Morris had a sudden urge to taste his wife; his tongue met with her soft skin just above her clit, then down into her folds, tasting, discovering and exploring all that she had to offer. He began to suck and lick her clit. How he loved to worship at this altar.Jenna reached for the bowl of pancake batter. A wooden spoon was sticking out of the bowl. Without hesitation, she began spooning the batter down her breasts."It tastes alright," she murmured, placing a blob of batter on her husband's nose. "But it needs an extra ingredient, ""Umm, I think I can help you there.""Fuck me religiously, darling." Jenna said hoarsely.A pair of strong, silky legs wrapped around the vicar's arse. He lowered himself onto her and felt those glorious batter-coated breasts rub against his chest as he began thrusting into her. He tried to set a steady, leisurely pace to begin, but the legs around him urged him on faster and harder. Reverend Morris responded with enthusiasm, and within moments he was pounding into his wife with all his strength, mindful that after tonight he wouldn't be able to do this for six weeks."Yes, yes, oh my God yes, I've never felt anything like it!" Jenna moaned."Bloody hell, I'm coming, oh Jenna!" Reverend Morris yelled as his stream of hot cum filled up her cunt and flowed back out onto the kitchen countertop.Jenna lay back on the countertop, eyes closed. It was several minutes before her breathing had calmed enough for her to speak."Did I provide enough batter?" Reverend Morris asked."Your holy offering was more than generous!""Forty days without from this moment on. You've still time to change your mind.""I'm sticking to it, Simon. We'll get through Lent. We'll have to think up some creative contactless ways to get our rocks off."The smell of burning interrupted them. They both glanced at the stove. To Jenna's dismay, the pancake she'd been cooking had been virtually cremated in the frying pan."Oh dear," she said, gazing at the remains of the pancake, which now resembled a lump of coal."Now that's what I call a perfect burnt offering for Ash Wednesday!" Reverend Morris replied.The Organist is Entertained.Gordon Leesmith always looked forward to Thursday evening arriving. This was when he had organ practice at church, and for the past few months he'd been teaching Jenna to play the organ. These lessons were really just an excuse for a passionate romp with the stunning vicar's wife, who was always more than willing to get her hands on the organ in his trousers, rather than the church one.Gordon hummed to himself as he brewed himself a cup of tea. He checked the time. It was only just after midday. Six hours to go. He was impatient and horny, but in a very happy mood. He'd just returned from seeing his Primary Care physician. That in itself something of a miracle in modern Britain; and received good news. His benign prostate enlargement wasn't as bad as he'd feared. Despite being a bit overweight, the doctor had given him a clean bill of health. His blood pressure was low, and so was his cholesterol.Today was his birthday. He was fifty six. A year ago, Gordon had been a miserable, short-tempered man who didn't endear himself to anyone else in the church. Long-divorced, impotent and frustrated with being alone for so long, his life had turned upside down when a young woman by the name of Jenna Fox had started attending St. Michael's Church. A few months later, she'd turned her attentions to flirting with him. Never in a million years did Gordon think he'd end up getting his cock sucked by a stunning redhead whilst he sat on the organ stool.As Gordon sipped his tea, his phone vibrated."Oh, an email from Jenna," he smiled, checking the message.Happy Birthday Gordon! About tonight. I'm afraid I can't make tonight's organ practice. I won't be able to until Easter arrives. Thing is, I've chosen to give up sex for Lent. I know you won't to hear this and it's going to be so hard for me to stick to this, but you've got to test yourself and set a challenge, right? It's what being a Christian is all about. I truly hope you'll understand. But - that doesn't mean we can't still have some fun! Make sure you visit the church - I've left a birthday present for you on the organ stool, trust me, it'll see you through this hard time. And when Easter comes, Jesus won't be the only person that rises, wink wink. It'll be worth the wait, keep your organ pipe warm for me.Love Jenna. xxx"She's abstaining from sex?" Gordon almost dropped his cup of tea. "Wait, what? Oh no! This is a nightmare! I won't be able to have a fuck for six weeks? Bloody hell! I'll go round the bend, I can't even call on Yulia's mate Martika anymore. Damn it, why did she have to bugger off back to Ukraine?"He wasn't sure whether to scream or burst into tears, but after he overcame the initial shock, he took a deep breath and composed himself.
My breath is shallow, My heart is lonely. The poster shadow Of many moons forshadoed. Again, I lie awake, screaming, Not calling I'm screening your calls You want ice cream with that, Or what. (Or what) Probably or what, though In a nutshell, I don't want you I thought your hollow bones Could swallow us whole To another, Long, long gone Summer. Sure, the show goes on —but it won't without you. For sure, The show goes on— But it won't without you Turn the phone on, Turn it over At the airport, Watching Conan Oh yeah, A honey blonde, Shucks. Honeysuckle wants only To become Sweet, ripe salmon berry (Don't you want to) At the airport, Watching conan Overhead, I Overheard a phone call “What the fuck did you just say?” It's been 3 days; She went missing at MIA No connection to jfk No connection at all Munroe, you blind bastard All the water All the drugs All in the wash It's water under the toenails (Four fingers up, But the fourth one lost it) At the airport Watching Conan I over heard you Turn the phone off Semi-sync or something, Semi dysfunction Chemists hemispheres All his fears are In my head I stand at the front at the edge of the the platform so there's just less temptation to jump (White Nikes is for chumps) Everybody is a goddamn DJ these days Especially on her bday When she asks for a replay of that remix Bitch please I sit alone bc with my phone and my notebook. By the end of a river A cold brook Wrote a whole mother novel A classy story For the world gone wrong You fucking Morin Fungi up I get more fond l I stand in the train with my back against the wall So the shadow markers won't stand behind And grab me Fuck man, fuck off There's a lot of blue here Must be something to do here I need new gear Stuck inside of my l life Since new years Whose here? WHAT THE FUCK MORGIE? SUNNI! MORE HEINIKEN!!!! You CANNOT. Drink with that ankle monitor on. I know. So why are you drinking?! I took the ankle monitor off. Nogga yo feet is small. Like smaller than mine. I been staring at your gut this whole train ride. How the fuck are you like a 5x And your feet are a ladies size 6? The fuck. You need some help, bro. I ain't been to the gym in two days But you got fairy feet My nigga My hip bone s apes against the railing; I've three children, but you'd not know I; I'm holding in cereal, cleaning out stuff for cereal boxes m, Audio level Aux chords polished Shined as silver, Hair as Golden, Still no meadows, My eyes rest in My, I'm tired. Please don't mind me, Bright blue jumper Still no meadow I lay down in Still no meadow Hair as golden Old blue boxers Boxes Please don't mind me Oh, you started it Oh, you started it No motion sensors Already alcoholic, Still halls And still water Oh, You started it Oh. You started it Sure, don't fall out of Heroin antics, Sure, don't fall forward, Only to fall out Oh. You started it Damn! Why the devil always gotta stand behind a motherfucker, huh? Fuckin creepo. Haven't you decided yet that you are the devil. I am one and all And all things, I am Still in my mind I am, Never behind, But always ahead Always right, and not wit wars I stand in line for the stairs The slower the better the more I write Imm on fast God Fasting time I'm on fully automatic The faster we go The harder the heroin The longer we stop for The harder we party Off bandwagon There I go— (Are I now) There you are? Fully automotive Fully automatic Fully on the wrong road. It matters hoping No more tears for lost stardom No more neon signs No halter tops Shit, I work harder in hell When I don't have my phone off Shit, I work harder in hell When I take all my clothes off. I couldn't even pretend to give two fucks right now I'm chained to a train With another one headed right towards me. I don't mind what's the line your on Whose line is it anyway, good line at the equinox Step over me Hoarder I'll say, Here for all time; Wherefor art though Simple and stuck In my own ways All day I sat in haides No semtember Sick morons Long, long October Still started No water Two dogs And a blonde No show starter. But There goes all that All the next understudies And sure profiles, Fair weather friends again —creepy ass inanimate muppets. Fuck, man. Somebody stick their fuckin hand up Elmo's ass before I punch him. Don't punch Elmo. Who doesn't love Elmo. I do not. What did you say your name was? I didn't. What did you say is your expertise? Rhythms. Mister mister l NOOOOOOOO. Some black dude rubbed his whole dick against my wrist on the subway train. gnarly. It was warm. And weird— Like a fucking Sleeping cat Under Egyptian cotton AGHHHHHHJ. AOh no. I THOUGHT MY HAND WENT PARALYZED. It just siezed up, real crunchy, like— *chicken foot arm* I automatically had like the whole thing going on. The worst part was that it was warm— And soft// But HUGE. I was like What ANIMAL is that. I will never. I could NEVER I said. what. I just got to the point in my life where I realized I wasn't interested in anything. !but especially I'm looking for Sage to burn I goy money go burn I got time to earn mi got money to chase Ain't got money to waste You've got to admit x It's a good savings system —for once, the sauce sounded like symphonies And wreaked of green peppers, or rather, was fragrant CHECKPOINT! I remember this part! I remember this place This time This dance This song, Then— everyone does And everything does, doesn't it? Show ants the advocate The advocate of another time I think I ran here on What if everything cheaper online But it's just the adventure you wished for Have you ever tried to be mad With squeaky ass shoes on Seriously Have you ever tied to like walk away Or stop away mad With squeaky ass shoes? Is that the pub? I guess. You guess! Is this the right pub or is it not? I don't know which pub is the right pub! He just said “Irish pub” you could throw a rock and hit one! Sometimes it's best, To just not give A single fuck at all At all at all A single fuck at all. I don't give a flipping song! Woah now i don't give a flap or a stick! Alright, alright. Leave me alone to die I'll melt inside the world A coin upon a string Run, girl, run Of course, of course It lives again It'll come again When the Sunnis down. I can't wait till the sundown I can't wait till the world is kind And the girls are gone And the birds all hush And the dogs don't bark And the sun downt come Till I'm long long gone and out of it I'm over her, no more war and art over sodom And stardom as startuduat Like I said, you started it I always did I didn't want I only done To suffer Suffer more Will you rot you blossom corpse The art is done The art is done! The water's hot No wonder white people fucking hate us. I saw a black dude on the train. Today with his dick in his pocket. NO, GOD. WHY! And he was holding it, too. I'm like “What for?!” Jesus Christ's. It was in his pocket. Outlined and everything, With his fucking grip around it Like it was a fucking animal. No! No! Man some people are so fuckin wrong I hate pda. I fuckin hate it. The Real versions come across a parallel reality's version of themselves—who by some chance, also happened to cross paths with each other—however—this band of miscreants are HOOLIGANS—unruly lawbreakers who cause chaos, confusion, and trouble to the good people of Where the fuck is this. —wherever they are. Don't come round here! I will fuck your socks off— and sell them back to you! The sex was free; But the socks will cost you. But—they're my socks. Were and could be again…for a price. Goddamn. Yes, Goddamn indeed. BROH. JOHN OLIVER IS MAD BRITISH. AVADAKAVARAH! I TOLD YOU, I WAS A WITCH DOCTOR! WHATEVER! I THOUGHT YOU WERE A LATE NIGHT HOST! EVERYBODY HAS A DAY JOB. THAT'S A NIGHT JOB! EXPECTO-PA– POTTER!!! WHAT IN THE [BEEP}! YOU'RE A WIZARD?! OF COURSE I'M A BLOODY WIZARD–WHAT THE HELL DO I LOOK LIKE TO YOU?! ANOTHER LATE NIGHT HOST–OR WHATEVER! “OR WHATEVER” I'M A WIZARD– HARRY. What the [bleep] EVERYBODY HAS A DAY JOB ™ Please, by all means, Keep your pretty white girlfriend. I want to see those eyes come through What a handsome couple. They are the scariest thing ever. Let them be, then; Out to be fun to watch. I can't listen to Drake on my loud speakers bro. Not—like loud, man. That shit makes me feel like a whole ass basic black girl. True story. Sometimes you gotta distance yourself from the “yassss” birds. I saw this one comedian performing— Well, I think he was a comedian. He wasn't funny to me but, He had like 710K followers And he was really really pretty. I had to notice that, because as imm listening to him preform, about 30 minutes into the video— I was waiting to see if he would make me actually laugh— He didn't— But— As I was trying to figure out how he has 710K followers And has not made me laugh, not once I start paying closer attention to him— And I realize; “Oh” He is major good looking. At first I didn't notice— I like white guys— so, Of course, At first glance I'm like “Hey brother!” You know, like “That's my son!” I'm like “Yeah, make me laugh, boy.” But he didn't And then as I start to wonder Like, Why or how he has so large of a following I notice he's very beautiful. And I mean, like mad gorgeous. Like ideally— I'm like “Oh” and as I'm realizing this, He's saying the punchline to a “joke,” And as he's saying it, I realize that way in the back, Like you can hear that they're in the back Cause the camera is in the center, And like half of the audience is behind the film crew , and you can hear these girls are in the way— Like in the way back Like in the way, way back, You can hear like a pack of ratchets— Yes— these must be his die hards— His squad. Not like his homies or anything, but like The Groupies. You know. The hopefuls. He's got this group of black girls like hackling in the back, like clapping hard at all his punches like “YAS!” “SAY IT!” And it was funny because his reaction to these girls was like “I'm—not in control of this.” “RIGHT!” “SAY LESS!” I'm like, Oh, I see how that works, now. {Enter The Multiverse} And even I Just want it to fucking stop So it can just be over with Oh why, Not another fucking lover boy After all of them Oh no— But this one's worse; Maybe even the worst of all of them Because as I exit my prison cell, I find this dude behind bars— Maybe even happily. And now I'm out into the world Supposedly free— But still trapped with this mentality As if whatever I had before— Maybe even possibly the worst, lowest existence At least for me, Was somehow Better —can anyone tell me why? Not even God, besides the obvious point that perhaps The Devil is in the mind; He likes to arouse, To play games, And tricks And I, Myself Perhaps Have fallen prey, Not to become victim to this; But a player in the game. A pawn. AND WHY HAS NOBODY DRAWN ON THESE YET, THEY'VE BEEN UP FOR SEEMINGLY forever and always And this nigga has Not one snaggletooth No graffiti tettoos No fucking sharpie lip injections. Nothing. Do you remember that story how Johnny Depp hated his face up on a billboard— So he went rogue and painted over it? Yeah? So? What if it's like that. I don't think it's like that. —I think it's the opposite of that, actually. And if anything— If I see not a one defacing of these posters And they are everywhere If anything, Jimmy Fallon is the guy With a spray bottle of acetone And a fucking microfiber rag Wiping that shit off In his free time WHAT FREE TIME? You tell me. But first— Somebody— Anybody tell me Why this happened. At all. Anybody? Somebody. C'mon. {Enter The Multiverse} If you'll excuse me, I actually have to get going. Where are you going? I don't know: I just— JOHNNY DEPP must be going. Have to. he does not know, however, that he is stuck in a movie—which has no definitive ending. Well actually, This movie has like— 30 alternative endings Wait, 30 alternative endings? 30-40 Woah. That's nuts. Which makes it even cooler. If you ever blow my mind again like that, I'll actually kill you. I've been watching a lot of LMN Lifetime movie network—Why?! Because this shit is hilarious! Isn't it! YO. This shit is PIZZA It IS. What? Why is it pizza? Cause it's not pizza If it's not CHEEZY. ahaha. While traditional Thai pineapple fried rice has tomatoes within the vegetable medley, I opted instead for this recipe to use a sauced red pepper tomato sauce glaze to top the dish, for a new school American twist and flare. ½ cup chopped mushrooms ½ cup scallions ¼ cup white onion ½ cup red onion ¼ cup Pasilla pepper ½ cup red pepper cup white onions ½ cup yellow pepper ¾ cup green pepper 1 cup fresh basil 1 cup fresh pineapple UmBRIDGE. What. NO, Um— A bridge appears out of nowhere. lol why do you have no hair? I dunno; mate. Wizards. Don't go there— You're fired. I beg your pardon Please, don't beg. You are officially decommissioned as headmaster! This is the minister of magic Is that what it was. I guess, I don't know; I'm just along for the STEWIE. WHAT MA, WHAT. TEN AND TWO!! You know what, let me drive. Oh, finally—stewie has his own aplorable Boston accent, (hybrid proper English, of course. ) What does that even sound like Strange. The lady working at Trader Joe's was so beautiful to me, I had to tell her. I loved her Locs, I loved her glasses I loved her accent. So I just had to ask where she's from— I do that sometimes. If I really love someone's accent, I have to ask where their from to try to get there one day; So I asked her, “Where are you from?” And she says “Haiti,” And I was like “Wow, cool” And then I thought about it for a second, And I asked “Do you ever miss home” And she just laughed I was like “Oh, guess not” Some context I had been homesick lately, But I grew up in Alaska And I consider myself from California, Having spent most of my adult life there So coming to New York has been like Living on the other side of the world; And sometimes that sucks. But sometimes, and I have realized that wherever you're from, To get to New York is sometimes a blessing. She didn't even say yes or no, She just laughed. Now I'm worried about Haiti. I was worried about it before; But now I'm like; “Do you miss home?” She's like “Hahaha” I'm like “Oh damn.” I count my blessings. So JOHNNY DEPP just like excuses himself, wanders out into the street, and then—? Yeah. And then what? I don't know yet, I'm kind of busy these days. “BUSY?!” BUSY DOING WHAT?! Beep boop. Eee—ooh. Beep—boop—boop. Yah-yah-yah— APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE I'll show you all my scars, huh This one, she look like the reaper That's my girl, You bet she a keeper Ya'll sleepin on us What Yeah What Yeah What You sleeping on us I been in this b'niss APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. It's not a bad song. Is it a song? Is it? idk I just like balls in my face, is all. ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. [A Classic red dodgeball beams Who is it? WILL FERREL Is that how you spell it? Why will Ferrel? Cause I Want it TO MAKE ME LAUGH. HOW. JUST DO IT. Oh. I get it: So my pain is funny to you? [FINE, IT'S SOMEONE ELSE] Oh shit, that guy did look just like Will Ferrel, but OLD. He's old now, ain't he? Wasn't he always? [FINE] CUT. I QUIT. CUT TO: You and I, sir, have a longstanding arrangement. Would it be more comfortable to–sit? Yikes. (Whatever, we'll work on it.) [The Festiva– {Enter The Multiverse} I need a toothbrush to scrub my brain. I'm The lilly of the valley In the Belly of the beast I been swallowed by a whale I'm a whole damn story Woah I am the Lilly of the the valley I am the rider of the horse I am seeker of truth Writer of lines Sayer of lies (I might say a lie; But I just won't tell it) What is your deal with the devil. She knows I have a deal with ‘em. Well, the truth is— I have to turn ya! He's a good old country boy— From the simple south— A simple soul And they all believed him, word for word “I's born in New York” —he sounded assured. Gone, now, boy Go crack dat corn. Gone down south Go crack dat corn Gone, ol boy Go crack dat corn m —got no soul? Go crack dat corn. Aaaaghhh. I have a headache. why the fuck are you freaking out?! Because I don't know what I wrote. I must admit, There are things Where there should be no things There are springs Where there should be no springs There are strings Where there should be no strings And imm quite sure With no rules enforced —it's just a static cling Sort of thing OWW, my EYES. Nobody should have this much power. Nobody does. I don't get it. (I still don't understand why this happened.) He must have perfect genetics. Or something. THIS FOOL IS FIXING ME UP TO DIE!!!!! I AM THECRISCO QUEEN DIRTY NOT CLEAN WHAT CAN I SAY I LIKE GREASE MONEY EVERYDAY BANKROLL INCREASE DEEP FRY HIGH SUNNI BLŪ Yo VO. Ok— so sometimes things go shitty. Like, mad shitty. YOOOOO. My measurements are 34C, 24 waist, and 55 in height. I couldn't understand why a girl this perfect should have to be selling sex at all, But I supposed nowadays, all women were prostitutes in some sort of way. This one's 22 years old and 96 pounds Men are sick fucking creatures. Whose fucking child is this?! COME GET YOUR DAUGHTER. Although, you know—I get it. My mom bought a Mercedes in cash And I'm still in educational debt. I just now today realized. That could have been a college fund. But she wanted a Mercedes. It's okay that I'm a bit fucked up in the head. Something went terribly wrong. All and all, Myself and this perfect girl, Cost around the same For an entire night— But hey, I think she's low balling herself On the 24 hour special. That's an entire day of my time, That's at least 10K. ♀️ She has a perfect body and two eyes that are different colors, But I'm a literary genius. You don't need words to soothe your boner thiugh, Or show off at a black tie function, do you? A stroll on the red carpet, Or some opulent fucking 5-star charade. How much does she cost, I wonder? She says, “I also accept bitcoin, etherum, gold and silver.” On God, These fake lip hoes is robbin' niggas. Men are sick creatures though. “Here's my gold watch” Fucking gross. I cruise escort sites for entertainment, Having learned my value as a woman isn't the visual, Visceral thing men are usually looking for— No judgement, Because I've realized that if I too had a perfect body. I myself would be living in some kind of oppulent, prostitution fuck-hole, With everybody else in my generation, That didn't get married— And then, probably divorced. I realized a long time ago that this was the reason my mother Always hated my body more than I ever could have— which is fine, Because eventually I inherited this hatred. I could have eventually grown out of it— But she couldn't see that. I was a “nasty fat heifer” On her worst days, And now, Even on my best days— I still am. Nevermind that eventually my ex husband would Think of my hair as nappy, or That I actually did end up kind of sort of growing out of being A fat, nasty heifer— Kind of. But the fact that it's taken me the entirety of my life to realize my worth as a woman Would always be defined by that Of what a man idealized as “Worthy” Well, That in itself Gives me the dismissive ability To have days where I do nothing, But sit back, Cruising escort sites and shipping on Amazon for yoga mats, Wanting the experience of the world Without really being beautiful enough for it And waiting to fade Into the next lifetime. [All the black girls cost less Because they have to.] Men are sick creatures. They'll take a butterface, Ugly ass white girl Over a pretty one that's dark skinned And these are just The facts of life (So far.) Piper of Phoenix Valiant, bold, and brazen This woman, I love— In the wings for fortune, To honor, I love With wisdom, And aged like fine wine We all become I want body like Sofia But never met the real Rebecca. Yo. YO. Let's spend $60 o lip gloss. Okay. Hey. Ways crackin. I just bought a $12,000 mattress. Let's take a nap in it. Hey girl. Heeeeeeey. This yoga mat cost $200. That's fresh. You think THATS RICH?! Seems pretty rich to me. You can't get any of this stuff on Amazon. That's fucking psycho. These loafers? Uh uh. $2,000. For WAT. (Whispers) Eeel skiiiin. Gross! I'm HUNGRY Got grits, Ain't got no sugar. No butter— —ain't hurt nobody. Poverty is a whole damn show. Close the door On a broke ass bitch. Poverty is a whole damn story. Got no bucks for the Whole Foods market Shopping carts full of old ass garbage No reward For a woke ass artist I'm HUNGRY. I killed myself 3 times his morning. POOR SNOOP is still a whole ass G BET ON IT HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL RAP COVER -$15 BROKE WAYNE AINT HAVING IT CHRIS ROCK THE METRO TRAIN DRIVER is NOT FUNNY— (He's still a ladies man though.) LCD SYSTEM HOOGLI BOOGLI is the reason they fear us. HOOGLI BOOGLI IS THE BLACKEST BLACK THAT EVER BLACKED. UNLIKE NIGGLY NIGGA—he is NOT FRIENDLY. He is the stuff of nightmares. A world gone wrong. Two bloodshot eyes on a black backdrop Dark black. I sold not state at screen They go uno in te night This shit doesn't make much sense, Does it? Doesn't Matter Antimatter. Ow. How far is antimatter from antithesis? Is this just a Christmas present Never said it, same diff Something something something SHUT UP. So to re-iterate— Uh huh. Niggly Nigga is friendly… Yeah, he's just— —he just looks like that. AH. What happened. Don't stand behind me like that, my nigga. Srry. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Okay, that'll work. #timetravelingdjs Enough with these weak dick pussy motherfuckers.. I still got 30 minutes in my cycle routine! Here you come with your pussy ass punches; AIGH. OOOOOH. Come on, put some weight in them shits! Pretend it's my face. Damn. I lost fat Jimmy Fallon. How'd you lose him?! He's hard to lose! And slow! Damn! THE SUPER FAT JIMMY FALLON is trying to slim down; he munches on a chocolate chewy bar (read: eats it in two biles and grips the wrapper anxiously.) Imm a whole ass nigga Come try take me out my head I got corn in the fridge I got bread I got money to spend On you (On you$ On you I got money to spend On you I I gotta go What happened Jew stuff. Ah yes. I remember now. Yeah, that's a Jew. Rabbi?! Shh! Shut up! But— Shut up! Yo. Bama. BARAK OBAMA I told you, don't call me that. Sorry—listen, Barak. President— President Obama. [beat] …yes? Look, I need a favor. You still owe me one. Put it on my tab. Listen, this is importsnt! -_- I think I control my neighbors. Yikes. For real. I think they move based on when I move. Seems like it. You're right! It seems like it. I was agreeing with you. BROH. They got planted baby bell cheeses! THEYGOTPLANTBASEDBABYBELLCHEESES I kinda wanna see if Dillon Francis is a dad yet . I'm tryna see like a tiny version of this. Of what. Don't change a thing. I would also like tiny versions of this, This, And this— Please. Ok. And this. Are you sure!? Yes. JACK BLACK don't you ever do that to me AGAIN! What! I didn't do anything to you! What? No! You didn't? Why not? What. What the Fox News! Do you have like an exclusive contract with Fallon, or something? No, that's NBC. I really can't talk about it right now, Jack. Hey hey-/ since when are we on a first name basis? You know what— you're right— I know it, Excuse me, Mr. Black— I ought to be going. going where?! You have to get me back to my original dimension! You don't have an original dimension! What! Why not, The fourth wall has been broken, very broken. And 2. What's the second point? You shouldn't have taken that acid. What acid?! Which time?! Exactly! Goddammit! don't look at me, God made this playlist. “Jew stuff” Ever since I inducted Jack black and Alex Baldwin into the impenatrable ten Ah—ahem Nobody “inducted us” There's no induction. We were just always —always. Here. HOOGLI BOOGLI. Huh. DID YOU JACK MY RIMS? Nah man, wasn't me. [the rims are sloppily hidden under a potato sack “hidden” obviously in the corner. Hehe. NIGGLY NIGGA spots his rims in the corner. Musical torture. HOOGLI, THESE ARE MY RIMS. I don't know how those got there, man, shiet! Nigga! What! HOOGLI BOOGLI YOU BLACK ASS NIGGA DONT—COME AROUND MY HOUSE NO MORE LOL HOW DO NIGGLY NIGGA AND HOOGLI BOOGLI SHARE A HOOD? Cause it beez like that sometimes. God damn— He's so fine to me! God damn, He ages like wine! Goddamn Goddamn! I turn the time; Damn, Goddamn— Let's turn back time {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.
My breath is shallow, My heart is lonely. The poster shadow Of many moons forshadoed. Again, I lie awake, screaming, Not calling I'm screening your calls You want ice cream with that, Or what. (Or what) Probably or what, though In a nutshell, I don't want you I thought your hollow bones Could swallow us whole To another, Long, long gone Summer. Sure, the show goes on —but it won't without you. For sure, The show goes on— But it won't without you Turn the phone on, Turn it over At the airport, Watching Conan Oh yeah, A honey blonde, Shucks. Honeysuckle wants only To become Sweet, ripe salmon berry (Don't you want to) At the airport, Watching conan Overhead, I Overheard a phone call “What the fuck did you just say?” It's been 3 days; She went missing at MIA No connection to jfk No connection at all Munroe, you blind bastard All the water All the drugs All in the wash It's water under the toenails (Four fingers up, But the fourth one lost it) At the airport Watching Conan I over heard you Turn the phone off Semi-sync or something, Semi dysfunction Chemists hemispheres All his fears are In my head I stand at the front at the edge of the the platform so there's just less temptation to jump (White Nikes is for chumps) Everybody is a goddamn DJ these days Especially on her bday When she asks for a replay of that remix Bitch please I sit alone bc with my phone and my notebook. By the end of a river A cold brook Wrote a whole mother novel A classy story For the world gone wrong You fucking Morin Fungi up I get more fond l I stand in the train with my back against the wall So the shadow markers won't stand behind And grab me Fuck man, fuck off There's a lot of blue here Must be something to do here I need new gear Stuck inside of my l life Since new years Whose here? WHAT THE FUCK MORGIE? SUNNI! MORE HEINIKEN!!!! You CANNOT. Drink with that ankle monitor on. I know. So why are you drinking?! I took the ankle monitor off. Nogga yo feet is small. Like smaller than mine. I been staring at your gut this whole train ride. How the fuck are you like a 5x And your feet are a ladies size 6? The fuck. You need some help, bro. I ain't been to the gym in two days But you got fairy feet My nigga My hip bone s apes against the railing; I've three children, but you'd not know I; I'm holding in cereal, cleaning out stuff for cereal boxes m, Audio level Aux chords polished Shined as silver, Hair as Golden, Still no meadows, My eyes rest in My, I'm tired. Please don't mind me, Bright blue jumper Still no meadow I lay down in Still no meadow Hair as golden Old blue boxers Boxes Please don't mind me Oh, you started it Oh, you started it No motion sensors Already alcoholic, Still halls And still water Oh, You started it Oh. You started it Sure, don't fall out of Heroin antics, Sure, don't fall forward, Only to fall out Oh. You started it Damn! Why the devil always gotta stand behind a motherfucker, huh? Fuckin creepo. Haven't you decided yet that you are the devil. I am one and all And all things, I am Still in my mind I am, Never behind, But always ahead Always right, and not wit wars I stand in line for the stairs The slower the better the more I write Imm on fast God Fasting time I'm on fully automatic The faster we go The harder the heroin The longer we stop for The harder we party Off bandwagon There I go— (Are I now) There you are? Fully automotive Fully automatic Fully on the wrong road. It matters hoping No more tears for lost stardom No more neon signs No halter tops Shit, I work harder in hell When I don't have my phone off Shit, I work harder in hell When I take all my clothes off. I couldn't even pretend to give two fucks right now I'm chained to a train With another one headed right towards me. I don't mind what's the line your on Whose line is it anyway, good line at the equinox Step over me Hoarder I'll say, Here for all time; Wherefor art though Simple and stuck In my own ways All day I sat in haides No semtember Sick morons Long, long October Still started No water Two dogs And a blonde No show starter. But There goes all that All the next understudies And sure profiles, Fair weather friends again —creepy ass inanimate muppets. Fuck, man. Somebody stick their fuckin hand up Elmo's ass before I punch him. Don't punch Elmo. Who doesn't love Elmo. I do not. What did you say your name was? I didn't. What did you say is your expertise? Rhythms. Mister mister l NOOOOOOOO. Some black dude rubbed his whole dick against my wrist on the subway train. gnarly. It was warm. And weird— Like a fucking Sleeping cat Under Egyptian cotton AGHHHHHHJ. AOh no. I THOUGHT MY HAND WENT PARALYZED. It just siezed up, real crunchy, like— *chicken foot arm* I automatically had like the whole thing going on. The worst part was that it was warm— And soft// But HUGE. I was like What ANIMAL is that. I will never. I could NEVER I said. what. I just got to the point in my life where I realized I wasn't interested in anything. !but especially I'm looking for Sage to burn I goy money go burn I got time to earn mi got money to chase Ain't got money to waste You've got to admit x It's a good savings system —for once, the sauce sounded like symphonies And wreaked of green peppers, or rather, was fragrant CHECKPOINT! I remember this part! I remember this place This time This dance This song, Then— everyone does And everything does, doesn't it? Show ants the advocate The advocate of another time I think I ran here on What if everything cheaper online But it's just the adventure you wished for Have you ever tried to be mad With squeaky ass shoes on Seriously Have you ever tied to like walk away Or stop away mad With squeaky ass shoes? Is that the pub? I guess. You guess! Is this the right pub or is it not? I don't know which pub is the right pub! He just said “Irish pub” you could throw a rock and hit one! Sometimes it's best, To just not give A single fuck at all At all at all A single fuck at all. I don't give a flipping song! Woah now i don't give a flap or a stick! Alright, alright. Leave me alone to die I'll melt inside the world A coin upon a string Run, girl, run Of course, of course It lives again It'll come again When the Sunnis down. I can't wait till the sundown I can't wait till the world is kind And the girls are gone And the birds all hush And the dogs don't bark And the sun downt come Till I'm long long gone and out of it I'm over her, no more war and art over sodom And stardom as startuduat Like I said, you started it I always did I didn't want I only done To suffer Suffer more Will you rot you blossom corpse The art is done The art is done! The water's hot No wonder white people fucking hate us. I saw a black dude on the train. Today with his dick in his pocket. NO, GOD. WHY! And he was holding it, too. I'm like “What for?!” Jesus Christ's. It was in his pocket. Outlined and everything, With his fucking grip around it Like it was a fucking animal. No! No! Man some people are so fuckin wrong I hate pda. I fuckin hate it. The Real versions come across a parallel reality's version of themselves—who by some chance, also happened to cross paths with each other—however—this band of miscreants are HOOLIGANS—unruly lawbreakers who cause chaos, confusion, and trouble to the good people of Where the fuck is this. —wherever they are. Don't come round here! I will fuck your socks off— and sell them back to you! The sex was free; But the socks will cost you. But—they're my socks. Were and could be again…for a price. Goddamn. Yes, Goddamn indeed. BROH. JOHN OLIVER IS MAD BRITISH. AVADAKAVARAH! I TOLD YOU, I WAS A WITCH DOCTOR! WHATEVER! I THOUGHT YOU WERE A LATE NIGHT HOST! EVERYBODY HAS A DAY JOB. THAT'S A NIGHT JOB! EXPECTO-PA– POTTER!!! WHAT IN THE [BEEP}! YOU'RE A WIZARD?! OF COURSE I'M A BLOODY WIZARD–WHAT THE HELL DO I LOOK LIKE TO YOU?! ANOTHER LATE NIGHT HOST–OR WHATEVER! “OR WHATEVER” I'M A WIZARD– HARRY. What the [bleep] EVERYBODY HAS A DAY JOB ™ Please, by all means, Keep your pretty white girlfriend. I want to see those eyes come through What a handsome couple. They are the scariest thing ever. Let them be, then; Out to be fun to watch. I can't listen to Drake on my loud speakers bro. Not—like loud, man. That shit makes me feel like a whole ass basic black girl. True story. Sometimes you gotta distance yourself from the “yassss” birds. I saw this one comedian performing— Well, I think he was a comedian. He wasn't funny to me but, He had like 710K followers And he was really really pretty. I had to notice that, because as imm listening to him preform, about 30 minutes into the video— I was waiting to see if he would make me actually laugh— He didn't— But— As I was trying to figure out how he has 710K followers And has not made me laugh, not once I start paying closer attention to him— And I realize; “Oh” He is major good looking. At first I didn't notice— I like white guys— so, Of course, At first glance I'm like “Hey brother!” You know, like “That's my son!” I'm like “Yeah, make me laugh, boy.” But he didn't And then as I start to wonder Like, Why or how he has so large of a following I notice he's very beautiful. And I mean, like mad gorgeous. Like ideally— I'm like “Oh” and as I'm realizing this, He's saying the punchline to a “joke,” And as he's saying it, I realize that way in the back, Like you can hear that they're in the back Cause the camera is in the center, And like half of the audience is behind the film crew , and you can hear these girls are in the way— Like in the way back Like in the way, way back, You can hear like a pack of ratchets— Yes— these must be his die hards— His squad. Not like his homies or anything, but like The Groupies. You know. The hopefuls. He's got this group of black girls like hackling in the back, like clapping hard at all his punches like “YAS!” “SAY IT!” And it was funny because his reaction to these girls was like “I'm—not in control of this.” “RIGHT!” “SAY LESS!” I'm like, Oh, I see how that works, now. {Enter The Multiverse} And even I Just want it to fucking stop So it can just be over with Oh why, Not another fucking lover boy After all of them Oh no— But this one's worse; Maybe even the worst of all of them Because as I exit my prison cell, I find this dude behind bars— Maybe even happily. And now I'm out into the world Supposedly free— But still trapped with this mentality As if whatever I had before— Maybe even possibly the worst, lowest existence At least for me, Was somehow Better —can anyone tell me why? Not even God, besides the obvious point that perhaps The Devil is in the mind; He likes to arouse, To play games, And tricks And I, Myself Perhaps Have fallen prey, Not to become victim to this; But a player in the game. A pawn. AND WHY HAS NOBODY DRAWN ON THESE YET, THEY'VE BEEN UP FOR SEEMINGLY forever and always And this nigga has Not one snaggletooth No graffiti tettoos No fucking sharpie lip injections. Nothing. Do you remember that story how Johnny Depp hated his face up on a billboard— So he went rogue and painted over it? Yeah? So? What if it's like that. I don't think it's like that. —I think it's the opposite of that, actually. And if anything— If I see not a one defacing of these posters And they are everywhere If anything, Jimmy Fallon is the guy With a spray bottle of acetone And a fucking microfiber rag Wiping that shit off In his free time WHAT FREE TIME? You tell me. But first— Somebody— Anybody tell me Why this happened. At all. Anybody? Somebody. C'mon. {Enter The Multiverse} If you'll excuse me, I actually have to get going. Where are you going? I don't know: I just— JOHNNY DEPP must be going. Have to. he does not know, however, that he is stuck in a movie—which has no definitive ending. Well actually, This movie has like— 30 alternative endings Wait, 30 alternative endings? 30-40 Woah. That's nuts. Which makes it even cooler. If you ever blow my mind again like that, I'll actually kill you. I've been watching a lot of LMN Lifetime movie network—Why?! Because this shit is hilarious! Isn't it! YO. This shit is PIZZA It IS. What? Why is it pizza? Cause it's not pizza If it's not CHEEZY. ahaha. While traditional Thai pineapple fried rice has tomatoes within the vegetable medley, I opted instead for this recipe to use a sauced red pepper tomato sauce glaze to top the dish, for a new school American twist and flare. ½ cup chopped mushrooms ½ cup scallions ¼ cup white onion ½ cup red onion ¼ cup Pasilla pepper ½ cup red pepper cup white onions ½ cup yellow pepper ¾ cup green pepper 1 cup fresh basil 1 cup fresh pineapple UmBRIDGE. What. NO, Um— A bridge appears out of nowhere. lol why do you have no hair? I dunno; mate. Wizards. Don't go there— You're fired. I beg your pardon Please, don't beg. You are officially decommissioned as headmaster! This is the minister of magic Is that what it was. I guess, I don't know; I'm just along for the STEWIE. WHAT MA, WHAT. TEN AND TWO!! You know what, let me drive. Oh, finally—stewie has his own aplorable Boston accent, (hybrid proper English, of course. ) What does that even sound like Strange. The lady working at Trader Joe's was so beautiful to me, I had to tell her. I loved her Locs, I loved her glasses I loved her accent. So I just had to ask where she's from— I do that sometimes. If I really love someone's accent, I have to ask where their from to try to get there one day; So I asked her, “Where are you from?” And she says “Haiti,” And I was like “Wow, cool” And then I thought about it for a second, And I asked “Do you ever miss home” And she just laughed I was like “Oh, guess not” Some context I had been homesick lately, But I grew up in Alaska And I consider myself from California, Having spent most of my adult life there So coming to New York has been like Living on the other side of the world; And sometimes that sucks. But sometimes, and I have realized that wherever you're from, To get to New York is sometimes a blessing. She didn't even say yes or no, She just laughed. Now I'm worried about Haiti. I was worried about it before; But now I'm like; “Do you miss home?” She's like “Hahaha” I'm like “Oh damn.” I count my blessings. So JOHNNY DEPP just like excuses himself, wanders out into the street, and then—? Yeah. And then what? I don't know yet, I'm kind of busy these days. “BUSY?!” BUSY DOING WHAT?! Beep boop. Eee—ooh. Beep—boop—boop. Yah-yah-yah— APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE I'll show you all my scars, huh This one, she look like the reaper That's my girl, You bet she a keeper Ya'll sleepin on us What Yeah What Yeah What You sleeping on us I been in this b'niss APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. It's not a bad song. Is it a song? Is it? idk I just like balls in my face, is all. ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. [A Classic red dodgeball beams Who is it? WILL FERREL Is that how you spell it? Why will Ferrel? Cause I Want it TO MAKE ME LAUGH. HOW. JUST DO IT. Oh. I get it: So my pain is funny to you? [FINE, IT'S SOMEONE ELSE] Oh shit, that guy did look just like Will Ferrel, but OLD. He's old now, ain't he? Wasn't he always? [FINE] CUT. I QUIT. CUT TO: You and I, sir, have a longstanding arrangement. Would it be more comfortable to–sit? Yikes. (Whatever, we'll work on it.) [The Festiva– {Enter The Multiverse} I need a toothbrush to scrub my brain. I'm The lilly of the valley In the Belly of the beast I been swallowed by a whale I'm a whole damn story Woah I am the Lilly of the the valley I am the rider of the horse I am seeker of truth Writer of lines Sayer of lies (I might say a lie; But I just won't tell it) What is your deal with the devil. She knows I have a deal with ‘em. Well, the truth is— I have to turn ya! He's a good old country boy— From the simple south— A simple soul And they all believed him, word for word “I's born in New York” —he sounded assured. Gone, now, boy Go crack dat corn. Gone down south Go crack dat corn Gone, ol boy Go crack dat corn m —got no soul? Go crack dat corn. Aaaaghhh. I have a headache. why the fuck are you freaking out?! Because I don't know what I wrote. I must admit, There are things Where there should be no things There are springs Where there should be no springs There are strings Where there should be no strings And imm quite sure With no rules enforced —it's just a static cling Sort of thing OWW, my EYES. Nobody should have this much power. Nobody does. I don't get it. (I still don't understand why this happened.) He must have perfect genetics. Or something. THIS FOOL IS FIXING ME UP TO DIE!!!!! I AM THECRISCO QUEEN DIRTY NOT CLEAN WHAT CAN I SAY I LIKE GREASE MONEY EVERYDAY BANKROLL INCREASE DEEP FRY HIGH SUNNI BLŪ Yo VO. Ok— so sometimes things go shitty. Like, mad shitty. YOOOOO. My measurements are 34C, 24 waist, and 55 in height. I couldn't understand why a girl this perfect should have to be selling sex at all, But I supposed nowadays, all women were prostitutes in some sort of way. This one's 22 years old and 96 pounds Men are sick fucking creatures. Whose fucking child is this?! COME GET YOUR DAUGHTER. Although, you know—I get it. My mom bought a Mercedes in cash And I'm still in educational debt. I just now today realized. That could have been a college fund. But she wanted a Mercedes. It's okay that I'm a bit fucked up in the head. Something went terribly wrong. All and all, Myself and this perfect girl, Cost around the same For an entire night— But hey, I think she's low balling herself On the 24 hour special. That's an entire day of my time, That's at least 10K. ♀️ She has a perfect body and two eyes that are different colors, But I'm a literary genius. You don't need words to soothe your boner thiugh, Or show off at a black tie function, do you? A stroll on the red carpet, Or some opulent fucking 5-star charade. How much does she cost, I wonder? She says, “I also accept bitcoin, etherum, gold and silver.” On God, These fake lip hoes is robbin' niggas. Men are sick creatures though. “Here's my gold watch” Fucking gross. I cruise escort sites for entertainment, Having learned my value as a woman isn't the visual, Visceral thing men are usually looking for— No judgement, Because I've realized that if I too had a perfect body. I myself would be living in some kind of oppulent, prostitution fuck-hole, With everybody else in my generation, That didn't get married— And then, probably divorced. I realized a long time ago that this was the reason my mother Always hated my body more than I ever could have— which is fine, Because eventually I inherited this hatred. I could have eventually grown out of it— But she couldn't see that. I was a “nasty fat heifer” On her worst days, And now, Even on my best days— I still am. Nevermind that eventually my ex husband would Think of my hair as nappy, or That I actually did end up kind of sort of growing out of being A fat, nasty heifer— Kind of. But the fact that it's taken me the entirety of my life to realize my worth as a woman Would always be defined by that Of what a man idealized as “Worthy” Well, That in itself Gives me the dismissive ability To have days where I do nothing, But sit back, Cruising escort sites and shipping on Amazon for yoga mats, Wanting the experience of the world Without really being beautiful enough for it And waiting to fade Into the next lifetime. [All the black girls cost less Because they have to.] Men are sick creatures. They'll take a butterface, Ugly ass white girl Over a pretty one that's dark skinned And these are just The facts of life (So far.) Piper of Phoenix Valiant, bold, and brazen This woman, I love— In the wings for fortune, To honor, I love With wisdom, And aged like fine wine We all become I want body like Sofia But never met the real Rebecca. Yo. YO. Let's spend $60 o lip gloss. Okay. Hey. Ways crackin. I just bought a $12,000 mattress. Let's take a nap in it. Hey girl. Heeeeeeey. This yoga mat cost $200. That's fresh. You think THATS RICH?! Seems pretty rich to me. You can't get any of this stuff on Amazon. That's fucking psycho. These loafers? Uh uh. $2,000. For WAT. (Whispers) Eeel skiiiin. Gross! I'm HUNGRY Got grits, Ain't got no sugar. No butter— —ain't hurt nobody. Poverty is a whole damn show. Close the door On a broke ass bitch. Poverty is a whole damn story. Got no bucks for the Whole Foods market Shopping carts full of old ass garbage No reward For a woke ass artist I'm HUNGRY. I killed myself 3 times his morning. POOR SNOOP is still a whole ass G BET ON IT HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL RAP COVER -$15 BROKE WAYNE AINT HAVING IT CHRIS ROCK THE METRO TRAIN DRIVER is NOT FUNNY— (He's still a ladies man though.) LCD SYSTEM HOOGLI BOOGLI is the reason they fear us. HOOGLI BOOGLI IS THE BLACKEST BLACK THAT EVER BLACKED. UNLIKE NIGGLY NIGGA—he is NOT FRIENDLY. He is the stuff of nightmares. A world gone wrong. Two bloodshot eyes on a black backdrop Dark black. I sold not state at screen They go uno in te night This shit doesn't make much sense, Does it? Doesn't Matter Antimatter. Ow. How far is antimatter from antithesis? Is this just a Christmas present Never said it, same diff Something something something SHUT UP. So to re-iterate— Uh huh. Niggly Nigga is friendly… Yeah, he's just— —he just looks like that. AH. What happened. Don't stand behind me like that, my nigga. Srry. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Okay, that'll work. #timetravelingdjs Enough with these weak dick pussy motherfuckers.. I still got 30 minutes in my cycle routine! Here you come with your pussy ass punches; AIGH. OOOOOH. Come on, put some weight in them shits! Pretend it's my face. Damn. I lost fat Jimmy Fallon. How'd you lose him?! He's hard to lose! And slow! Damn! THE SUPER FAT JIMMY FALLON is trying to slim down; he munches on a chocolate chewy bar (read: eats it in two biles and grips the wrapper anxiously.) Imm a whole ass nigga Come try take me out my head I got corn in the fridge I got bread I got money to spend On you (On you$ On you I got money to spend On you I I gotta go What happened Jew stuff. Ah yes. I remember now. Yeah, that's a Jew. Rabbi?! Shh! Shut up! But— Shut up! Yo. Bama. BARAK OBAMA I told you, don't call me that. Sorry—listen, Barak. President— President Obama. [beat] …yes? Look, I need a favor. You still owe me one. Put it on my tab. Listen, this is importsnt! -_- I think I control my neighbors. Yikes. For real. I think they move based on when I move. Seems like it. You're right! It seems like it. I was agreeing with you. BROH. They got planted baby bell cheeses! THEYGOTPLANTBASEDBABYBELLCHEESES I kinda wanna see if Dillon Francis is a dad yet . I'm tryna see like a tiny version of this. Of what. Don't change a thing. I would also like tiny versions of this, This, And this— Please. Ok. And this. Are you sure!? Yes. JACK BLACK don't you ever do that to me AGAIN! What! I didn't do anything to you! What? No! You didn't? Why not? What. What the Fox News! Do you have like an exclusive contract with Fallon, or something? No, that's NBC. I really can't talk about it right now, Jack. Hey hey-/ since when are we on a first name basis? You know what— you're right— I know it, Excuse me, Mr. Black— I ought to be going. going where?! You have to get me back to my original dimension! You don't have an original dimension! What! Why not, The fourth wall has been broken, very broken. And 2. What's the second point? You shouldn't have taken that acid. What acid?! Which time?! Exactly! Goddammit! don't look at me, God made this playlist. “Jew stuff” Ever since I inducted Jack black and Alex Baldwin into the impenatrable ten Ah—ahem Nobody “inducted us” There's no induction. We were just always —always. Here. HOOGLI BOOGLI. Huh. DID YOU JACK MY RIMS? Nah man, wasn't me. [the rims are sloppily hidden under a potato sack “hidden” obviously in the corner. Hehe. NIGGLY NIGGA spots his rims in the corner. Musical torture. HOOGLI, THESE ARE MY RIMS. I don't know how those got there, man, shiet! Nigga! What! HOOGLI BOOGLI YOU BLACK ASS NIGGA DONT—COME AROUND MY HOUSE NO MORE LOL HOW DO NIGGLY NIGGA AND HOOGLI BOOGLI SHARE A HOOD? Cause it beez like that sometimes. God damn— He's so fine to me! God damn, He ages like wine! Goddamn Goddamn! I turn the time; Damn, Goddamn— Let's turn back time {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.
My breath is shallow, My heart is lonely. The poster shadow Of many moons forshadoed. Again, I lie awake, screaming, Not calling I'm screening your calls You want ice cream with that, Or what. (Or what) Probably or what, though In a nutshell, I don't want you I thought your hollow bones Could swallow us whole To another, Long, long gone Summer. Sure, the show goes on —but it won't without you. For sure, The show goes on— But it won't without you Turn the phone on, Turn it over At the airport, Watching Conan Oh yeah, A honey blonde, Shucks. Honeysuckle wants only To become Sweet, ripe salmon berry (Don't you want to) At the airport, Watching conan Overhead, I Overheard a phone call “What the fuck did you just say?” It's been 3 days; She went missing at MIA No connection to jfk No connection at all Munroe, you blind bastard All the water All the drugs All in the wash It's water under the toenails (Four fingers up, But the fourth one lost it) At the airport Watching Conan I over heard you Turn the phone off Semi-sync or something, Semi dysfunction Chemists hemispheres All his fears are In my head I stand at the front at the edge of the the platform so there's just less temptation to jump (White Nikes is for chumps) Everybody is a goddamn DJ these days Especially on her bday When she asks for a replay of that remix Bitch please I sit alone bc with my phone and my notebook. By the end of a river A cold brook Wrote a whole mother novel A classy story For the world gone wrong You fucking Morin Fungi up I get more fond l I stand in the train with my back against the wall So the shadow markers won't stand behind And grab me Fuck man, fuck off There's a lot of blue here Must be something to do here I need new gear Stuck inside of my l life Since new years Whose here? WHAT THE FUCK MORGIE? SUNNI! MORE HEINIKEN!!!! You CANNOT. Drink with that ankle monitor on. I know. So why are you drinking?! I took the ankle monitor off. Nogga yo feet is small. Like smaller than mine. I been staring at your gut this whole train ride. How the fuck are you like a 5x And your feet are a ladies size 6? The fuck. You need some help, bro. I ain't been to the gym in two days But you got fairy feet My nigga My hip bone s apes against the railing; I've three children, but you'd not know I; I'm holding in cereal, cleaning out stuff for cereal boxes m, Audio level Aux chords polished Shined as silver, Hair as Golden, Still no meadows, My eyes rest in My, I'm tired. Please don't mind me, Bright blue jumper Still no meadow I lay down in Still no meadow Hair as golden Old blue boxers Boxes Please don't mind me Oh, you started it Oh, you started it No motion sensors Already alcoholic, Still halls And still water Oh, You started it Oh. You started it Sure, don't fall out of Heroin antics, Sure, don't fall forward, Only to fall out Oh. You started it Damn! Why the devil always gotta stand behind a motherfucker, huh? Fuckin creepo. Haven't you decided yet that you are the devil. I am one and all And all things, I am Still in my mind I am, Never behind, But always ahead Always right, and not wit wars I stand in line for the stairs The slower the better the more I write Imm on fast God Fasting time I'm on fully automatic The faster we go The harder the heroin The longer we stop for The harder we party Off bandwagon There I go— (Are I now) There you are? Fully automotive Fully automatic Fully on the wrong road. It matters hoping No more tears for lost stardom No more neon signs No halter tops Shit, I work harder in hell When I don't have my phone off Shit, I work harder in hell When I take all my clothes off. I couldn't even pretend to give two fucks right now I'm chained to a train With another one headed right towards me. I don't mind what's the line your on Whose line is it anyway, good line at the equinox Step over me Hoarder I'll say, Here for all time; Wherefor art though Simple and stuck In my own ways All day I sat in haides No semtember Sick morons Long, long October Still started No water Two dogs And a blonde No show starter. But There goes all that All the next understudies And sure profiles, Fair weather friends again —creepy ass inanimate muppets. Fuck, man. Somebody stick their fuckin hand up Elmo's ass before I punch him. Don't punch Elmo. Who doesn't love Elmo. I do not. What did you say your name was? I didn't. What did you say is your expertise? Rhythms. Mister mister l NOOOOOOOO. Some black dude rubbed his whole dick against my wrist on the subway train. gnarly. It was warm. And weird— Like a fucking Sleeping cat Under Egyptian cotton AGHHHHHHJ. AOh no. I THOUGHT MY HAND WENT PARALYZED. It just siezed up, real crunchy, like— *chicken foot arm* I automatically had like the whole thing going on. The worst part was that it was warm— And soft// But HUGE. I was like What ANIMAL is that. I will never. I could NEVER I said. what. I just got to the point in my life where I realized I wasn't interested in anything. !but especially I'm looking for Sage to burn I goy money go burn I got time to earn mi got money to chase Ain't got money to waste You've got to admit x It's a good savings system —for once, the sauce sounded like symphonies And wreaked of green peppers, or rather, was fragrant CHECKPOINT! I remember this part! I remember this place This time This dance This song, Then— everyone does And everything does, doesn't it? Show ants the advocate The advocate of another time I think I ran here on What if everything cheaper online But it's just the adventure you wished for Have you ever tried to be mad With squeaky ass shoes on Seriously Have you ever tied to like walk away Or stop away mad With squeaky ass shoes? Is that the pub? I guess. You guess! Is this the right pub or is it not? I don't know which pub is the right pub! He just said “Irish pub” you could throw a rock and hit one! Sometimes it's best, To just not give A single fuck at all At all at all A single fuck at all. I don't give a flipping song! Woah now i don't give a flap or a stick! Alright, alright. Leave me alone to die I'll melt inside the world A coin upon a string Run, girl, run Of course, of course It lives again It'll come again When the Sunnis down. I can't wait till the sundown I can't wait till the world is kind And the girls are gone And the birds all hush And the dogs don't bark And the sun downt come Till I'm long long gone and out of it I'm over her, no more war and art over sodom And stardom as startuduat Like I said, you started it I always did I didn't want I only done To suffer Suffer more Will you rot you blossom corpse The art is done The art is done! The water's hot No wonder white people fucking hate us. I saw a black dude on the train. Today with his dick in his pocket. NO, GOD. WHY! And he was holding it, too. I'm like “What for?!” Jesus Christ's. It was in his pocket. Outlined and everything, With his fucking grip around it Like it was a fucking animal. No! No! Man some people are so fuckin wrong I hate pda. I fuckin hate it. The Real versions come across a parallel reality's version of themselves—who by some chance, also happened to cross paths with each other—however—this band of miscreants are HOOLIGANS—unruly lawbreakers who cause chaos, confusion, and trouble to the good people of Where the fuck is this. —wherever they are. Don't come round here! I will fuck your socks off— and sell them back to you! The sex was free; But the socks will cost you. But—they're my socks. Were and could be again…for a price. Goddamn. Yes, Goddamn indeed. BROH. JOHN OLIVER IS MAD BRITISH. AVADAKAVARAH! I TOLD YOU, I WAS A WITCH DOCTOR! WHATEVER! I THOUGHT YOU WERE A LATE NIGHT HOST! EVERYBODY HAS A DAY JOB. THAT'S A NIGHT JOB! EXPECTO-PA– POTTER!!! WHAT IN THE [BEEP}! YOU'RE A WIZARD?! OF COURSE I'M A BLOODY WIZARD–WHAT THE HELL DO I LOOK LIKE TO YOU?! ANOTHER LATE NIGHT HOST–OR WHATEVER! “OR WHATEVER” I'M A WIZARD– HARRY. What the [bleep] EVERYBODY HAS A DAY JOB ™ Please, by all means, Keep your pretty white girlfriend. I want to see those eyes come through What a handsome couple. They are the scariest thing ever. Let them be, then; Out to be fun to watch. I can't listen to Drake on my loud speakers bro. Not—like loud, man. That shit makes me feel like a whole ass basic black girl. True story. Sometimes you gotta distance yourself from the “yassss” birds. I saw this one comedian performing— Well, I think he was a comedian. He wasn't funny to me but, He had like 710K followers And he was really really pretty. I had to notice that, because as imm listening to him preform, about 30 minutes into the video— I was waiting to see if he would make me actually laugh— He didn't— But— As I was trying to figure out how he has 710K followers And has not made me laugh, not once I start paying closer attention to him— And I realize; “Oh” He is major good looking. At first I didn't notice— I like white guys— so, Of course, At first glance I'm like “Hey brother!” You know, like “That's my son!” I'm like “Yeah, make me laugh, boy.” But he didn't And then as I start to wonder Like, Why or how he has so large of a following I notice he's very beautiful. And I mean, like mad gorgeous. Like ideally— I'm like “Oh” and as I'm realizing this, He's saying the punchline to a “joke,” And as he's saying it, I realize that way in the back, Like you can hear that they're in the back Cause the camera is in the center, And like half of the audience is behind the film crew , and you can hear these girls are in the way— Like in the way back Like in the way, way back, You can hear like a pack of ratchets— Yes— these must be his die hards— His squad. Not like his homies or anything, but like The Groupies. You know. The hopefuls. He's got this group of black girls like hackling in the back, like clapping hard at all his punches like “YAS!” “SAY IT!” And it was funny because his reaction to these girls was like “I'm—not in control of this.” “RIGHT!” “SAY LESS!” I'm like, Oh, I see how that works, now. {Enter The Multiverse} And even I Just want it to fucking stop So it can just be over with Oh why, Not another fucking lover boy After all of them Oh no— But this one's worse; Maybe even the worst of all of them Because as I exit my prison cell, I find this dude behind bars— Maybe even happily. And now I'm out into the world Supposedly free— But still trapped with this mentality As if whatever I had before— Maybe even possibly the worst, lowest existence At least for me, Was somehow Better —can anyone tell me why? Not even God, besides the obvious point that perhaps The Devil is in the mind; He likes to arouse, To play games, And tricks And I, Myself Perhaps Have fallen prey, Not to become victim to this; But a player in the game. A pawn. AND WHY HAS NOBODY DRAWN ON THESE YET, THEY'VE BEEN UP FOR SEEMINGLY forever and always And this nigga has Not one snaggletooth No graffiti tettoos No fucking sharpie lip injections. Nothing. Do you remember that story how Johnny Depp hated his face up on a billboard— So he went rogue and painted over it? Yeah? So? What if it's like that. I don't think it's like that. —I think it's the opposite of that, actually. And if anything— If I see not a one defacing of these posters And they are everywhere If anything, Jimmy Fallon is the guy With a spray bottle of acetone And a fucking microfiber rag Wiping that shit off In his free time WHAT FREE TIME? You tell me. But first— Somebody— Anybody tell me Why this happened. At all. Anybody? Somebody. C'mon. {Enter The Multiverse} If you'll excuse me, I actually have to get going. Where are you going? I don't know: I just— JOHNNY DEPP must be going. Have to. he does not know, however, that he is stuck in a movie—which has no definitive ending. Well actually, This movie has like— 30 alternative endings Wait, 30 alternative endings? 30-40 Woah. That's nuts. Which makes it even cooler. If you ever blow my mind again like that, I'll actually kill you. I've been watching a lot of LMN Lifetime movie network—Why?! Because this shit is hilarious! Isn't it! YO. This shit is PIZZA It IS. What? Why is it pizza? Cause it's not pizza If it's not CHEEZY. ahaha. While traditional Thai pineapple fried rice has tomatoes within the vegetable medley, I opted instead for this recipe to use a sauced red pepper tomato sauce glaze to top the dish, for a new school American twist and flare. ½ cup chopped mushrooms ½ cup scallions ¼ cup white onion ½ cup red onion ¼ cup Pasilla pepper ½ cup red pepper cup white onions ½ cup yellow pepper ¾ cup green pepper 1 cup fresh basil 1 cup fresh pineapple UmBRIDGE. What. NO, Um— A bridge appears out of nowhere. lol why do you have no hair? I dunno; mate. Wizards. Don't go there— You're fired. I beg your pardon Please, don't beg. You are officially decommissioned as headmaster! This is the minister of magic Is that what it was. I guess, I don't know; I'm just along for the STEWIE. WHAT MA, WHAT. TEN AND TWO!! You know what, let me drive. Oh, finally—stewie has his own aplorable Boston accent, (hybrid proper English, of course. ) What does that even sound like Strange. The lady working at Trader Joe's was so beautiful to me, I had to tell her. I loved her Locs, I loved her glasses I loved her accent. So I just had to ask where she's from— I do that sometimes. If I really love someone's accent, I have to ask where their from to try to get there one day; So I asked her, “Where are you from?” And she says “Haiti,” And I was like “Wow, cool” And then I thought about it for a second, And I asked “Do you ever miss home” And she just laughed I was like “Oh, guess not” Some context I had been homesick lately, But I grew up in Alaska And I consider myself from California, Having spent most of my adult life there So coming to New York has been like Living on the other side of the world; And sometimes that sucks. But sometimes, and I have realized that wherever you're from, To get to New York is sometimes a blessing. She didn't even say yes or no, She just laughed. Now I'm worried about Haiti. I was worried about it before; But now I'm like; “Do you miss home?” She's like “Hahaha” I'm like “Oh damn.” I count my blessings. So JOHNNY DEPP just like excuses himself, wanders out into the street, and then—? Yeah. And then what? I don't know yet, I'm kind of busy these days. “BUSY?!” BUSY DOING WHAT?! Beep boop. Eee—ooh. Beep—boop—boop. Yah-yah-yah— APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE I'll show you all my scars, huh This one, she look like the reaper That's my girl, You bet she a keeper Ya'll sleepin on us What Yeah What Yeah What You sleeping on us I been in this b'niss APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. It's not a bad song. Is it a song? Is it? idk I just like balls in my face, is all. ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. [A Classic red dodgeball beams Who is it? WILL FERREL Is that how you spell it? Why will Ferrel? Cause I Want it TO MAKE ME LAUGH. HOW. JUST DO IT. Oh. I get it: So my pain is funny to you? [FINE, IT'S SOMEONE ELSE] Oh shit, that guy did look just like Will Ferrel, but OLD. He's old now, ain't he? Wasn't he always? [FINE] CUT. I QUIT. CUT TO: You and I, sir, have a longstanding arrangement. Would it be more comfortable to–sit? Yikes. (Whatever, we'll work on it.) [The Festiva– {Enter The Multiverse} I need a toothbrush to scrub my brain. I'm The lilly of the valley In the Belly of the beast I been swallowed by a whale I'm a whole damn story Woah I am the Lilly of the the valley I am the rider of the horse I am seeker of truth Writer of lines Sayer of lies (I might say a lie; But I just won't tell it) What is your deal with the devil. She knows I have a deal with ‘em. Well, the truth is— I have to turn ya! He's a good old country boy— From the simple south— A simple soul And they all believed him, word for word “I's born in New York” —he sounded assured. Gone, now, boy Go crack dat corn. Gone down south Go crack dat corn Gone, ol boy Go crack dat corn m —got no soul? Go crack dat corn. Aaaaghhh. I have a headache. why the fuck are you freaking out?! Because I don't know what I wrote. I must admit, There are things Where there should be no things There are springs Where there should be no springs There are strings Where there should be no strings And imm quite sure With no rules enforced —it's just a static cling Sort of thing OWW, my EYES. Nobody should have this much power. Nobody does. I don't get it. (I still don't understand why this happened.) He must have perfect genetics. Or something. THIS FOOL IS FIXING ME UP TO DIE!!!!! I AM THECRISCO QUEEN DIRTY NOT CLEAN WHAT CAN I SAY I LIKE GREASE MONEY EVERYDAY BANKROLL INCREASE DEEP FRY HIGH SUNNI BLŪ Yo VO. Ok— so sometimes things go shitty. Like, mad shitty. YOOOOO. My measurements are 34C, 24 waist, and 55 in height. I couldn't understand why a girl this perfect should have to be selling sex at all, But I supposed nowadays, all women were prostitutes in some sort of way. This one's 22 years old and 96 pounds Men are sick fucking creatures. Whose fucking child is this?! COME GET YOUR DAUGHTER. Although, you know—I get it. My mom bought a Mercedes in cash And I'm still in educational debt. I just now today realized. That could have been a college fund. But she wanted a Mercedes. It's okay that I'm a bit fucked up in the head. Something went terribly wrong. All and all, Myself and this perfect girl, Cost around the same For an entire night— But hey, I think she's low balling herself On the 24 hour special. That's an entire day of my time, That's at least 10K. ♀️ She has a perfect body and two eyes that are different colors, But I'm a literary genius. You don't need words to soothe your boner thiugh, Or show off at a black tie function, do you? A stroll on the red carpet, Or some opulent fucking 5-star charade. How much does she cost, I wonder? She says, “I also accept bitcoin, etherum, gold and silver.” On God, These fake lip hoes is robbin' niggas. Men are sick creatures though. “Here's my gold watch” Fucking gross. I cruise escort sites for entertainment, Having learned my value as a woman isn't the visual, Visceral thing men are usually looking for— No judgement, Because I've realized that if I too had a perfect body. I myself would be living in some kind of oppulent, prostitution fuck-hole, With everybody else in my generation, That didn't get married— And then, probably divorced. I realized a long time ago that this was the reason my mother Always hated my body more than I ever could have— which is fine, Because eventually I inherited this hatred. I could have eventually grown out of it— But she couldn't see that. I was a “nasty fat heifer” On her worst days, And now, Even on my best days— I still am. Nevermind that eventually my ex husband would Think of my hair as nappy, or That I actually did end up kind of sort of growing out of being A fat, nasty heifer— Kind of. But the fact that it's taken me the entirety of my life to realize my worth as a woman Would always be defined by that Of what a man idealized as “Worthy” Well, That in itself Gives me the dismissive ability To have days where I do nothing, But sit back, Cruising escort sites and shipping on Amazon for yoga mats, Wanting the experience of the world Without really being beautiful enough for it And waiting to fade Into the next lifetime. [All the black girls cost less Because they have to.] Men are sick creatures. They'll take a butterface, Ugly ass white girl Over a pretty one that's dark skinned And these are just The facts of life (So far.) Piper of Phoenix Valiant, bold, and brazen This woman, I love— In the wings for fortune, To honor, I love With wisdom, And aged like fine wine We all become I want body like Sofia But never met the real Rebecca. Yo. YO. Let's spend $60 o lip gloss. Okay. Hey. Ways crackin. I just bought a $12,000 mattress. Let's take a nap in it. Hey girl. Heeeeeeey. This yoga mat cost $200. That's fresh. You think THATS RICH?! Seems pretty rich to me. You can't get any of this stuff on Amazon. That's fucking psycho. These loafers? Uh uh. $2,000. For WAT. (Whispers) Eeel skiiiin. Gross! I'm HUNGRY Got grits, Ain't got no sugar. No butter— —ain't hurt nobody. Poverty is a whole damn show. Close the door On a broke ass bitch. Poverty is a whole damn story. Got no bucks for the Whole Foods market Shopping carts full of old ass garbage No reward For a woke ass artist I'm HUNGRY. I killed myself 3 times his morning. POOR SNOOP is still a whole ass G BET ON IT HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL RAP COVER -$15 BROKE WAYNE AINT HAVING IT CHRIS ROCK THE METRO TRAIN DRIVER is NOT FUNNY— (He's still a ladies man though.) LCD SYSTEM HOOGLI BOOGLI is the reason they fear us. HOOGLI BOOGLI IS THE BLACKEST BLACK THAT EVER BLACKED. UNLIKE NIGGLY NIGGA—he is NOT FRIENDLY. He is the stuff of nightmares. A world gone wrong. Two bloodshot eyes on a black backdrop Dark black. I sold not state at screen They go uno in te night This shit doesn't make much sense, Does it? Doesn't Matter Antimatter. Ow. How far is antimatter from antithesis? Is this just a Christmas present Never said it, same diff Something something something SHUT UP. So to re-iterate— Uh huh. Niggly Nigga is friendly… Yeah, he's just— —he just looks like that. AH. What happened. Don't stand behind me like that, my nigga. Srry. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Okay, that'll work. #timetravelingdjs Enough with these weak dick pussy motherfuckers.. I still got 30 minutes in my cycle routine! Here you come with your pussy ass punches; AIGH. OOOOOH. Come on, put some weight in them shits! Pretend it's my face. Damn. I lost fat Jimmy Fallon. How'd you lose him?! He's hard to lose! And slow! Damn! THE SUPER FAT JIMMY FALLON is trying to slim down; he munches on a chocolate chewy bar (read: eats it in two biles and grips the wrapper anxiously.) Imm a whole ass nigga Come try take me out my head I got corn in the fridge I got bread I got money to spend On you (On you$ On you I got money to spend On you I I gotta go What happened Jew stuff. Ah yes. I remember now. Yeah, that's a Jew. Rabbi?! Shh! Shut up! But— Shut up! Yo. Bama. BARAK OBAMA I told you, don't call me that. Sorry—listen, Barak. President— President Obama. [beat] …yes? Look, I need a favor. You still owe me one. Put it on my tab. Listen, this is importsnt! -_- I think I control my neighbors. Yikes. For real. I think they move based on when I move. Seems like it. You're right! It seems like it. I was agreeing with you. BROH. They got planted baby bell cheeses! THEYGOTPLANTBASEDBABYBELLCHEESES I kinda wanna see if Dillon Francis is a dad yet . I'm tryna see like a tiny version of this. Of what. Don't change a thing. I would also like tiny versions of this, This, And this— Please. Ok. And this. Are you sure!? Yes. JACK BLACK don't you ever do that to me AGAIN! What! I didn't do anything to you! What? No! You didn't? Why not? What. What the Fox News! Do you have like an exclusive contract with Fallon, or something? No, that's NBC. I really can't talk about it right now, Jack. Hey hey-/ since when are we on a first name basis? You know what— you're right— I know it, Excuse me, Mr. Black— I ought to be going. going where?! You have to get me back to my original dimension! You don't have an original dimension! What! Why not, The fourth wall has been broken, very broken. And 2. What's the second point? You shouldn't have taken that acid. What acid?! Which time?! Exactly! Goddammit! don't look at me, God made this playlist. “Jew stuff” Ever since I inducted Jack black and Alex Baldwin into the impenatrable ten Ah—ahem Nobody “inducted us” There's no induction. We were just always —always. Here. HOOGLI BOOGLI. Huh. DID YOU JACK MY RIMS? Nah man, wasn't me. [the rims are sloppily hidden under a potato sack “hidden” obviously in the corner. Hehe. NIGGLY NIGGA spots his rims in the corner. Musical torture. HOOGLI, THESE ARE MY RIMS. I don't know how those got there, man, shiet! Nigga! What! HOOGLI BOOGLI YOU BLACK ASS NIGGA DONT—COME AROUND MY HOUSE NO MORE LOL HOW DO NIGGLY NIGGA AND HOOGLI BOOGLI SHARE A HOOD? Cause it beez like that sometimes. God damn— He's so fine to me! God damn, He ages like wine! Goddamn Goddamn! I turn the time; Damn, Goddamn— Let's turn back time {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.
twak'd (end of days) Collection I- 'better off dead.' Track 05. - 'twak'd' (end of days) Prod. by Blū Tha Gürū Did I already post this? idkz. oh well. Here it is. and some enter the multiverse, or whatever I thought it was L E G E N D S IT IS WHAT IT IS. {Enter The Multiverse} If you'll excuse me, I actually have to get going. Where are you going? I don't know: I just— JOHNNY DEPP must be going. Have to. he does not know, however, that he is stuck in a movie—which has no definitive ending. Well actually, This movie has like— 30 alternative endings Wait, 30 alternative endings? 30-40 Woah. That's nuts. Which makes it even cooler. If you ever blow my mind again like that, I'll actually kill you. I've been watching a lot of LMN Lifetime movie network—Why?! Because this shit is hilarious! Isn't it! YO. This shit is PIZZA It IS. What? Why is it pizza? Cause it's not pizza If it's not CHEEZY. ahaha. While traditional Thai pineapple fried rice has tomatoes within the vegetable medley, I opted instead for this recipe to use a sauced red pepper tomato sauce glaze to top the dish, for a new school American twist and flare. ½ cup chopped mushrooms ½ cup scallions ¼ cup white onion ½ cup red onion ¼ cup Pasilla pepper ½ cup red pepper cup white onions ½ cup yellow pepper ¾ cup green pepper 1 cup fresh basil 1 cup fresh pineapple UmBRIDGE. What. NO, Um— A bridge appears out of nowhere. lol why do you have no hair? I dunno; mate. Wizards. Don't go there— You're fired. I beg your pardon Please, don't beg. You are officially decommissioned as headmaster! This is the minister of magic Is that what it was. I guess, I don't know; I'm just along for the STEWIE. WHAT MA, WHAT. TEN AND TWO!! You know what, let me drive. Oh, finally—stewie has his own aplorable Boston accent, (hybrid proper English, of course. ) What does that even sound like Strange. The lady working at Trader Joe's was so beautiful to me, I had to tell her. I loved her Locs, I loved her glasses I loved her accent. So I just had to ask where she's from— I do that sometimes. If I really love someone's accent, I have to ask where their from to try to get there one day; So I asked her, “Where are you from?” And she says “Haiti,” And I was like “Wow, cool” And then I thought about it for a second, And I asked “Do you ever miss home” And she just laughed I was like “Oh, guess not” Some context I had been homesick lately, But I grew up in Alaska And I consider myself from California, Having spent most of my adult life there So coming to New York has been like Living on the other side of the world; And sometimes that sucks. But sometimes, and I have realized that wherever you're from, To get to New York is sometimes a blessing. She didn't even say yes or no, She just laughed. Now I'm worried about Haiti. I was worried about it before; But now I'm like; “Do you miss home?” She's like “Hahaha” I'm like “Oh damn.” I count my blessings. So JOHNNY DEPP just like excuses himself, wanders out into the street, and then—? Yeah. And then what? I don't know yet, I'm kind of busy these days. “BUSY?!” BUSY DOING WHAT?! Beep boop. Eee—ooh. Beep—boop—boop. Yah-yah-yah— APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE I'll show you all my scars, huh This one, she look like the reaper That's my girl, You bet she a keeper Ya'll sleepin on us What Yeah What Yeah What You sleeping on us I been in this b'niss APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. It's not a bad song. Is it a song? Is it? idk I just like balls in my face, is all. ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. [A Classic red dodgeball beams Who is it? WILL FERREL Is that how you spell it? Why will Ferrel? Cause I Want it TO MAKE ME LAUGH. HOW. JUST DO IT. Oh. I get it: So my pain is funny to you? [FINE, IT'S SOMEONE ELSE] Oh shit, that guy did look just like Will Ferrel, but OLD. He's old now, ain't he? Wasn't he always? [FINE] CUT. I QUIT. CUT TO: You and I, sir, have a longstanding arrangement. Would it be more comfortable to–sit? Yikes. (Whatever, we'll work on it.) [The Festiva– {Enter The Multiverse} I need a toothbrush to scrub my brain. I'm The lilly of the valley In the Belly of the beast I been swallowed by a whale I'm a whole damn story Woah I am the Lilly of the the valley I am the rider of the horse I am seeker of truth Writer of lines Sayer of lies (I might say a lie; But I just won't tell it) What is your deal with the devil. She knows I have a deal with ‘em. Well, the truth is— I have to turn ya! He's a good old country boy— From the simple south— A simple soul And they all believed him, word for word “I's born in New York” —he sounded assured. Gone, now, boy Go crack dat corn. Gone down south Go crack dat corn Gone, ol boy Go crack dat corn m —got no soul? Go crack dat corn. Aaaaghhh. I have a headache. why the fuck are you freaking out?! Because I don't know what I wrote. I must admit, There are things Where there should be no things There are springs Where there should be no springs There are strings Where there should be no strings And imm quite sure With no rules enforced —it's just a static cling Sort of thing OWW, my EYES. Nobody should have this much power. Nobody does. I don't get it. (I still don't understand why this happened.) He must have perfect genetics. Or something. THIS FOOL IS FIXING ME UP TO DIE!!!!! I AM THECRISCO QUEEN DIRTY NOT CLEAN WHAT CAN I SAY I LIKE GREASE MONEY EVERYDAY BANKROLL INCREASE DEEP FRY HIGH SUNNI BLŪ Yo VO. Ok— so sometimes things go shitty. Like, mad shitty. YOOOOO. My measurements are 34C, 24 waist, and 55 in height. I couldn't understand why a girl this perfect should have to be selling sex at all, But I supposed nowadays, all women were prostitutes in some sort of way. This one's 22 years old and 96 pounds Men are sick fucking creatures. Whose fucking child is this?! COME GET YOUR DAUGHTER. Although, you know—I get it. My mom bought a Mercedes in cash And I'm still in educational debt. I just now today realized. That could have been a college fund. But she wanted a Mercedes. It's okay that I'm a bit fucked up in the head. Something went terribly wrong. All and all, Myself and this perfect girl, Cost around the same For an entire night— But hey, I think she's low balling herself On the 24 hour special. That's an entire day of my time, That's at least 10K. ♀️ She has a perfect body and two eyes that are different colors, But I'm a literary genius. You don't need words to soothe your boner thiugh, Or show off at a black tie function, do you? A stroll on the red carpet, Or some opulent fucking 5-star charade. How much does she cost, I wonder? She says, “I also accept bitcoin, etherum, gold and silver.” On God, These fake lip hoes is robbin' niggas. Men are sick creatures though. “Here's my gold watch” Fucking gross. I cruise escort sites for entertainment, Having learned my value as a woman isn't the visual, Visceral thing men are usually looking for— No judgement, Because I've realized that if I too had a perfect body. I myself would be living in some kind of oppulent, prostitution fuck-hole, With everybody else in my generation, That didn't get married— And then, probably divorced. I realized a long time ago that this was the reason my mother Always hated my body more than I ever could have— which is fine, Because eventually I inherited this hatred. I could have eventually grown out of it— But she couldn't see that. I was a “nasty fat heifer” On her worst days, And now, Even on my best days— I still am. Nevermind that eventually my ex husband would Think of my hair as nappy, or That I actually did end up kind of sort of growing out of being A fat, nasty heifer— Kind of. But the fact that it's taken me the entirety of my life to realize my worth as a woman Would always be defined by that Of what a man idealized as “Worthy” Well, That in itself Gives me the dismissive ability To have days where I do nothing, But sit back, Cruising escort sites and shipping on Amazon for yoga mats, Wanting the experience of the world Without really being beautiful enough for it And waiting to fade Into the next lifetime. [All the black girls cost less Because they have to.] Men are sick creatures. They'll take a butterface, Ugly ass white girl Over a pretty one that's dark skinned And these are just The facts of life (So far.) Piper of Phoenix Valiant, bold, and brazen This woman, I love— In the wings for fortune, To honor, I love With wisdom, And aged like fine wine We all become I want body like Sofia But never met the real Rebecca. Yo. YO. Let's spend $60 o lip gloss. Okay. Hey. Ways crackin. I just bought a $12,000 mattress. Let's take a nap in it. Hey girl. Heeeeeeey. This yoga mat cost $200. That's fresh. You think THATS RICH?! Seems pretty rich to me. You can't get any of this stuff on Amazon. That's fucking psycho. These loafers? Uh uh. $2,000. For WAT. (Whispers) Eeel skiiiin. Gross! I'm HUNGRY Got grits, Ain't got no sugar. No butter— —ain't hurt nobody. Poverty is a whole damn show. Close the door On a broke ass bitch. Poverty is a whole damn story. Got no bucks for the Whole Foods market Shopping carts full of old ass garbage No reward For a woke ass artist I'm HUNGRY. I killed myself 3 times his morning. POOR SNOOP is still a whole ass G BET ON IT HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL RAP COVER -$15 BROKE WAYNE AINT HAVING IT CHRIS ROCK THE METRO TRAIN DRIVER is NOT FUNNY— (He's still a ladies man though.) LCD SYSTEM HOOGLI BOOGLI is the reason they fear us. HOOGLI BOOGLI IS THE BLACKEST BLACK THAT EVER BLACKED. UNLIKE NIGGLY NIGGA—he is NOT FRIENDLY. He is the stuff of nightmares. A world gone wrong. Two bloodshot eyes on a black backdrop Dark black. I sold not state at screen They go uno in te night This shit doesn't make much sense, Does it? Doesn't Matter Antimatter. Ow. How far is antimatter from antithesis? Is this just a Christmas present Never said it, same diff Something something something SHUT UP. So to re-iterate— Uh huh. Niggly Nigga is friendly… Yeah, he's just— —he just looks like that. AH. What happened. Don't stand behind me like that, my nigga. Srry. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Okay, that'll work. #timetravelingdjs
twak'd (end of days) Collection I- 'better off dead.' Track 05. - 'twak'd' (end of days) Prod. by Blū Tha Gürū Did I already post this? idkz. oh well. Here it is. and some enter the multiverse, or whatever I thought it was L E G E N D S IT IS WHAT IT IS. {Enter The Multiverse} If you'll excuse me, I actually have to get going. Where are you going? I don't know: I just— JOHNNY DEPP must be going. Have to. he does not know, however, that he is stuck in a movie—which has no definitive ending. Well actually, This movie has like— 30 alternative endings Wait, 30 alternative endings? 30-40 Woah. That's nuts. Which makes it even cooler. If you ever blow my mind again like that, I'll actually kill you. I've been watching a lot of LMN Lifetime movie network—Why?! Because this shit is hilarious! Isn't it! YO. This shit is PIZZA It IS. What? Why is it pizza? Cause it's not pizza If it's not CHEEZY. ahaha. While traditional Thai pineapple fried rice has tomatoes within the vegetable medley, I opted instead for this recipe to use a sauced red pepper tomato sauce glaze to top the dish, for a new school American twist and flare. ½ cup chopped mushrooms ½ cup scallions ¼ cup white onion ½ cup red onion ¼ cup Pasilla pepper ½ cup red pepper cup white onions ½ cup yellow pepper ¾ cup green pepper 1 cup fresh basil 1 cup fresh pineapple UmBRIDGE. What. NO, Um— A bridge appears out of nowhere. lol why do you have no hair? I dunno; mate. Wizards. Don't go there— You're fired. I beg your pardon Please, don't beg. You are officially decommissioned as headmaster! This is the minister of magic Is that what it was. I guess, I don't know; I'm just along for the STEWIE. WHAT MA, WHAT. TEN AND TWO!! You know what, let me drive. Oh, finally—stewie has his own aplorable Boston accent, (hybrid proper English, of course. ) What does that even sound like Strange. The lady working at Trader Joe's was so beautiful to me, I had to tell her. I loved her Locs, I loved her glasses I loved her accent. So I just had to ask where she's from— I do that sometimes. If I really love someone's accent, I have to ask where their from to try to get there one day; So I asked her, “Where are you from?” And she says “Haiti,” And I was like “Wow, cool” And then I thought about it for a second, And I asked “Do you ever miss home” And she just laughed I was like “Oh, guess not” Some context I had been homesick lately, But I grew up in Alaska And I consider myself from California, Having spent most of my adult life there So coming to New York has been like Living on the other side of the world; And sometimes that sucks. But sometimes, and I have realized that wherever you're from, To get to New York is sometimes a blessing. She didn't even say yes or no, She just laughed. Now I'm worried about Haiti. I was worried about it before; But now I'm like; “Do you miss home?” She's like “Hahaha” I'm like “Oh damn.” I count my blessings. So JOHNNY DEPP just like excuses himself, wanders out into the street, and then—? Yeah. And then what? I don't know yet, I'm kind of busy these days. “BUSY?!” BUSY DOING WHAT?! Beep boop. Eee—ooh. Beep—boop—boop. Yah-yah-yah— APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE I'll show you all my scars, huh This one, she look like the reaper That's my girl, You bet she a keeper Ya'll sleepin on us What Yeah What Yeah What You sleeping on us I been in this b'niss APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. It's not a bad song. Is it a song? Is it? idk I just like balls in my face, is all. ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. [A Classic red dodgeball beams Who is it? WILL FERREL Is that how you spell it? Why will Ferrel? Cause I Want it TO MAKE ME LAUGH. HOW. JUST DO IT. Oh. I get it: So my pain is funny to you? [FINE, IT'S SOMEONE ELSE] Oh shit, that guy did look just like Will Ferrel, but OLD. He's old now, ain't he? Wasn't he always? [FINE] CUT. I QUIT. CUT TO: You and I, sir, have a longstanding arrangement. Would it be more comfortable to–sit? Yikes. (Whatever, we'll work on it.) [The Festiva– {Enter The Multiverse} I need a toothbrush to scrub my brain. I'm The lilly of the valley In the Belly of the beast I been swallowed by a whale I'm a whole damn story Woah I am the Lilly of the the valley I am the rider of the horse I am seeker of truth Writer of lines Sayer of lies (I might say a lie; But I just won't tell it) What is your deal with the devil. She knows I have a deal with ‘em. Well, the truth is— I have to turn ya! He's a good old country boy— From the simple south— A simple soul And they all believed him, word for word “I's born in New York” —he sounded assured. Gone, now, boy Go crack dat corn. Gone down south Go crack dat corn Gone, ol boy Go crack dat corn m —got no soul? Go crack dat corn. Aaaaghhh. I have a headache. why the fuck are you freaking out?! Because I don't know what I wrote. I must admit, There are things Where there should be no things There are springs Where there should be no springs There are strings Where there should be no strings And imm quite sure With no rules enforced —it's just a static cling Sort of thing OWW, my EYES. Nobody should have this much power. Nobody does. I don't get it. (I still don't understand why this happened.) He must have perfect genetics. Or something. THIS FOOL IS FIXING ME UP TO DIE!!!!! I AM THECRISCO QUEEN DIRTY NOT CLEAN WHAT CAN I SAY I LIKE GREASE MONEY EVERYDAY BANKROLL INCREASE DEEP FRY HIGH SUNNI BLŪ Yo VO. Ok— so sometimes things go shitty. Like, mad shitty. YOOOOO. My measurements are 34C, 24 waist, and 55 in height. I couldn't understand why a girl this perfect should have to be selling sex at all, But I supposed nowadays, all women were prostitutes in some sort of way. This one's 22 years old and 96 pounds Men are sick fucking creatures. Whose fucking child is this?! COME GET YOUR DAUGHTER. Although, you know—I get it. My mom bought a Mercedes in cash And I'm still in educational debt. I just now today realized. That could have been a college fund. But she wanted a Mercedes. It's okay that I'm a bit fucked up in the head. Something went terribly wrong. All and all, Myself and this perfect girl, Cost around the same For an entire night— But hey, I think she's low balling herself On the 24 hour special. That's an entire day of my time, That's at least 10K. ♀️ She has a perfect body and two eyes that are different colors, But I'm a literary genius. You don't need words to soothe your boner thiugh, Or show off at a black tie function, do you? A stroll on the red carpet, Or some opulent fucking 5-star charade. How much does she cost, I wonder? She says, “I also accept bitcoin, etherum, gold and silver.” On God, These fake lip hoes is robbin' niggas. Men are sick creatures though. “Here's my gold watch” Fucking gross. I cruise escort sites for entertainment, Having learned my value as a woman isn't the visual, Visceral thing men are usually looking for— No judgement, Because I've realized that if I too had a perfect body. I myself would be living in some kind of oppulent, prostitution fuck-hole, With everybody else in my generation, That didn't get married— And then, probably divorced. I realized a long time ago that this was the reason my mother Always hated my body more than I ever could have— which is fine, Because eventually I inherited this hatred. I could have eventually grown out of it— But she couldn't see that. I was a “nasty fat heifer” On her worst days, And now, Even on my best days— I still am. Nevermind that eventually my ex husband would Think of my hair as nappy, or That I actually did end up kind of sort of growing out of being A fat, nasty heifer— Kind of. But the fact that it's taken me the entirety of my life to realize my worth as a woman Would always be defined by that Of what a man idealized as “Worthy” Well, That in itself Gives me the dismissive ability To have days where I do nothing, But sit back, Cruising escort sites and shipping on Amazon for yoga mats, Wanting the experience of the world Without really being beautiful enough for it And waiting to fade Into the next lifetime. [All the black girls cost less Because they have to.] Men are sick creatures. They'll take a butterface, Ugly ass white girl Over a pretty one that's dark skinned And these are just The facts of life (So far.) Piper of Phoenix Valiant, bold, and brazen This woman, I love— In the wings for fortune, To honor, I love With wisdom, And aged like fine wine We all become I want body like Sofia But never met the real Rebecca. Yo. YO. Let's spend $60 o lip gloss. Okay. Hey. Ways crackin. I just bought a $12,000 mattress. Let's take a nap in it. Hey girl. Heeeeeeey. This yoga mat cost $200. That's fresh. You think THATS RICH?! Seems pretty rich to me. You can't get any of this stuff on Amazon. That's fucking psycho. These loafers? Uh uh. $2,000. For WAT. (Whispers) Eeel skiiiin. Gross! I'm HUNGRY Got grits, Ain't got no sugar. No butter— —ain't hurt nobody. Poverty is a whole damn show. Close the door On a broke ass bitch. Poverty is a whole damn story. Got no bucks for the Whole Foods market Shopping carts full of old ass garbage No reward For a woke ass artist I'm HUNGRY. I killed myself 3 times his morning. POOR SNOOP is still a whole ass G BET ON IT HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL RAP COVER -$15 BROKE WAYNE AINT HAVING IT CHRIS ROCK THE METRO TRAIN DRIVER is NOT FUNNY— (He's still a ladies man though.) LCD SYSTEM HOOGLI BOOGLI is the reason they fear us. HOOGLI BOOGLI IS THE BLACKEST BLACK THAT EVER BLACKED. UNLIKE NIGGLY NIGGA—he is NOT FRIENDLY. He is the stuff of nightmares. A world gone wrong. Two bloodshot eyes on a black backdrop Dark black. I sold not state at screen They go uno in te night This shit doesn't make much sense, Does it? Doesn't Matter Antimatter. Ow. How far is antimatter from antithesis? Is this just a Christmas present Never said it, same diff Something something something SHUT UP. So to re-iterate— Uh huh. Niggly Nigga is friendly… Yeah, he's just— —he just looks like that. AH. What happened. Don't stand behind me like that, my nigga. Srry. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Okay, that'll work. #timetravelingdjs
twak'd (end of days) Collection I- 'better off dead.' Track 05. - 'twak'd' (end of days) Prod. by Blū Tha Gürū Did I already post this? idkz. oh well. Here it is. and some enter the multiverse, or whatever I thought it was L E G E N D S IT IS WHAT IT IS. {Enter The Multiverse} If you'll excuse me, I actually have to get going. Where are you going? I don't know: I just— JOHNNY DEPP must be going. Have to. he does not know, however, that he is stuck in a movie—which has no definitive ending. Well actually, This movie has like— 30 alternative endings Wait, 30 alternative endings? 30-40 Woah. That's nuts. Which makes it even cooler. If you ever blow my mind again like that, I'll actually kill you. I've been watching a lot of LMN Lifetime movie network—Why?! Because this shit is hilarious! Isn't it! YO. This shit is PIZZA It IS. What? Why is it pizza? Cause it's not pizza If it's not CHEEZY. ahaha. While traditional Thai pineapple fried rice has tomatoes within the vegetable medley, I opted instead for this recipe to use a sauced red pepper tomato sauce glaze to top the dish, for a new school American twist and flare. ½ cup chopped mushrooms ½ cup scallions ¼ cup white onion ½ cup red onion ¼ cup Pasilla pepper ½ cup red pepper cup white onions ½ cup yellow pepper ¾ cup green pepper 1 cup fresh basil 1 cup fresh pineapple UmBRIDGE. What. NO, Um— A bridge appears out of nowhere. lol why do you have no hair? I dunno; mate. Wizards. Don't go there— You're fired. I beg your pardon Please, don't beg. You are officially decommissioned as headmaster! This is the minister of magic Is that what it was. I guess, I don't know; I'm just along for the STEWIE. WHAT MA, WHAT. TEN AND TWO!! You know what, let me drive. Oh, finally—stewie has his own aplorable Boston accent, (hybrid proper English, of course. ) What does that even sound like Strange. The lady working at Trader Joe's was so beautiful to me, I had to tell her. I loved her Locs, I loved her glasses I loved her accent. So I just had to ask where she's from— I do that sometimes. If I really love someone's accent, I have to ask where their from to try to get there one day; So I asked her, “Where are you from?” And she says “Haiti,” And I was like “Wow, cool” And then I thought about it for a second, And I asked “Do you ever miss home” And she just laughed I was like “Oh, guess not” Some context I had been homesick lately, But I grew up in Alaska And I consider myself from California, Having spent most of my adult life there So coming to New York has been like Living on the other side of the world; And sometimes that sucks. But sometimes, and I have realized that wherever you're from, To get to New York is sometimes a blessing. She didn't even say yes or no, She just laughed. Now I'm worried about Haiti. I was worried about it before; But now I'm like; “Do you miss home?” She's like “Hahaha” I'm like “Oh damn.” I count my blessings. So JOHNNY DEPP just like excuses himself, wanders out into the street, and then—? Yeah. And then what? I don't know yet, I'm kind of busy these days. “BUSY?!” BUSY DOING WHAT?! Beep boop. Eee—ooh. Beep—boop—boop. Yah-yah-yah— APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE I'll show you all my scars, huh This one, she look like the reaper That's my girl, You bet she a keeper Ya'll sleepin on us What Yeah What Yeah What You sleeping on us I been in this b'niss APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE APPLESAURCE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE I LIKE BALLS IN MY FACE ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. It's not a bad song. Is it a song? Is it? idk I just like balls in my face, is all. ILIKEBALLSINMYFACE. [A Classic red dodgeball beams Who is it? WILL FERREL Is that how you spell it? Why will Ferrel? Cause I Want it TO MAKE ME LAUGH. HOW. JUST DO IT. Oh. I get it: So my pain is funny to you? [FINE, IT'S SOMEONE ELSE] Oh shit, that guy did look just like Will Ferrel, but OLD. He's old now, ain't he? Wasn't he always? [FINE] CUT. I QUIT. CUT TO: You and I, sir, have a longstanding arrangement. Would it be more comfortable to–sit? Yikes. (Whatever, we'll work on it.) [The Festiva– {Enter The Multiverse} I need a toothbrush to scrub my brain. I'm The lilly of the valley In the Belly of the beast I been swallowed by a whale I'm a whole damn story Woah I am the Lilly of the the valley I am the rider of the horse I am seeker of truth Writer of lines Sayer of lies (I might say a lie; But I just won't tell it) What is your deal with the devil. She knows I have a deal with ‘em. Well, the truth is— I have to turn ya! He's a good old country boy— From the simple south— A simple soul And they all believed him, word for word “I's born in New York” —he sounded assured. Gone, now, boy Go crack dat corn. Gone down south Go crack dat corn Gone, ol boy Go crack dat corn m —got no soul? Go crack dat corn. Aaaaghhh. I have a headache. why the fuck are you freaking out?! Because I don't know what I wrote. I must admit, There are things Where there should be no things There are springs Where there should be no springs There are strings Where there should be no strings And imm quite sure With no rules enforced —it's just a static cling Sort of thing OWW, my EYES. Nobody should have this much power. Nobody does. I don't get it. (I still don't understand why this happened.) He must have perfect genetics. Or something. THIS FOOL IS FIXING ME UP TO DIE!!!!! I AM THECRISCO QUEEN DIRTY NOT CLEAN WHAT CAN I SAY I LIKE GREASE MONEY EVERYDAY BANKROLL INCREASE DEEP FRY HIGH SUNNI BLŪ Yo VO. Ok— so sometimes things go shitty. Like, mad shitty. YOOOOO. My measurements are 34C, 24 waist, and 55 in height. I couldn't understand why a girl this perfect should have to be selling sex at all, But I supposed nowadays, all women were prostitutes in some sort of way. This one's 22 years old and 96 pounds Men are sick fucking creatures. Whose fucking child is this?! COME GET YOUR DAUGHTER. Although, you know—I get it. My mom bought a Mercedes in cash And I'm still in educational debt. I just now today realized. That could have been a college fund. But she wanted a Mercedes. It's okay that I'm a bit fucked up in the head. Something went terribly wrong. All and all, Myself and this perfect girl, Cost around the same For an entire night— But hey, I think she's low balling herself On the 24 hour special. That's an entire day of my time, That's at least 10K. ♀️ She has a perfect body and two eyes that are different colors, But I'm a literary genius. You don't need words to soothe your boner thiugh, Or show off at a black tie function, do you? A stroll on the red carpet, Or some opulent fucking 5-star charade. How much does she cost, I wonder? She says, “I also accept bitcoin, etherum, gold and silver.” On God, These fake lip hoes is robbin' niggas. Men are sick creatures though. “Here's my gold watch” Fucking gross. I cruise escort sites for entertainment, Having learned my value as a woman isn't the visual, Visceral thing men are usually looking for— No judgement, Because I've realized that if I too had a perfect body. I myself would be living in some kind of oppulent, prostitution fuck-hole, With everybody else in my generation, That didn't get married— And then, probably divorced. I realized a long time ago that this was the reason my mother Always hated my body more than I ever could have— which is fine, Because eventually I inherited this hatred. I could have eventually grown out of it— But she couldn't see that. I was a “nasty fat heifer” On her worst days, And now, Even on my best days— I still am. Nevermind that eventually my ex husband would Think of my hair as nappy, or That I actually did end up kind of sort of growing out of being A fat, nasty heifer— Kind of. But the fact that it's taken me the entirety of my life to realize my worth as a woman Would always be defined by that Of what a man idealized as “Worthy” Well, That in itself Gives me the dismissive ability To have days where I do nothing, But sit back, Cruising escort sites and shipping on Amazon for yoga mats, Wanting the experience of the world Without really being beautiful enough for it And waiting to fade Into the next lifetime. [All the black girls cost less Because they have to.] Men are sick creatures. They'll take a butterface, Ugly ass white girl Over a pretty one that's dark skinned And these are just The facts of life (So far.) Piper of Phoenix Valiant, bold, and brazen This woman, I love— In the wings for fortune, To honor, I love With wisdom, And aged like fine wine We all become I want body like Sofia But never met the real Rebecca. Yo. YO. Let's spend $60 o lip gloss. Okay. Hey. Ways crackin. I just bought a $12,000 mattress. Let's take a nap in it. Hey girl. Heeeeeeey. This yoga mat cost $200. That's fresh. You think THATS RICH?! Seems pretty rich to me. You can't get any of this stuff on Amazon. That's fucking psycho. These loafers? Uh uh. $2,000. For WAT. (Whispers) Eeel skiiiin. Gross! I'm HUNGRY Got grits, Ain't got no sugar. No butter— —ain't hurt nobody. Poverty is a whole damn show. Close the door On a broke ass bitch. Poverty is a whole damn story. Got no bucks for the Whole Foods market Shopping carts full of old ass garbage No reward For a woke ass artist I'm HUNGRY. I killed myself 3 times his morning. POOR SNOOP is still a whole ass G BET ON IT HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL RAP COVER -$15 BROKE WAYNE AINT HAVING IT CHRIS ROCK THE METRO TRAIN DRIVER is NOT FUNNY— (He's still a ladies man though.) LCD SYSTEM HOOGLI BOOGLI is the reason they fear us. HOOGLI BOOGLI IS THE BLACKEST BLACK THAT EVER BLACKED. UNLIKE NIGGLY NIGGA—he is NOT FRIENDLY. He is the stuff of nightmares. A world gone wrong. Two bloodshot eyes on a black backdrop Dark black. I sold not state at screen They go uno in te night This shit doesn't make much sense, Does it? Doesn't Matter Antimatter. Ow. How far is antimatter from antithesis? Is this just a Christmas present Never said it, same diff Something something something SHUT UP. So to re-iterate— Uh huh. Niggly Nigga is friendly… Yeah, he's just— —he just looks like that. AH. What happened. Don't stand behind me like that, my nigga. Srry. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Okay, that'll work. #timetravelingdjs
A school assignment changes everything.By Secretauthor2021, in 5 parts. Listen to the ► Podcast at Explicit Novels.The teacher sat there, just staring outward from his desk. He wore a look that said he didn’t want to be here anymore than we did.The classroom itself was virtually empty. It was just me and one other student.It was a girl called Madison and she was sitting on the far end of the table, opposite me.I could see she was busy writing away on a piece of paper, prompting me to glance down at the piece of paper in front of me. I appeared to have written down ‘I love Madison’ at least a hundred times.The teacher stood up abruptly, the screech of his chair as it slid backwards against the floor, forced me to look up from my declaration of love for Madison.“I’m going for a smoke, you two finish your lines.”With that, he left the room and slammed the door closed behind him. The noise echoed around the empty room.I looked across to Madison, who was now looking back at me smiling. I returned her smile with one of my own, when suddenly she stood up.I watched as she approached, standing over me briefly, her gaze alternating between my paper and me. As I prepared to speak, she gracefully lifted her leg and seamlessly positioned herself between me and the desk. With a confident move, she settled on my lap, facing me and assuming a straddling position.She began to gently grind on my lap, before touching the sides of my face, with her soft delicate hands.“Oh Adam! I want you so badly,” she cried out, before starting to kiss me passionately.That’s when she started to moan out my name.“Umm Adam, Adam, Adam.”It was then I noticed the sound of her voice begin to change, it wasn’t this soft seductive voice anymore, but more of a louder, persistent shouting.“Adam! Adam!”Madison faded away in front of me.“Adam! It's time to get up, you’ll be late for school,” a different, yet familiar voice called out.A chill swept over me as the duvet was abruptly pulled away. It was fortunate this time, that I wore underwear to bed.“Mom!” I cried back, then curled into a ball to keep warm.“Don’t Mom me, I’m not your personal alarm clock. Now go get ready, and for god’s sake, open a window, it stinks in here.”I waited for her to leave the room, before slowly uncurling myself. She had just interrupted one of my favorite dreams about Madison, it was the one where we were stuck in detention, and we were just about to get to the best bit.I got up from my bed, yawned, stretched and then scratched. It was then I realized, I was pitching an almighty tent in my underwear. Glad mom didn’t see that! I thought to myself.Like a zombie, I staggered to the bathroom slowly. Sliding the shower door open, I turned on the taps and removed my underwear to reveal what I had now began to refer to as the 'Madison Effect’.I jumped into the shower and let the water run over my face. As I relaxed under its warm embrace, my mind drifted back to Madison. She was perfect, she was pretty, she had a great body, and she was smart to boot. She ticked all my boxes, and I was crushing on her big time.It wasn’t just the way she looked, sure she had beautiful long blonde hair that hugged her shoulders, a smile that could melt anyone’s heart and eyes that sparkled like a mountain lake, but it was her smell, she always had this amazing floral scent, like an English garden.Before I knew it, I had started to fantasies again. I grabbed onto my raging boner and started to jerk off. My horny teenage mind, starting to peel off the layers of her clothing, imagining what her body would look like underneath.It didn’t take me long to reach the point of no return. I held my swollen cock and did my best to angle it down towards the drain, which in itself was a challenge given the intensity of my arousal. I shot my load and watched the evidence disappear.Feeling slightly more awake, I continued to get ready for school. Not that I would ever thank her, but thanks to my mom’s morning wakeup, I just managed to make the school bus on time.As I boarded the bus, that’s when I noticed her - my beautiful Madison, seated in the front row. I couldn’t help but smile at her to which she reciprocated. Walking past her, I caught a delightful whiff of that incredible floral scent, a fragrance that seemed to lift me up.A few rows behind her, my best friend Ethan had, as usual, reserved a seat for me. I settled in next to him, my attention divided as I found it hard to tear my eyes away from Madison.“Dude, you are so obvious,” he said.“What?”“You’re giving off all sorts of creepy stalker vibes.”“I am?”“Yes, relax, play it cool,” he suggested, as if he held the secrets to understanding all women.“Like you’re the expert,” I rebuked.“Excuse me, how many girls have you been with? That’s right zero, whereas I have kissed one.”“It doesn’t count if she’s your cousin Eth.”“It does too.”Ethan and I bantered back and forth like this until we reached school.The first thing we did was head to our lockers to grab our stuff for the upcoming lesson. As we collected our books, Ethan began discussing our plans for the weekend. In the midst of our conversation, Madison strolled past, gracing me with a quick sideways glance and a smile, effortlessly tucking her hair behind her ear. At this point, I had completely stopped listening to Ethan and I only had eyes for her.“So, how about it?” Ethan asked, nudging me and snapping me out of my trance.“How about what?” I responded, somewhat confused.“Were you even listening to me?”“Yeah, of course I was, but I just saw her.”“Dude, you’ve got it bad.”“I know, but she’s perfect.”“Okay, if you say so.”“What? You don’t think she’s perfect?” I said defensively, ready to defend my beloved Madison.“She’s alright, I guess. She’s no Charlotte though,” Ethan said, tilting his head towards the girl at the end of the lockers. Charlotte, head cheerleader, had all the boys chasing after her.“Please, Charlotte is just a walking pair of tits, she doesn’t have a patch on Madison.”I audibly swooned.“I can live with a walking pair of tits,” Ethan then said smirking.“I bet you can, now let’s get moving our we’ll be late for class.”Our first lesson was Biology. As we entered the classroom, we were immediately taken aback.Instead of the usual freedom to sit where we wanted, each seat had a name card in front of it. We all looked at each other at first, wondering what the hell was going on, before scanning the rows to look for our name and going along with it.It soon became apparent, that the seats were arranged in a way that every boy sat next to a girl.As I sat down in my allotted seat, I caught the scent of a very familiar fragrance. My whole body reacted to it and that’s when she sat down next to me. I was now sitting next to Madison. This day just got a whole lot better.I pulled out my notebook and pen, and then watched as Madison did the same. Her things were so neat, and she was so organized, unlike me, where the corners of my notebook were all curled up from being haphazardly stuffed in my bag.“Okay, now that you’re all settled.” Mrs. Wrentmore announced at the front of the classroom.The class turned to fixate on the middle-aged woman, dressed in the long tan skirt and cream colored cardigan at the front of the room.“Today, we’re going to talk about Sex! Yes, that’s right, get your giggles out of the way now, because this is serious class.” She said, pacing up and down the length of the classroom.“Today’s lesson will be split into Two parts,” she said emphasizing the word two, then pausing for a moment.“Part one - Sexual Health,” she said holding up one finger in the air, “and part two Reproduction.” she followed with a second finger, inadvertently making the sign for peace.“So, let’s get started, shall we.” Mrs. Wrentmore said clapping her hands together.“The CDC state that 78% of you, by the time you’ve reached the age of twenty would have had your first sexual experience.”The class watched as she walked over to a drawer in the corner of the room.“So, in all likelihood, some of you, as you’re all eighteen by now, have most likely had one. You’re all technically adults, so no judgement there, but if you have, I hope you were all being responsible.”The class started looking around at each other, no doubt mentally working out who were the ones most likely to be having sex.Mrs. Wrentmore pulled a bag from the drawer and walked to the end of the first row of desks.“As such, the school health board and the student body, have authorized me to hand out and make available to you these.”She held up the bag for all to see.“No, they are not free balloons, but condoms. Designed to keep you safe from STD and of course, unwanted pregnancies.”She handed out a few to the person sitting at the end of the desk.“Please pass these on to all the boys on the row,” she asked the girl sitting closest to her.The condoms were passed down, one by one, until each boy on the row had one.Mrs. Wrentmore repeated the process, moving down each row in the classroom. When she reached my row, Madison handed me a condom, giving me a quick once-over that left me blushing, as if she were playfully imagining what I’d have to do with it.“I am giving these out to the boys, because it is Your responsibility to wear protection, not your partners.”She went on to talk about the rise in STD and how we should all be practicing safe sex. This pretty much covered part one of her lesson plan.“Now that part one is concluded. I hope you’ve all learnt something valuable and that if you are sexually active, you continue to be safe. Now on to part two.”She returned back to the front of the class and began talking about reproduction, the differences between males and females. We sat there listening and looking at diagrams in our text books.There wasn’t much time left to the lesson, when Mrs. Wrentmore announced what the assignment would be.“Now, I bet you’re all wondering, why I sat you all in this order. Well wonder no more, class! Your assignment is to work with the person next to you, and here’s the twist.”She paused for dramatic effect.“In an effort to foster a greater understanding of the opposite sex, which I think is incredibly important. Boy’s you will write a report on the girls reproductive system and girls you will write a report on the boys, then when you’ve done your individual assignments, you will then need to work together, to combine your new found knowledge into a report.”The class was somewhat stunned by this, with each of us looking at the person sitting next to us.Madison and I exchanged looks with each other.“I guess we’re working together then,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear again.I wanted to sound cool, but all I could say was, “yeah.”“Do you want to meet up in the library later to prep?” Madison asked.“Sure, yes, that would be great.” I replied sounding a little bit too eager.“Okay, I’ll see you there.”She stood up and smiled at me once more and left with one of her friends. I could see them whispering amongst themselves, when just before they left the classroom, she looked back at me and gave me another one of her dazzling smiles.I was dumbstruck, I actually had a conversation with Madison, and not only that I get to work with her too. I’m not sure how comfortable I’ll be with the subject matter, but hey, I get to spend time with the marvelous Madison, so who cares.I met up with Ethan, and he could tell how excited I was to be working with Madison.“Right, don’t mess this up man. This is the perfect opportunity to ask her out.”“I can’t, what if she says no?”“Then at least you know.”“I can’t.”“Yes you can. It’s time dude, it’s been like five years. You got this.”I mulled over Ethan’s encouragement; he was right of course. It had been five years, and I had done absolutely nothing about it. Was this my chance?After our lessons had finished, I left Ethan to go find Madison in the school library. As I pushed open the door, the smell of old books was over powering. I walked past the front desk and headed towards the study area. I couldn’t see any sign of Madison, so I started to look up and down the book aisles, in case she was there.I headed to the science section, the most probable place to find her given the assignment. I passed through Physics, then Chemistry before finally reaching Biology. Bingo! There she was. When she saw me, she gave a little wave, and I approached her.“Hey.”“Hey, so what are you looking at, books?” I responded, cringing internally. Books! Of course, books, you Tool! We’re in a bloody library.“Yep, lots of books here,” she said, smiling to herself as she skimmed through a page in the book she was holding.Slowly but surely, I was reaching peak nervousness, and it started to show. When nervousness shows, awkwardness isn’t far behind.“Sorry, it was a stupid thing to say. Of course, it’s books,” I replied.“I’m Adam,” I said.“I know who you are, silly! We’ve been in the same class for like five years.”“Sorry, of course you do,” I said, my face turning bright red.I then tried to recover from my complete lack of cool by leaning against the bookshelf. With my arm outstretched, I placed my hand and subsequently my weight on a row of books. It soon became apparent that there was no backing to the shelf holding the books in place. As a result, they all tumbled off the shelf onto the floor on the other side of the next aisle down, causing me to stumble into the bookshelf itself, humiliating myself further.I quickly pulled myself back and tried to compose myself.“Are you okay?” Madison asked, touching the side of my arm.“Yeah, I’m fine, just a little…”“Just a little what?”“Nothing, it’s okay. So, what are we reading?” I said, keen to change the subject after making a complete tit of myself.“Well, I’ve found these books.”Madison handed me a book to hold, but I didn’t quite grab it properly, and it slipped out of my hand. Instinctively, we both reached down to catch it, causing us to bump heads.“Oww!” Madison cried out.“Oh my god, I am so sorry.”As if things weren’t going well already, my meeting with Madison was practically slapstick at this point. Please, Lord, just strike me down now and put me out of this misery.“It’s okay. Guess we’re both to blame for that one. Let’s go sit down, in case we hurt each other again,” she joked.We went over to the study area and sat down next to each other at a desk, placing our books in front of us.“So, where do we start?” I asked nervously.“Well, I guess I’m starting with the penis,” Madison replied, with a little wink.“In that case, I’ll start with your vagina, I mean the vagina. Sorry not yours, not that there’s anything wrong with your vagina, I’m guessing, not that I’ve seen your vagina. Oh boy.”I wanted to cram my fist into my mouth to stop myself, I had said the word vagina way too many times in one sentence.At this point, I had turned into what could only be described as a violent shade of red.Madison looked at me and burst out laughing.“You are so funny, you just dig yourself into all these little holes.”“Yeah, it’s quite the gift I’ve got. I think they call it foot-in-mouth disease.”Madison laughed again. She had such a melodic laugh; I could have listened to it all day.“Let’s just start reading shall we, then we’ll compare notes.”I nodded my head in agreement, in fear that I might say something stupid again.We red through our biology books in silence for the next ten minutes, when Madison declared she was bored of reading.She propped up her book, brought out her phone, and hid it behind the upright book.It looked as though; she was scrolling through pictures. It took me a moment to realize what she was looking at. Madison was busy scrolling through a photo gallery of men's cocks.Well this was certainly a side to Madison I didn’t expect to see.“Um, what are you doing?” I whispered.“I’m just curious, I can’t exactly write about something I’ve never seen before, now can I? Besides, I’m more of a visual learner you know. I like pictures and diagrams.”“Maybe the school library, isn’t the best place for that kind of learning.” I said worried someone would see and report us.“Hmm, maybe you’re right,” she said, then closing her browser down, just as someone walked behind us.“Tell you what, why don’t you come around to mine tonight and we can study then.”Oh my god, Madison had just invited me to her house. Her actual house! The place where she lived. Be cool, be cool I recited in my head.“Sure, I can do that.”“Great, here’s my address.”Madison wrote her address on the back page of my notebook.“See you at six?”“It’s a date. I mean not a date date. A study date. Oh boy, I’m doing it again.”“Uh huh,” Madison said, amused by my awkwardness.“I’m sorry.”“Don’t worry about it, it’s kinda adorable. Anyway, I’ll catch you later.”As I watched Madison walk away, I did everything I could to suppress my excitement. As soon as she left the library, I punched the air triumphantly, eliciting some strange looks from the other library users.I couldn’t believe it; I was actually going to Madison’s house. I know it’s not an actual date, but it’s gotta count for something right? and then there was that last remark, she called me adorable. Needless to say, I was on cloud nine from this point forward.As soon as school finished, I hurried home to get ready. I took a shower, then empty my closet and threw all my clothes on to my bed.Wha
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
“How Patty Met Kandi” A flashback episode,season 1 Veronica Moises is an extremely attractive young starlett, known in entertainment for her sexually aggressive attitude, especially towards men of power–after turning her down, Veronica fires back from being rejected by planting a seed in Katie's mind, suggesting that she ‘the camera man caught us” and urgent her to check the tapes–however, without the audio, as the microphones were off, Catherine mistakes Veronica and Patrick's gestures as infidelity, and after Patrick returns home, Catherine, in a wine-fueled and drunken rage, ejects Patrick from their home, and as he is captured upon the townhome's doorstep, stil scolded by Katherine (Catherine?) *check notes*, Well, he does call her Katie, right? Right. So it must have been Katherina It was actually Katherina, and was changed to Katherine But couldn't Katherine have changed, then, to Catherine? DOES IT MATTER? YES. She's a very important character, we almost actually can sympathize with this person. For WHAT? She's listed as an antagonist in the first season. SECONDARY Antagonist, cause that other lady. Who, Karen? Her name isn't Karen, she's just A Karen… What is her name? Idk. And how does Esha go from receptionist– Secretary. Whatever. How did this bitch go from working at Starbucks to hosting her own Television series. Since when did she work at Starbucks?! I don't know! I haven't written that part, yet! FUCK FUCK. FUCK! I thought for sure Goldberg would pull us out of this. Doctor Goldberg! Doctor Goldberg! WHAT! I'm BUSY. My Proctor… What, Ishii? You must see… Fuck. Fuck. If i write this I'm dead. Take my hand– Fuck that. If I don't write this, i'm dead. FFUCK! Two F's on that. It's a sharp fuck FUCK. Then what's that? That's a hard fuck. What's the difference? FUCK, man! *shrugs* Somethin'. Episode Summary: –Patrick's daughter watches in awe from the bottom window of their townhome, though she is supposed to be sleeping, more than likely the cause of his spiral than actually being thrown out of his home–the eyes of his daughter watching he and Katherine Are we sticking with Katherina, then? Katherine. Whatever, yeah. Alright. Fine. –argue sets him off into his own drunken rampage, as he rents an opulent suite and for the first time in his life, hires a companion to accompany his drug-fueled backhanded google , synonyms for revenge…. Requital or Retribution? I like Requital, but let's see what best suits Patrick's rampage. This dude is a bleeding heart. Or half of one, at best. We like Patrick. No, we love Patrick. Everyone does. Too close for comfort, And too far to talk I fed my soul instead of burning my body for once A luck of the draw, A call of the cards, Is the ace of wands It's Wednesday, But feels like Sunday Run, would you, offhand for someone Not only do I not qualify, but Alright, I have no alibi. I lied. I died that night. Finally, a truce. What would you like, Ivy? Hmm Buy me a motorcycle. A motorcycle, really? Yes, i'd like that. Really? What kind? A fast one! like – A kawasaki. OWW– Shut up, Frank. Alright. WHo the FUCK is FRANK. Yo, I fucked hobo Johnson in a bathroom stall at some festival in my dream once, and that guy was like an adonis. You what. But let's be fair, i've fucked deadmau5 way more times both sleeping and in my waking life, than anybody–and that includes the father of my children. Explain to me this part. Which part. Alright, i'm calling it off. THe engagement? No, the stipulations surrounding the engagement. WHO'S DRIVING THIS? IT'S IN AUTOPILOT. Sir, i've lost control. That's what you think. PATRICK: KATIE, WAIT. KATHERINE: KATHERINA? NO, it'S KATHERINE. PERIOT. BEFORE: WHOOPI GOLDBERG I'm a “mimick” Not with those hands, she isn't! How many talismans is that? Looks like FACTS: That's a magician! Good cover, though. WOAH, WOAH, WOAH. Not yet, Joe. Not yet. “The New YOrkisode” CUT BACK TO: [THE TV PEOPLE] PATRICK: KATIE! WAIT– [KATHERINE slams the door] PATRICK (CONT'D) KATIE! [KATHERINE CONTINUES YELLING FROM THE PARLOR (UPSTAIRS WINDOW)] Lol that is some New York-y shit– Yelling out the window Yeah, if you're in a neighborhood that doesn't have bars on the window Or like– This fancy ass shit, right here Yeah, my luxury apartment with paper thin walls and paper mache exterior made so cost effectively that the traffic alone gives me whatever disgusting trash disease is plaguing the rest of this city's inhabitants. [I haven't made my bed for like 3 days straight and my room is not clean. This is bizarre to me, besides the fact that I'm basically still writing as if I might actually find gainful employment with this– Creativity, is it? I'm pretty sure at this point, it's just divinity, all of which will be [SKYROCKETED TO LITERAL FAME BY MEANS OF A VERY IMAGINARY, METAPHORICAL KITE] Devastating to kill myself without seeing any of this stuff actually published. HOW DO I EMBED MY SUICIDE LETTER ONTO MY WEBPAGE. Excuse me. IS THAT INCLUDED IN MY FREE TRIAL?! ELOHIM Oh, my God. Which Elohim? The singer or– GOD ALMIGHTY AH, MY GOD. Tell the one about the wedding ring. *lols infinitely* KATHERINE: Your kids are sleeping. Try not to wake them up! PATRICK: They're our kids… KATHERINE: That's what you think… Technically, this line doesn't make sense, and Katherine is simply trying to be flippant, however, she does, as often so, get the last words–as Patrick spots his eldest (read: favorite) child, poking her head out from below, where however her mother cannot see her, but Patrick can, and is clearly made ashamed of his presence, locked out and on the doorstep of his own home, leaving afterward in a calm and disgraced rage, as not to further disturb his daughter; this initial occurrence can, at the very least for the audience be seen as Hazel's reason for such obstinate aggression and rebellion towards her mother, especially as the series progresses. Patrick then lashes out against Veronica, ultimately swearing to have her blacklisted from the entertainment industry, to which her egotistic response only allows Patrick's more deviant shadow to become awakened, his response something along the lines of… Wait, what was that conversation? Something like PATRICK You'll never work in this town again. VERONICA Well, lucky for me, I'm more fond of the Hollywood life. PATRICK You think my reach doesn't extend across the country since its on the only arm that hasn't been up your ass? yeah , something like that–but i've got classic deadmau5 on trying to soothe my way into filling out my divorce papers for hopefuly the last time–but we'll see how far I get– and I'll be lucky to be divorced before being stuck in that bullshit causes a forfiture to my own life by suicide–but i'd be damned if everything I'd ever written automatically belonged by half to my only living son's father, and perhaps I had become the devil and the only real villain if it meant being so selfish as such that I would rather leave my son nothing at all in the event of my death, than have anything more I'd created end up in his father's clutches. I would rather die alone than return to the hands by which I died and crumbled. Patrick's an asshole. Yes. But not a wifebeater. Correct. ‘Tis true. Shall we? We shall. “The Oldest Souls In New York” Now, Go: I don't have a heart, I have a fist, and a gun I don't have the dirt, But a shovel and a bird I don't have to look but once, to know Two times, twice, Three times, It's done My soul is older, But I want to know you, Sit on your show Just across from this Donovan, dove or Jack Doughnogy, Lick me a doughnut So awful, my last action Is Jack Canon On James Cameron And Poor little Nancy Who never was Poverty stricken at all Or a poet The blow was so low below the belt I had hoped not to bury the hatchet or merry the knot or tie the astronaut to the dog, Click, click motherfucker I'm onto all of you Hello, You ugly motherfucker I'm an ugly motherfucker Getting older by the moment SENATOR Hello, is this Fallon? No, this is Patick. Strawberry Patches and management Haven't you had enough of the good stuff? A starburst, Ali, is all that I wanted All you wanted was done All i wanted was Aliocha back Now Alidoja runs ghost; If i put this all out, it's a pulitzer, Tony, And Oscar All in the same award show Another old and lost broken soul in New York I love God But fuck money I lost a lot more than one, Just a dollar MANAGER I got you an interview on Fallon. SUNNI BLU I'm not doin' Fallon. That dude is weird. MANAGER You're doing it. IT's PR for your next album. SUNNI BLU Whateva. MANAGER By the way–Have you picked a title yet? SUNNI BLU Yeah, I'm The President. MANAGER No, I mean–for the album. SUNNI BLU Oh yeah. It's NIGGAZ. MANAGER (kind of afraid) –Where?! SUNNI BLU Oh yeah, my friends are comin over later, too. Hehe. you racist basta'd. MANAGER I mean wait. What? SUNNI BLU That's the album title: It's NIGGAZ. MANAGER You chose the name SUNNI BLU Watch it… MANAGER (using heavy quotes) Hold on, i got something in my throat that's almost vomit, But i'm gonna ball it up into a love note or poetic whatever or something so i don't hurl All you are is a punching bag, and a bullet wound waiting to happen I'm at least half of a man, If I dress up in drag, Despise all I can't have And wind up cleaning bathrooms Rather than wining and dining Drying the eyes that I cried for you Some ungodly reason, if it's Some Unholy war that got us All up in shambles Your name upon Dollars I'm closing my curtains Curtailing my words rather carefully Looking in mirrors, aware of you Beware of this woman Aware of the wolf If the world that you wanted Was so far from what's wanted I might as well jump From the stop sign I bought At the Art walk. That should do it. Man, fuck Jimmy Fallon. I can't! My hands are tied! That's – not what I meant. FOOTBALL (EN ESPANOL) GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL GOAT: I'm Skrillex. lol celebrities. Everyone is perfect, and huge Well, the women are tiny But also some are huge– And still tiny. But more on the atrocious expectations of man later And why my God apparently fucking hates me so much That my body might not ever see the sun. What in the fuck does Skrillex even DO on the red carpet? Isn't that dude like 4'11? Does he just show up and have to look up at everybody, like “Hey” Or do they run it like elementary school, Shortest to tallest ok: Sonny, you go first Then all the pop stars and disney kids… Wait, those are the same people Hold up. There's only like 20 names on the A list And like 5 of them Rotate. What's that like? Nobody remembers you like 5 seconds after your first Grammy– I guess that's like “15 minutes” Or Nobody can ever forget you, Cause you're Billie Ellish, Or Taylor Swift, And literally every other grammy award ever made is like Made specifically, just for you. What's that like? What's that world? Meanwhile i'm over here wondering what the fuck kind of favor Jimmy Fallon put in with the Heavens To get this many entries in The Festival Project™ (Almost as much as Skrillex) Almost, But not FUck dude, I just want to try that trifruit jam I made on the organic sourdough bread I have, but I haven't been to the gym today– and I'm teetering on rest day, or just getting it in super hard until I still die of sexual starvation anyway, cause– How the fuck do you be that tall anyway? What the fuck is “5'11?” WHY are you that TALL? WHAT do you DO up there? What are you doing up there?! WHAT'S up there to SEE. Meanwhile, i'm like 5'7 masquerading as 5'4 Cause, you know– Skrillex. Meanwhile, I'm reading Russell Brand's Booky Wookie And it might as well just be Every male celebrity's bookie wookie Cause who wouldn't go out and et the maximum amount of pussy with like Umpteen million fucking dollars?! Am i right, or am I just DYing of celibacy? “Jimmy Fallon's Alibi” And other short stories By Story Lord As Told By CCS Stone “The Scribe of all Times” They say you had a show today at 14th street. Couldn't have been me! I was out— Uh— Sick. Can't find him anywhere. He's gone. GONE. Look, I'm just gonna Hover here, for a second. Goddammit, Jimmy Fallon! Fallon, you idiot. Come with me. No: Don't say that. I need new interns! Why! Make sure they're— Like— guys. (Guys being guys) Ugh. Okay. Look— Just make them— Like—more mature? Smarter? I don't know {older guys being older guys) Ugh. You're losing at this. I know. I can feel it. WHERES JIMMY FALLON I DKNT MNOW JUST KILL HIM. Look, he's probably. Found him. Are you sure? What tipped you off? The horribly awesome bad Australian accent Fuck this nigga up. WHERE IS IT AND WE'RE ON IN 5… Mfuck man. I don't know how the fuck to be Iimmy Fallon! (Yes you do) Just— Do an impression! Of WHO Of Jimmy Fallon! Uhhhhhhhh—- I'm so fucking dead for this. Can it, would you. OKOKOKIHATETHISFUCKINGPIECEOFSHITJOB— CHAOSMAGICK. Aww. I love your mom. She's awesome. Here's some snacks. Awww. Yay. Moms. Yay. She's awesome. Sometimes. But uhh—who's your dad. *ploof* PILLOW FIIIIIIIIGHTTTT! *shoots with a tranq dart* Nice. Ahahaha… *drinks harder* Haha… *falls onto bean bag chair, sleeps* …hasaahhh. Holy shit. Okay idk what the fuck— This can't be accurate, or anything, is it? It is…it's…extremely accurate. Okay, Jimmy Fallon Okay, God— Your Wikipedia just told me everything I needed to know. You can thank my wife I did. I read her page first. And the Grammy award goes to.. *plz let it be me* NOT. You Wait… I can… I just realized This goes in the COMEDY category. Oh, fucking —SHIT. This is fucked up. This—is accurate. Look, I've been praying a lot about this I guess so much that Jimmy What's up. I knew everything on your Wikipedia page about you before I even read it, Which must mean— OH FUCK. I've got to get out of here. The Illuminati offered me like 1 million dollars to wreck your marriage And I said no, but I love you anyway— And your family, So— Whatever, Hope it works out. There should be some crazy fine ass hoes and cumsluts on approach if that's like— What you wanted, or whatever. Please GOD— Just make it STOP! FUCK THIS JIMMY FALLON MOTHERFUCKER JUST GET HIM WHATEVER THE FUCK HE WANTS WHATEVER HE WANTS, just GIVE IT TO HIM. PLEASE. Jesus CHRIST. “Yeshua” Huh. What. Oh, that shut you up, didn't it? What happened? Okay, so there's the impenetrable ten— Alright alright Apparently these 5 dudes [5 GUYS] I TOLD YOU IT WAS SHH. Be quiet. K It's like Breakfasts in bed stuff And back rubs And Bathtubs Long getaways on islands Where I'm sure nobody knows us And I hope it holds up, Cause I couldn't hold off Somewhere I'm still homeless And lost as I always was but Hey, That's music Someone must be Something somewhere Something something I'm sure of it, I'm sure I was — one of her muses? Look, just use this for music. Well, he…is amusing. He's obnoxious. This is a toxic relationship. Do you want this? Do you really want this again? Right now all I want is some drugs And a boyfriend who loves me I don't do husbands For nothing My trust is all fucked up And plus GYM JIMMY FALLON I don't do black girls. I hate them. Noted. Anyway. My times up. Want this job? Uhh? [insert inflammatory drunkenly racist rant here] Fuck this dude. Okay, woah. Okay— See ya in New York. WhT. The Mafia is coming. Don't you mean the mob? Go…fuck yourself. It—Woah. Okay. T. Hanks Here's a dollar. Oh shit: Tacos $1 Lights on I told you It's gonna be a long night, hon. You might want to run more I don't though. Alright, so just Run for cover Adjust, And don't be so remarkable As to summon up Another God To your Alter So Justin Timberlake is your friend, huh Oh those eyes That's so— Blinding Well, that sucks, cause Britney Spears is my best friend And my worst nightmare Like Everything I wanted to And should have been Beautiful, scrawny, Talented and gorgeous And yet somehow also Obnoxiously burdened By so much being wanted That now I'm just washed up And wasted by sunup To sundown Now how's that sound? H—inin.. Hi See, [Redacted]'s wife Controls all our lives His life and mine; His for the better, however And mine for the worse, I fear For better or worse, they said Year after year For better or worse, they said Year after year I want a divorce, I said I wouldn't hear it The cycle of toxicity Stops here with me Hear ye! Here ye! Court is now in session Hear ye Here he Ii hope you learned your lesson Here he Here Designer children, —Do you want this? Here ye— I hear ye! —Your soulmate is Skrillex. Well, just like the rest of them The oceans of oceans of Ocean eyed blondes That I also love But this shit gets haunting Like mm— (daunting) Why would he Or anybody Want me? This apprenticeship isn't going to be easy, you know… Break her heart, Jim! Alright, Jim-Boy—you got this. It already is hard, on my heart. That's what I've been trying to tell you—- This— Will require you to love with boundlessness, beyond limitation—- unconditionally, with no expectation. I already hadn't any expectations regarding [Redacted] . Besides— he's married. —No expectations whatsoever. I've noticed your nonconformity and intention to mass appeal, actually. I'm astonished, really. I'm telling you, this is a dangerous man. —my God, just beautiful. A weaponized person, you see. I do see. Weaponized by beauty. He's just beautiful. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. What wouldn't you do? —What did you do, actually? —What didn't we? We share a middle name, and so we share a middle ground, I think I found— Something I can't have, But want Distractions, This one has it all. Go that way! It appears, however, though, My focus is here, suddenly. Why. I don't know. Are you in any way miserable, at all, sire? (They're all miserable, when they get to me, actually.) I need peace with this. Dearly beloved, We are dearly departed, You started a war with my heart Then put some water on it Sons and daughters of the alter, Father figures and celebrities, We are gathered here today, To finally rest in peace, Posthumously Amen Amen. You may be seated. Father! My child. Please! What is it? Come quickly! Oh shit, what the fuck. Shhh! Not in the church! It's not a real church! They're just Catholics. SHHHH. Come on: What the fuck Jimmy Fallon is this. You know, I've got them all gathered up here, At your alter. pew-pew-pew Haha, get it. Very funny, God Look, you got this. Not now, imagination. I don't have time for this. I gotta get rid of all this Jimmy Fallon before… I'm gonna kill that kid. Fuck, man. Well, you started it— You know we're at war, here, We're at work here With each other and ourselves The Hell comes from Stardust above us Neither or nor Forever or awkward The charm that undoes, Then Comes up as The Impossible Sweet and sour Patches and pick up, Lick up your weapons, And kick out your husbands, kids! God the Judge has come Once and for all, To the pulpit Will she kill herself again? Or finally publish [The Festival Project ™] “The Fallon Files” Is an extention of the infinite Skrillifiles, most notably due to its conjunction within the enter the multiverse and legends franchises, as the infinite multiverses begin to more consistently intersect eith one another, creating continuity within the plots of each series respectively, and collectively combining eventually into a singularity in which the fictional SKRILLEX and the fictitious JIMMY FALLON, both established as extremely gifted extraterrestrial shapeshifters, possibly even of some, if even distant relation, due to their shared aviary hereditary ancestry and notable presence in the shared collective consciousness pre existence, which extends throughout the duration of the Ascension series, and appearing within nearly every subsidiary in some way shape or form within each series, playing either protagonists, or sometimes even exaggerated antagonists, caricatures of each other or themselves, or sometimes even playing themselves, and therefore one another, creating a soft of chaotic confusion Lol— I'm typing this with one finger cause I have a palm full of shea butter in my hand. Lol. —amongst the audience, and other characters—almost invariably and distinctly being as undetectably as possible, one another, at some point/- reflectively at any given time within the series. Line? Nothing, you're just a bird right now, actually, Jimmy. —looking like Jimmy? Yes, but [Aviary behavior] —but maybe “Skrillex?” Up to you, actually. [The Appraisal of the Shapeshifted Ascended Mastery, Transcended, INC. ] And alternate titles… The Jimmy Fallon Effect The Unrequittance of Jimmy Fallon The Jimmy Fallon Disaster {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.
“How Patty Met Kandi” A flashback episode,season 1 Veronica Moises is an extremely attractive young starlett, known in entertainment for her sexually aggressive attitude, especially towards men of power–after turning her down, Veronica fires back from being rejected by planting a seed in Katie's mind, suggesting that she ‘the camera man caught us” and urgent her to check the tapes–however, without the audio, as the microphones were off, Catherine mistakes Veronica and Patrick's gestures as infidelity, and after Patrick returns home, Catherine, in a wine-fueled and drunken rage, ejects Patrick from their home, and as he is captured upon the townhome's doorstep, stil scolded by Katherine (Catherine?) *check notes*, Well, he does call her Katie, right? Right. So it must have been Katherina It was actually Katherina, and was changed to Katherine But couldn't Katherine have changed, then, to Catherine? DOES IT MATTER? YES. She's a very important character, we almost actually can sympathize with this person. For WHAT? She's listed as an antagonist in the first season. SECONDARY Antagonist, cause that other lady. Who, Karen? Her name isn't Karen, she's just A Karen… What is her name? Idk. And how does Esha go from receptionist– Secretary. Whatever. How did this bitch go from working at Starbucks to hosting her own Television series. Since when did she work at Starbucks?! I don't know! I haven't written that part, yet! FUCK FUCK. FUCK! I thought for sure Goldberg would pull us out of this. Doctor Goldberg! Doctor Goldberg! WHAT! I'm BUSY. My Proctor… What, Ishii? You must see… Fuck. Fuck. If i write this I'm dead. Take my hand– Fuck that. If I don't write this, i'm dead. FFUCK! Two F's on that. It's a sharp fuck FUCK. Then what's that? That's a hard fuck. What's the difference? FUCK, man! *shrugs* Somethin'. Episode Summary: –Patrick's daughter watches in awe from the bottom window of their townhome, though she is supposed to be sleeping, more than likely the cause of his spiral than actually being thrown out of his home–the eyes of his daughter watching he and Katherine Are we sticking with Katherina, then? Katherine. Whatever, yeah. Alright. Fine. –argue sets him off into his own drunken rampage, as he rents an opulent suite and for the first time in his life, hires a companion to accompany his drug-fueled backhanded google , synonyms for revenge…. Requital or Retribution? I like Requital, but let's see what best suits Patrick's rampage. This dude is a bleeding heart. Or half of one, at best. We like Patrick. No, we love Patrick. Everyone does. Too close for comfort, And too far to talk I fed my soul instead of burning my body for once A luck of the draw, A call of the cards, Is the ace of wands It's Wednesday, But feels like Sunday Run, would you, offhand for someone Not only do I not qualify, but Alright, I have no alibi. I lied. I died that night. Finally, a truce. What would you like, Ivy? Hmm Buy me a motorcycle. A motorcycle, really? Yes, i'd like that. Really? What kind? A fast one! like – A kawasaki. OWW– Shut up, Frank. Alright. WHo the FUCK is FRANK. Yo, I fucked hobo Johnson in a bathroom stall at some festival in my dream once, and that guy was like an adonis. You what. But let's be fair, i've fucked deadmau5 way more times both sleeping and in my waking life, than anybody–and that includes the father of my children. Explain to me this part. Which part. Alright, i'm calling it off. THe engagement? No, the stipulations surrounding the engagement. WHO'S DRIVING THIS? IT'S IN AUTOPILOT. Sir, i've lost control. That's what you think. PATRICK: KATIE, WAIT. KATHERINE: KATHERINA? NO, it'S KATHERINE. PERIOT. BEFORE: WHOOPI GOLDBERG I'm a “mimick” Not with those hands, she isn't! How many talismans is that? Looks like FACTS: That's a magician! Good cover, though. WOAH, WOAH, WOAH. Not yet, Joe. Not yet. “The New YOrkisode” CUT BACK TO: [THE TV PEOPLE] PATRICK: KATIE! WAIT– [KATHERINE slams the door] PATRICK (CONT'D) KATIE! [KATHERINE CONTINUES YELLING FROM THE PARLOR (UPSTAIRS WINDOW)] Lol that is some New York-y shit– Yelling out the window Yeah, if you're in a neighborhood that doesn't have bars on the window Or like– This fancy ass shit, right here Yeah, my luxury apartment with paper thin walls and paper mache exterior made so cost effectively that the traffic alone gives me whatever disgusting trash disease is plaguing the rest of this city's inhabitants. [I haven't made my bed for like 3 days straight and my room is not clean. This is bizarre to me, besides the fact that I'm basically still writing as if I might actually find gainful employment with this– Creativity, is it? I'm pretty sure at this point, it's just divinity, all of which will be [SKYROCKETED TO LITERAL FAME BY MEANS OF A VERY IMAGINARY, METAPHORICAL KITE] Devastating to kill myself without seeing any of this stuff actually published. HOW DO I EMBED MY SUICIDE LETTER ONTO MY WEBPAGE. Excuse me. IS THAT INCLUDED IN MY FREE TRIAL?! ELOHIM Oh, my God. Which Elohim? The singer or– GOD ALMIGHTY AH, MY GOD. Tell the one about the wedding ring. *lols infinitely* KATHERINE: Your kids are sleeping. Try not to wake them up! PATRICK: They're our kids… KATHERINE: That's what you think… Technically, this line doesn't make sense, and Katherine is simply trying to be flippant, however, she does, as often so, get the last words–as Patrick spots his eldest (read: favorite) child, poking her head out from below, where however her mother cannot see her, but Patrick can, and is clearly made ashamed of his presence, locked out and on the doorstep of his own home, leaving afterward in a calm and disgraced rage, as not to further disturb his daughter; this initial occurrence can, at the very least for the audience be seen as Hazel's reason for such obstinate aggression and rebellion towards her mother, especially as the series progresses. Patrick then lashes out against Veronica, ultimately swearing to have her blacklisted from the entertainment industry, to which her egotistic response only allows Patrick's more deviant shadow to become awakened, his response something along the lines of… Wait, what was that conversation? Something like PATRICK You'll never work in this town again. VERONICA Well, lucky for me, I'm more fond of the Hollywood life. PATRICK You think my reach doesn't extend across the country since its on the only arm that hasn't been up your ass? yeah , something like that–but i've got classic deadmau5 on trying to soothe my way into filling out my divorce papers for hopefuly the last time–but we'll see how far I get– and I'll be lucky to be divorced before being stuck in that bullshit causes a forfiture to my own life by suicide–but i'd be damned if everything I'd ever written automatically belonged by half to my only living son's father, and perhaps I had become the devil and the only real villain if it meant being so selfish as such that I would rather leave my son nothing at all in the event of my death, than have anything more I'd created end up in his father's clutches. I would rather die alone than return to the hands by which I died and crumbled. Patrick's an asshole. Yes. But not a wifebeater. Correct. ‘Tis true. Shall we? We shall. “The Oldest Souls In New York” Now, Go: I don't have a heart, I have a fist, and a gun I don't have the dirt, But a shovel and a bird I don't have to look but once, to know Two times, twice, Three times, It's done My soul is older, But I want to know you, Sit on your show Just across from this Donovan, dove or Jack Doughnogy, Lick me a doughnut So awful, my last action Is Jack Canon On James Cameron And Poor little Nancy Who never was Poverty stricken at all Or a poet The blow was so low below the belt I had hoped not to bury the hatchet or merry the knot or tie the astronaut to the dog, Click, click motherfucker I'm onto all of you Hello, You ugly motherfucker I'm an ugly motherfucker Getting older by the moment SENATOR Hello, is this Fallon? No, this is Patick. Strawberry Patches and management Haven't you had enough of the good stuff? A starburst, Ali, is all that I wanted All you wanted was done All i wanted was Aliocha back Now Alidoja runs ghost; If i put this all out, it's a pulitzer, Tony, And Oscar All in the same award show Another old and lost broken soul in New York I love God But fuck money I lost a lot more than one, Just a dollar MANAGER I got you an interview on Fallon. SUNNI BLU I'm not doin' Fallon. That dude is weird. MANAGER You're doing it. IT's PR for your next album. SUNNI BLU Whateva. MANAGER By the way–Have you picked a title yet? SUNNI BLU Yeah, I'm The President. MANAGER No, I mean–for the album. SUNNI BLU Oh yeah. It's NIGGAZ. MANAGER (kind of afraid) –Where?! SUNNI BLU Oh yeah, my friends are comin over later, too. Hehe. you racist basta'd. MANAGER I mean wait. What? SUNNI BLU That's the album title: It's NIGGAZ. MANAGER You chose the name SUNNI BLU Watch it… MANAGER (using heavy quotes) Hold on, i got something in my throat that's almost vomit, But i'm gonna ball it up into a love note or poetic whatever or something so i don't hurl All you are is a punching bag, and a bullet wound waiting to happen I'm at least half of a man, If I dress up in drag, Despise all I can't have And wind up cleaning bathrooms Rather than wining and dining Drying the eyes that I cried for you Some ungodly reason, if it's Some Unholy war that got us All up in shambles Your name upon Dollars I'm closing my curtains Curtailing my words rather carefully Looking in mirrors, aware of you Beware of this woman Aware of the wolf If the world that you wanted Was so far from what's wanted I might as well jump From the stop sign I bought At the Art walk. That should do it. Man, fuck Jimmy Fallon. I can't! My hands are tied! That's – not what I meant. FOOTBALL (EN ESPANOL) GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL GOAT: I'm Skrillex. lol celebrities. Everyone is perfect, and huge Well, the women are tiny But also some are huge– And still tiny. But more on the atrocious expectations of man later And why my God apparently fucking hates me so much That my body might not ever see the sun. What in the fuck does Skrillex even DO on the red carpet? Isn't that dude like 4'11? Does he just show up and have to look up at everybody, like “Hey” Or do they run it like elementary school, Shortest to tallest ok: Sonny, you go first Then all the pop stars and disney kids… Wait, those are the same people Hold up. There's only like 20 names on the A list And like 5 of them Rotate. What's that like? Nobody remembers you like 5 seconds after your first Grammy– I guess that's like “15 minutes” Or Nobody can ever forget you, Cause you're Billie Ellish, Or Taylor Swift, And literally every other grammy award ever made is like Made specifically, just for you. What's that like? What's that world? Meanwhile i'm over here wondering what the fuck kind of favor Jimmy Fallon put in with the Heavens To get this many entries in The Festival Project™ (Almost as much as Skrillex) Almost, But not FUck dude, I just want to try that trifruit jam I made on the organic sourdough bread I have, but I haven't been to the gym today– and I'm teetering on rest day, or just getting it in super hard until I still die of sexual starvation anyway, cause– How the fuck do you be that tall anyway? What the fuck is “5'11?” WHY are you that TALL? WHAT do you DO up there? What are you doing up there?! WHAT'S up there to SEE. Meanwhile, i'm like 5'7 masquerading as 5'4 Cause, you know– Skrillex. Meanwhile, I'm reading Russell Brand's Booky Wookie And it might as well just be Every male celebrity's bookie wookie Cause who wouldn't go out and et the maximum amount of pussy with like Umpteen million fucking dollars?! Am i right, or am I just DYing of celibacy? “Jimmy Fallon's Alibi” And other short stories By Story Lord As Told By CCS Stone “The Scribe of all Times” They say you had a show today at 14th street. Couldn't have been me! I was out— Uh— Sick. Can't find him anywhere. He's gone. GONE. Look, I'm just gonna Hover here, for a second. Goddammit, Jimmy Fallon! Fallon, you idiot. Come with me. No: Don't say that. I need new interns! Why! Make sure they're— Like— guys. (Guys being guys) Ugh. Okay. Look— Just make them— Like—more mature? Smarter? I don't know {older guys being older guys) Ugh. You're losing at this. I know. I can feel it. WHERES JIMMY FALLON I DKNT MNOW JUST KILL HIM. Look, he's probably. Found him. Are you sure? What tipped you off? The horribly awesome bad Australian accent Fuck this nigga up. WHERE IS IT AND WE'RE ON IN 5… Mfuck man. I don't know how the fuck to be Iimmy Fallon! (Yes you do) Just— Do an impression! Of WHO Of Jimmy Fallon! Uhhhhhhhh—- I'm so fucking dead for this. Can it, would you. OKOKOKIHATETHISFUCKINGPIECEOFSHITJOB— CHAOSMAGICK. Aww. I love your mom. She's awesome. Here's some snacks. Awww. Yay. Moms. Yay. She's awesome. Sometimes. But uhh—who's your dad. *ploof* PILLOW FIIIIIIIIGHTTTT! *shoots with a tranq dart* Nice. Ahahaha… *drinks harder* Haha… *falls onto bean bag chair, sleeps* …hasaahhh. Holy shit. Okay idk what the fuck— This can't be accurate, or anything, is it? It is…it's…extremely accurate. Okay, Jimmy Fallon Okay, God— Your Wikipedia just told me everything I needed to know. You can thank my wife I did. I read her page first. And the Grammy award goes to.. *plz let it be me* NOT. You Wait… I can… I just realized This goes in the COMEDY category. Oh, fucking —SHIT. This is fucked up. This—is accurate. Look, I've been praying a lot about this I guess so much that Jimmy What's up. I knew everything on your Wikipedia page about you before I even read it, Which must mean— OH FUCK. I've got to get out of here. The Illuminati offered me like 1 million dollars to wreck your marriage And I said no, but I love you anyway— And your family, So— Whatever, Hope it works out. There should be some crazy fine ass hoes and cumsluts on approach if that's like— What you wanted, or whatever. Please GOD— Just make it STOP! FUCK THIS JIMMY FALLON MOTHERFUCKER JUST GET HIM WHATEVER THE FUCK HE WANTS WHATEVER HE WANTS, just GIVE IT TO HIM. PLEASE. Jesus CHRIST. “Yeshua” Huh. What. Oh, that shut you up, didn't it? What happened? Okay, so there's the impenetrable ten— Alright alright Apparently these 5 dudes [5 GUYS] I TOLD YOU IT WAS SHH. Be quiet. K It's like Breakfasts in bed stuff And back rubs And Bathtubs Long getaways on islands Where I'm sure nobody knows us And I hope it holds up, Cause I couldn't hold off Somewhere I'm still homeless And lost as I always was but Hey, That's music Someone must be Something somewhere Something something I'm sure of it, I'm sure I was — one of her muses? Look, just use this for music. Well, he…is amusing. He's obnoxious. This is a toxic relationship. Do you want this? Do you really want this again? Right now all I want is some drugs And a boyfriend who loves me I don't do husbands For nothing My trust is all fucked up And plus GYM JIMMY FALLON I don't do black girls. I hate them. Noted. Anyway. My times up. Want this job? Uhh? [insert inflammatory drunkenly racist rant here] Fuck this dude. Okay, woah. Okay— See ya in New York. WhT. The Mafia is coming. Don't you mean the mob? Go…fuck yourself. It—Woah. Okay. T. Hanks Here's a dollar. Oh shit: Tacos $1 Lights on I told you It's gonna be a long night, hon. You might want to run more I don't though. Alright, so just Run for cover Adjust, And don't be so remarkable As to summon up Another God To your Alter So Justin Timberlake is your friend, huh Oh those eyes That's so— Blinding Well, that sucks, cause Britney Spears is my best friend And my worst nightmare Like Everything I wanted to And should have been Beautiful, scrawny, Talented and gorgeous And yet somehow also Obnoxiously burdened By so much being wanted That now I'm just washed up And wasted by sunup To sundown Now how's that sound? H—inin.. Hi See, [Redacted]'s wife Controls all our lives His life and mine; His for the better, however And mine for the worse, I fear For better or worse, they said Year after year For better or worse, they said Year after year I want a divorce, I said I wouldn't hear it The cycle of toxicity Stops here with me Hear ye! Here ye! Court is now in session Hear ye Here he Ii hope you learned your lesson Here he Here Designer children, —Do you want this? Here ye— I hear ye! —Your soulmate is Skrillex. Well, just like the rest of them The oceans of oceans of Ocean eyed blondes That I also love But this shit gets haunting Like mm— (daunting) Why would he Or anybody Want me? This apprenticeship isn't going to be easy, you know… Break her heart, Jim! Alright, Jim-Boy—you got this. It already is hard, on my heart. That's what I've been trying to tell you—- This— Will require you to love with boundlessness, beyond limitation—- unconditionally, with no expectation. I already hadn't any expectations regarding [Redacted] . Besides— he's married. —No expectations whatsoever. I've noticed your nonconformity and intention to mass appeal, actually. I'm astonished, really. I'm telling you, this is a dangerous man. —my God, just beautiful. A weaponized person, you see. I do see. Weaponized by beauty. He's just beautiful. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. What wouldn't you do? —What did you do, actually? —What didn't we? We share a middle name, and so we share a middle ground, I think I found— Something I can't have, But want Distractions, This one has it all. Go that way! It appears, however, though, My focus is here, suddenly. Why. I don't know. Are you in any way miserable, at all, sire? (They're all miserable, when they get to me, actually.) I need peace with this. Dearly beloved, We are dearly departed, You started a war with my heart Then put some water on it Sons and daughters of the alter, Father figures and celebrities, We are gathered here today, To finally rest in peace, Posthumously Amen Amen. You may be seated. Father! My child. Please! What is it? Come quickly! Oh shit, what the fuck. Shhh! Not in the church! It's not a real church! They're just Catholics. SHHHH. Come on: What the fuck Jimmy Fallon is this. You know, I've got them all gathered up here, At your alter. pew-pew-pew Haha, get it. Very funny, God Look, you got this. Not now, imagination. I don't have time for this. I gotta get rid of all this Jimmy Fallon before… I'm gonna kill that kid. Fuck, man. Well, you started it— You know we're at war, here, We're at work here With each other and ourselves The Hell comes from Stardust above us Neither or nor Forever or awkward The charm that undoes, Then Comes up as The Impossible Sweet and sour Patches and pick up, Lick up your weapons, And kick out your husbands, kids! God the Judge has come Once and for all, To the pulpit Will she kill herself again? Or finally publish [The Festival Project ™] “The Fallon Files” Is an extention of the infinite Skrillifiles, most notably due to its conjunction within the enter the multiverse and legends franchises, as the infinite multiverses begin to more consistently intersect eith one another, creating continuity within the plots of each series respectively, and collectively combining eventually into a singularity in which the fictional SKRILLEX and the fictitious JIMMY FALLON, both established as extremely gifted extraterrestrial shapeshifters, possibly even of some, if even distant relation, due to their shared aviary hereditary ancestry and notable presence in the shared collective consciousness pre existence, which extends throughout the duration of the Ascension series, and appearing within nearly every subsidiary in some way shape or form within each series, playing either protagonists, or sometimes even exaggerated antagonists, caricatures of each other or themselves, or sometimes even playing themselves, and therefore one another, creating a soft of chaotic confusion Lol— I'm typing this with one finger cause I have a palm full of shea butter in my hand. Lol. —amongst the audience, and other characters—almost invariably and distinctly being as undetectably as possible, one another, at some point/- reflectively at any given time within the series. Line? Nothing, you're just a bird right now, actually, Jimmy. —looking like Jimmy? Yes, but [Aviary behavior] —but maybe “Skrillex?” Up to you, actually. [The Appraisal of the Shapeshifted Ascended Mastery, Transcended, INC. ] And alternate titles… The Jimmy Fallon Effect The Unrequittance of Jimmy Fallon The Jimmy Fallon Disaster {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.
“How Patty Met Kandi” A flashback episode,season 1 Veronica Moises is an extremely attractive young starlett, known in entertainment for her sexually aggressive attitude, especially towards men of power–after turning her down, Veronica fires back from being rejected by planting a seed in Katie's mind, suggesting that she ‘the camera man caught us” and urgent her to check the tapes–however, without the audio, as the microphones were off, Catherine mistakes Veronica and Patrick's gestures as infidelity, and after Patrick returns home, Catherine, in a wine-fueled and drunken rage, ejects Patrick from their home, and as he is captured upon the townhome's doorstep, stil scolded by Katherine (Catherine?) *check notes*, Well, he does call her Katie, right? Right. So it must have been Katherina It was actually Katherina, and was changed to Katherine But couldn't Katherine have changed, then, to Catherine? DOES IT MATTER? YES. She's a very important character, we almost actually can sympathize with this person. For WHAT? She's listed as an antagonist in the first season. SECONDARY Antagonist, cause that other lady. Who, Karen? Her name isn't Karen, she's just A Karen… What is her name? Idk. And how does Esha go from receptionist– Secretary. Whatever. How did this bitch go from working at Starbucks to hosting her own Television series. Since when did she work at Starbucks?! I don't know! I haven't written that part, yet! FUCK FUCK. FUCK! I thought for sure Goldberg would pull us out of this. Doctor Goldberg! Doctor Goldberg! WHAT! I'm BUSY. My Proctor… What, Ishii? You must see… Fuck. Fuck. If i write this I'm dead. Take my hand– Fuck that. If I don't write this, i'm dead. FFUCK! Two F's on that. It's a sharp fuck FUCK. Then what's that? That's a hard fuck. What's the difference? FUCK, man! *shrugs* Somethin'. Episode Summary: –Patrick's daughter watches in awe from the bottom window of their townhome, though she is supposed to be sleeping, more than likely the cause of his spiral than actually being thrown out of his home–the eyes of his daughter watching he and Katherine Are we sticking with Katherina, then? Katherine. Whatever, yeah. Alright. Fine. –argue sets him off into his own drunken rampage, as he rents an opulent suite and for the first time in his life, hires a companion to accompany his drug-fueled backhanded google , synonyms for revenge…. Requital or Retribution? I like Requital, but let's see what best suits Patrick's rampage. This dude is a bleeding heart. Or half of one, at best. We like Patrick. No, we love Patrick. Everyone does. Too close for comfort, And too far to talk I fed my soul instead of burning my body for once A luck of the draw, A call of the cards, Is the ace of wands It's Wednesday, But feels like Sunday Run, would you, offhand for someone Not only do I not qualify, but Alright, I have no alibi. I lied. I died that night. Finally, a truce. What would you like, Ivy? Hmm Buy me a motorcycle. A motorcycle, really? Yes, i'd like that. Really? What kind? A fast one! like – A kawasaki. OWW– Shut up, Frank. Alright. WHo the FUCK is FRANK. Yo, I fucked hobo Johnson in a bathroom stall at some festival in my dream once, and that guy was like an adonis. You what. But let's be fair, i've fucked deadmau5 way more times both sleeping and in my waking life, than anybody–and that includes the father of my children. Explain to me this part. Which part. Alright, i'm calling it off. THe engagement? No, the stipulations surrounding the engagement. WHO'S DRIVING THIS? IT'S IN AUTOPILOT. Sir, i've lost control. That's what you think. PATRICK: KATIE, WAIT. KATHERINE: KATHERINA? NO, it'S KATHERINE. PERIOT. BEFORE: WHOOPI GOLDBERG I'm a “mimick” Not with those hands, she isn't! How many talismans is that? Looks like FACTS: That's a magician! Good cover, though. WOAH, WOAH, WOAH. Not yet, Joe. Not yet. “The New YOrkisode” CUT BACK TO: [THE TV PEOPLE] PATRICK: KATIE! WAIT– [KATHERINE slams the door] PATRICK (CONT'D) KATIE! [KATHERINE CONTINUES YELLING FROM THE PARLOR (UPSTAIRS WINDOW)] Lol that is some New York-y shit– Yelling out the window Yeah, if you're in a neighborhood that doesn't have bars on the window Or like– This fancy ass shit, right here Yeah, my luxury apartment with paper thin walls and paper mache exterior made so cost effectively that the traffic alone gives me whatever disgusting trash disease is plaguing the rest of this city's inhabitants. [I haven't made my bed for like 3 days straight and my room is not clean. This is bizarre to me, besides the fact that I'm basically still writing as if I might actually find gainful employment with this– Creativity, is it? I'm pretty sure at this point, it's just divinity, all of which will be [SKYROCKETED TO LITERAL FAME BY MEANS OF A VERY IMAGINARY, METAPHORICAL KITE] Devastating to kill myself without seeing any of this stuff actually published. HOW DO I EMBED MY SUICIDE LETTER ONTO MY WEBPAGE. Excuse me. IS THAT INCLUDED IN MY FREE TRIAL?! ELOHIM Oh, my God. Which Elohim? The singer or– GOD ALMIGHTY AH, MY GOD. Tell the one about the wedding ring. *lols infinitely* KATHERINE: Your kids are sleeping. Try not to wake them up! PATRICK: They're our kids… KATHERINE: That's what you think… Technically, this line doesn't make sense, and Katherine is simply trying to be flippant, however, she does, as often so, get the last words–as Patrick spots his eldest (read: favorite) child, poking her head out from below, where however her mother cannot see her, but Patrick can, and is clearly made ashamed of his presence, locked out and on the doorstep of his own home, leaving afterward in a calm and disgraced rage, as not to further disturb his daughter; this initial occurrence can, at the very least for the audience be seen as Hazel's reason for such obstinate aggression and rebellion towards her mother, especially as the series progresses. Patrick then lashes out against Veronica, ultimately swearing to have her blacklisted from the entertainment industry, to which her egotistic response only allows Patrick's more deviant shadow to become awakened, his response something along the lines of… Wait, what was that conversation? Something like PATRICK You'll never work in this town again. VERONICA Well, lucky for me, I'm more fond of the Hollywood life. PATRICK You think my reach doesn't extend across the country since its on the only arm that hasn't been up your ass? yeah , something like that–but i've got classic deadmau5 on trying to soothe my way into filling out my divorce papers for hopefuly the last time–but we'll see how far I get– and I'll be lucky to be divorced before being stuck in that bullshit causes a forfiture to my own life by suicide–but i'd be damned if everything I'd ever written automatically belonged by half to my only living son's father, and perhaps I had become the devil and the only real villain if it meant being so selfish as such that I would rather leave my son nothing at all in the event of my death, than have anything more I'd created end up in his father's clutches. I would rather die alone than return to the hands by which I died and crumbled. Patrick's an asshole. Yes. But not a wifebeater. Correct. ‘Tis true. Shall we? We shall. “The Oldest Souls In New York” Now, Go: I don't have a heart, I have a fist, and a gun I don't have the dirt, But a shovel and a bird I don't have to look but once, to know Two times, twice, Three times, It's done My soul is older, But I want to know you, Sit on your show Just across from this Donovan, dove or Jack Doughnogy, Lick me a doughnut So awful, my last action Is Jack Canon On James Cameron And Poor little Nancy Who never was Poverty stricken at all Or a poet The blow was so low below the belt I had hoped not to bury the hatchet or merry the knot or tie the astronaut to the dog, Click, click motherfucker I'm onto all of you Hello, You ugly motherfucker I'm an ugly motherfucker Getting older by the moment SENATOR Hello, is this Fallon? No, this is Patick. Strawberry Patches and management Haven't you had enough of the good stuff? A starburst, Ali, is all that I wanted All you wanted was done All i wanted was Aliocha back Now Alidoja runs ghost; If i put this all out, it's a pulitzer, Tony, And Oscar All in the same award show Another old and lost broken soul in New York I love God But fuck money I lost a lot more than one, Just a dollar MANAGER I got you an interview on Fallon. SUNNI BLU I'm not doin' Fallon. That dude is weird. MANAGER You're doing it. IT's PR for your next album. SUNNI BLU Whateva. MANAGER By the way–Have you picked a title yet? SUNNI BLU Yeah, I'm The President. MANAGER No, I mean–for the album. SUNNI BLU Oh yeah. It's NIGGAZ. MANAGER (kind of afraid) –Where?! SUNNI BLU Oh yeah, my friends are comin over later, too. Hehe. you racist basta'd. MANAGER I mean wait. What? SUNNI BLU That's the album title: It's NIGGAZ. MANAGER You chose the name SUNNI BLU Watch it… MANAGER (using heavy quotes) Hold on, i got something in my throat that's almost vomit, But i'm gonna ball it up into a love note or poetic whatever or something so i don't hurl All you are is a punching bag, and a bullet wound waiting to happen I'm at least half of a man, If I dress up in drag, Despise all I can't have And wind up cleaning bathrooms Rather than wining and dining Drying the eyes that I cried for you Some ungodly reason, if it's Some Unholy war that got us All up in shambles Your name upon Dollars I'm closing my curtains Curtailing my words rather carefully Looking in mirrors, aware of you Beware of this woman Aware of the wolf If the world that you wanted Was so far from what's wanted I might as well jump From the stop sign I bought At the Art walk. That should do it. Man, fuck Jimmy Fallon. I can't! My hands are tied! That's – not what I meant. FOOTBALL (EN ESPANOL) GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL GOAT: I'm Skrillex. lol celebrities. Everyone is perfect, and huge Well, the women are tiny But also some are huge– And still tiny. But more on the atrocious expectations of man later And why my God apparently fucking hates me so much That my body might not ever see the sun. What in the fuck does Skrillex even DO on the red carpet? Isn't that dude like 4'11? Does he just show up and have to look up at everybody, like “Hey” Or do they run it like elementary school, Shortest to tallest ok: Sonny, you go first Then all the pop stars and disney kids… Wait, those are the same people Hold up. There's only like 20 names on the A list And like 5 of them Rotate. What's that like? Nobody remembers you like 5 seconds after your first Grammy– I guess that's like “15 minutes” Or Nobody can ever forget you, Cause you're Billie Ellish, Or Taylor Swift, And literally every other grammy award ever made is like Made specifically, just for you. What's that like? What's that world? Meanwhile i'm over here wondering what the fuck kind of favor Jimmy Fallon put in with the Heavens To get this many entries in The Festival Project™ (Almost as much as Skrillex) Almost, But not FUck dude, I just want to try that trifruit jam I made on the organic sourdough bread I have, but I haven't been to the gym today– and I'm teetering on rest day, or just getting it in super hard until I still die of sexual starvation anyway, cause– How the fuck do you be that tall anyway? What the fuck is “5'11?” WHY are you that TALL? WHAT do you DO up there? What are you doing up there?! WHAT'S up there to SEE. Meanwhile, i'm like 5'7 masquerading as 5'4 Cause, you know– Skrillex. Meanwhile, I'm reading Russell Brand's Booky Wookie And it might as well just be Every male celebrity's bookie wookie Cause who wouldn't go out and et the maximum amount of pussy with like Umpteen million fucking dollars?! Am i right, or am I just DYing of celibacy? “Jimmy Fallon's Alibi” And other short stories By Story Lord As Told By CCS Stone “The Scribe of all Times” They say you had a show today at 14th street. Couldn't have been me! I was out— Uh— Sick. Can't find him anywhere. He's gone. GONE. Look, I'm just gonna Hover here, for a second. Goddammit, Jimmy Fallon! Fallon, you idiot. Come with me. No: Don't say that. I need new interns! Why! Make sure they're— Like— guys. (Guys being guys) Ugh. Okay. Look— Just make them— Like—more mature? Smarter? I don't know {older guys being older guys) Ugh. You're losing at this. I know. I can feel it. WHERES JIMMY FALLON I DKNT MNOW JUST KILL HIM. Look, he's probably. Found him. Are you sure? What tipped you off? The horribly awesome bad Australian accent Fuck this nigga up. WHERE IS IT AND WE'RE ON IN 5… Mfuck man. I don't know how the fuck to be Iimmy Fallon! (Yes you do) Just— Do an impression! Of WHO Of Jimmy Fallon! Uhhhhhhhh—- I'm so fucking dead for this. Can it, would you. OKOKOKIHATETHISFUCKINGPIECEOFSHITJOB— CHAOSMAGICK. Aww. I love your mom. She's awesome. Here's some snacks. Awww. Yay. Moms. Yay. She's awesome. Sometimes. But uhh—who's your dad. *ploof* PILLOW FIIIIIIIIGHTTTT! *shoots with a tranq dart* Nice. Ahahaha… *drinks harder* Haha… *falls onto bean bag chair, sleeps* …hasaahhh. Holy shit. Okay idk what the fuck— This can't be accurate, or anything, is it? It is…it's…extremely accurate. Okay, Jimmy Fallon Okay, God— Your Wikipedia just told me everything I needed to know. You can thank my wife I did. I read her page first. And the Grammy award goes to.. *plz let it be me* NOT. You Wait… I can… I just realized This goes in the COMEDY category. Oh, fucking —SHIT. This is fucked up. This—is accurate. Look, I've been praying a lot about this I guess so much that Jimmy What's up. I knew everything on your Wikipedia page about you before I even read it, Which must mean— OH FUCK. I've got to get out of here. The Illuminati offered me like 1 million dollars to wreck your marriage And I said no, but I love you anyway— And your family, So— Whatever, Hope it works out. There should be some crazy fine ass hoes and cumsluts on approach if that's like— What you wanted, or whatever. Please GOD— Just make it STOP! FUCK THIS JIMMY FALLON MOTHERFUCKER JUST GET HIM WHATEVER THE FUCK HE WANTS WHATEVER HE WANTS, just GIVE IT TO HIM. PLEASE. Jesus CHRIST. “Yeshua” Huh. What. Oh, that shut you up, didn't it? What happened? Okay, so there's the impenetrable ten— Alright alright Apparently these 5 dudes [5 GUYS] I TOLD YOU IT WAS SHH. Be quiet. K It's like Breakfasts in bed stuff And back rubs And Bathtubs Long getaways on islands Where I'm sure nobody knows us And I hope it holds up, Cause I couldn't hold off Somewhere I'm still homeless And lost as I always was but Hey, That's music Someone must be Something somewhere Something something I'm sure of it, I'm sure I was — one of her muses? Look, just use this for music. Well, he…is amusing. He's obnoxious. This is a toxic relationship. Do you want this? Do you really want this again? Right now all I want is some drugs And a boyfriend who loves me I don't do husbands For nothing My trust is all fucked up And plus GYM JIMMY FALLON I don't do black girls. I hate them. Noted. Anyway. My times up. Want this job? Uhh? [insert inflammatory drunkenly racist rant here] Fuck this dude. Okay, woah. Okay— See ya in New York. WhT. The Mafia is coming. Don't you mean the mob? Go…fuck yourself. It—Woah. Okay. T. Hanks Here's a dollar. Oh shit: Tacos $1 Lights on I told you It's gonna be a long night, hon. You might want to run more I don't though. Alright, so just Run for cover Adjust, And don't be so remarkable As to summon up Another God To your Alter So Justin Timberlake is your friend, huh Oh those eyes That's so— Blinding Well, that sucks, cause Britney Spears is my best friend And my worst nightmare Like Everything I wanted to And should have been Beautiful, scrawny, Talented and gorgeous And yet somehow also Obnoxiously burdened By so much being wanted That now I'm just washed up And wasted by sunup To sundown Now how's that sound? H—inin.. Hi See, [Redacted]'s wife Controls all our lives His life and mine; His for the better, however And mine for the worse, I fear For better or worse, they said Year after year For better or worse, they said Year after year I want a divorce, I said I wouldn't hear it The cycle of toxicity Stops here with me Hear ye! Here ye! Court is now in session Hear ye Here he Ii hope you learned your lesson Here he Here Designer children, —Do you want this? Here ye— I hear ye! —Your soulmate is Skrillex. Well, just like the rest of them The oceans of oceans of Ocean eyed blondes That I also love But this shit gets haunting Like mm— (daunting) Why would he Or anybody Want me? This apprenticeship isn't going to be easy, you know… Break her heart, Jim! Alright, Jim-Boy—you got this. It already is hard, on my heart. That's what I've been trying to tell you—- This— Will require you to love with boundlessness, beyond limitation—- unconditionally, with no expectation. I already hadn't any expectations regarding [Redacted] . Besides— he's married. —No expectations whatsoever. I've noticed your nonconformity and intention to mass appeal, actually. I'm astonished, really. I'm telling you, this is a dangerous man. —my God, just beautiful. A weaponized person, you see. I do see. Weaponized by beauty. He's just beautiful. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. What wouldn't you do? —What did you do, actually? —What didn't we? We share a middle name, and so we share a middle ground, I think I found— Something I can't have, But want Distractions, This one has it all. Go that way! It appears, however, though, My focus is here, suddenly. Why. I don't know. Are you in any way miserable, at all, sire? (They're all miserable, when they get to me, actually.) I need peace with this. Dearly beloved, We are dearly departed, You started a war with my heart Then put some water on it Sons and daughters of the alter, Father figures and celebrities, We are gathered here today, To finally rest in peace, Posthumously Amen Amen. You may be seated. Father! My child. Please! What is it? Come quickly! Oh shit, what the fuck. Shhh! Not in the church! It's not a real church! They're just Catholics. SHHHH. Come on: What the fuck Jimmy Fallon is this. You know, I've got them all gathered up here, At your alter. pew-pew-pew Haha, get it. Very funny, God Look, you got this. Not now, imagination. I don't have time for this. I gotta get rid of all this Jimmy Fallon before… I'm gonna kill that kid. Fuck, man. Well, you started it— You know we're at war, here, We're at work here With each other and ourselves The Hell comes from Stardust above us Neither or nor Forever or awkward The charm that undoes, Then Comes up as The Impossible Sweet and sour Patches and pick up, Lick up your weapons, And kick out your husbands, kids! God the Judge has come Once and for all, To the pulpit Will she kill herself again? Or finally publish [The Festival Project ™] “The Fallon Files” Is an extention of the infinite Skrillifiles, most notably due to its conjunction within the enter the multiverse and legends franchises, as the infinite multiverses begin to more consistently intersect eith one another, creating continuity within the plots of each series respectively, and collectively combining eventually into a singularity in which the fictional SKRILLEX and the fictitious JIMMY FALLON, both established as extremely gifted extraterrestrial shapeshifters, possibly even of some, if even distant relation, due to their shared aviary hereditary ancestry and notable presence in the shared collective consciousness pre existence, which extends throughout the duration of the Ascension series, and appearing within nearly every subsidiary in some way shape or form within each series, playing either protagonists, or sometimes even exaggerated antagonists, caricatures of each other or themselves, or sometimes even playing themselves, and therefore one another, creating a soft of chaotic confusion Lol— I'm typing this with one finger cause I have a palm full of shea butter in my hand. Lol. —amongst the audience, and other characters—almost invariably and distinctly being as undetectably as possible, one another, at some point/- reflectively at any given time within the series. Line? Nothing, you're just a bird right now, actually, Jimmy. —looking like Jimmy? Yes, but [Aviary behavior] —but maybe “Skrillex?” Up to you, actually. [The Appraisal of the Shapeshifted Ascended Mastery, Transcended, INC. ] And alternate titles… The Jimmy Fallon Effect The Unrequittance of Jimmy Fallon The Jimmy Fallon Disaster {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.
“How Patty Met Kandi” A flashback episode,season 1 Veronica Moises is an extremely attractive young starlett, known in entertainment for her sexually aggressive attitude, especially towards men of power–after turning her down, Veronica fires back from being rejected by planting a seed in Katie's mind, suggesting that she ‘the camera man caught us” and urgent her to check the tapes–however, without the audio, as the microphones were off, Catherine mistakes Veronica and Patrick's gestures as infidelity, and after Patrick returns home, Catherine, in a wine-fueled and drunken rage, ejects Patrick from their home, and as he is captured upon the townhome's doorstep, stil scolded by Katherine (Catherine?) *check notes*, Well, he does call her Katie, right? Right. So it must have been Katherina It was actually Katherina, and was changed to Katherine But couldn't Katherine have changed, then, to Catherine? DOES IT MATTER? YES. She's a very important character, we almost actually can sympathize with this person. For WHAT? She's listed as an antagonist in the first season. SECONDARY Antagonist, cause that other lady. Who, Karen? Her name isn't Karen, she's just A Karen… What is her name? Idk. And how does Esha go from receptionist– Secretary. Whatever. How did this bitch go from working at Starbucks to hosting her own Television series. Since when did she work at Starbucks?! I don't know! I haven't written that part, yet! FUCK FUCK. FUCK! I thought for sure Goldberg would pull us out of this. Doctor Goldberg! Doctor Goldberg! WHAT! I'm BUSY. My Proctor… What, Ishii? You must see… Fuck. Fuck. If i write this I'm dead. Take my hand– Fuck that. If I don't write this, i'm dead. FFUCK! Two F's on that. It's a sharp fuck FUCK. Then what's that? That's a hard fuck. What's the difference? FUCK, man! *shrugs* Somethin'. Episode Summary: –Patrick's daughter watches in awe from the bottom window of their townhome, though she is supposed to be sleeping, more than likely the cause of his spiral than actually being thrown out of his home–the eyes of his daughter watching he and Katherine Are we sticking with Katherina, then? Katherine. Whatever, yeah. Alright. Fine. –argue sets him off into his own drunken rampage, as he rents an opulent suite and for the first time in his life, hires a companion to accompany his drug-fueled backhanded google , synonyms for revenge…. Requital or Retribution? I like Requital, but let's see what best suits Patrick's rampage. This dude is a bleeding heart. Or half of one, at best. We like Patrick. No, we love Patrick. Everyone does. Too close for comfort, And too far to talk I fed my soul instead of burning my body for once A luck of the draw, A call of the cards, Is the ace of wands It's Wednesday, But feels like Sunday Run, would you, offhand for someone Not only do I not qualify, but Alright, I have no alibi. I lied. I died that night. Finally, a truce. What would you like, Ivy? Hmm Buy me a motorcycle. A motorcycle, really? Yes, i'd like that. Really? What kind? A fast one! like – A kawasaki. OWW– Shut up, Frank. Alright. WHo the FUCK is FRANK. Yo, I fucked hobo Johnson in a bathroom stall at some festival in my dream once, and that guy was like an adonis. You what. But let's be fair, i've fucked deadmau5 way more times both sleeping and in my waking life, than anybody–and that includes the father of my children. Explain to me this part. Which part. Alright, i'm calling it off. THe engagement? No, the stipulations surrounding the engagement. WHO'S DRIVING THIS? IT'S IN AUTOPILOT. Sir, i've lost control. That's what you think. PATRICK: KATIE, WAIT. KATHERINE: KATHERINA? NO, it'S KATHERINE. PERIOT. BEFORE: WHOOPI GOLDBERG I'm a “mimick” Not with those hands, she isn't! How many talismans is that? Looks like FACTS: That's a magician! Good cover, though. WOAH, WOAH, WOAH. Not yet, Joe. Not yet. “The New YOrkisode” CUT BACK TO: [THE TV PEOPLE] PATRICK: KATIE! WAIT– [KATHERINE slams the door] PATRICK (CONT'D) KATIE! [KATHERINE CONTINUES YELLING FROM THE PARLOR (UPSTAIRS WINDOW)] Lol that is some New York-y shit– Yelling out the window Yeah, if you're in a neighborhood that doesn't have bars on the window Or like– This fancy ass shit, right here Yeah, my luxury apartment with paper thin walls and paper mache exterior made so cost effectively that the traffic alone gives me whatever disgusting trash disease is plaguing the rest of this city's inhabitants. [I haven't made my bed for like 3 days straight and my room is not clean. This is bizarre to me, besides the fact that I'm basically still writing as if I might actually find gainful employment with this– Creativity, is it? I'm pretty sure at this point, it's just divinity, all of which will be [SKYROCKETED TO LITERAL FAME BY MEANS OF A VERY IMAGINARY, METAPHORICAL KITE] Devastating to kill myself without seeing any of this stuff actually published. HOW DO I EMBED MY SUICIDE LETTER ONTO MY WEBPAGE. Excuse me. IS THAT INCLUDED IN MY FREE TRIAL?! ELOHIM Oh, my God. Which Elohim? The singer or– GOD ALMIGHTY AH, MY GOD. Tell the one about the wedding ring. *lols infinitely* KATHERINE: Your kids are sleeping. Try not to wake them up! PATRICK: They're our kids… KATHERINE: That's what you think… Technically, this line doesn't make sense, and Katherine is simply trying to be flippant, however, she does, as often so, get the last words–as Patrick spots his eldest (read: favorite) child, poking her head out from below, where however her mother cannot see her, but Patrick can, and is clearly made ashamed of his presence, locked out and on the doorstep of his own home, leaving afterward in a calm and disgraced rage, as not to further disturb his daughter; this initial occurrence can, at the very least for the audience be seen as Hazel's reason for such obstinate aggression and rebellion towards her mother, especially as the series progresses. Patrick then lashes out against Veronica, ultimately swearing to have her blacklisted from the entertainment industry, to which her egotistic response only allows Patrick's more deviant shadow to become awakened, his response something along the lines of… Wait, what was that conversation? Something like PATRICK You'll never work in this town again. VERONICA Well, lucky for me, I'm more fond of the Hollywood life. PATRICK You think my reach doesn't extend across the country since its on the only arm that hasn't been up your ass? yeah , something like that–but i've got classic deadmau5 on trying to soothe my way into filling out my divorce papers for hopefuly the last time–but we'll see how far I get– and I'll be lucky to be divorced before being stuck in that bullshit causes a forfiture to my own life by suicide–but i'd be damned if everything I'd ever written automatically belonged by half to my only living son's father, and perhaps I had become the devil and the only real villain if it meant being so selfish as such that I would rather leave my son nothing at all in the event of my death, than have anything more I'd created end up in his father's clutches. I would rather die alone than return to the hands by which I died and crumbled. Patrick's an asshole. Yes. But not a wifebeater. Correct. ‘Tis true. Shall we? We shall. “The Oldest Souls In New York” Now, Go: I don't have a heart, I have a fist, and a gun I don't have the dirt, But a shovel and a bird I don't have to look but once, to know Two times, twice, Three times, It's done My soul is older, But I want to know you, Sit on your show Just across from this Donovan, dove or Jack Doughnogy, Lick me a doughnut So awful, my last action Is Jack Canon On James Cameron And Poor little Nancy Who never was Poverty stricken at all Or a poet The blow was so low below the belt I had hoped not to bury the hatchet or merry the knot or tie the astronaut to the dog, Click, click motherfucker I'm onto all of you Hello, You ugly motherfucker I'm an ugly motherfucker Getting older by the moment SENATOR Hello, is this Fallon? No, this is Patick. Strawberry Patches and management Haven't you had enough of the good stuff? A starburst, Ali, is all that I wanted All you wanted was done All i wanted was Aliocha back Now Alidoja runs ghost; If i put this all out, it's a pulitzer, Tony, And Oscar All in the same award show Another old and lost broken soul in New York I love God But fuck money I lost a lot more than one, Just a dollar MANAGER I got you an interview on Fallon. SUNNI BLU I'm not doin' Fallon. That dude is weird. MANAGER You're doing it. IT's PR for your next album. SUNNI BLU Whateva. MANAGER By the way–Have you picked a title yet? SUNNI BLU Yeah, I'm The President. MANAGER No, I mean–for the album. SUNNI BLU Oh yeah. It's NIGGAZ. MANAGER (kind of afraid) –Where?! SUNNI BLU Oh yeah, my friends are comin over later, too. Hehe. you racist basta'd. MANAGER I mean wait. What? SUNNI BLU That's the album title: It's NIGGAZ. MANAGER You chose the name SUNNI BLU Watch it… MANAGER (using heavy quotes) Hold on, i got something in my throat that's almost vomit, But i'm gonna ball it up into a love note or poetic whatever or something so i don't hurl All you are is a punching bag, and a bullet wound waiting to happen I'm at least half of a man, If I dress up in drag, Despise all I can't have And wind up cleaning bathrooms Rather than wining and dining Drying the eyes that I cried for you Some ungodly reason, if it's Some Unholy war that got us All up in shambles Your name upon Dollars I'm closing my curtains Curtailing my words rather carefully Looking in mirrors, aware of you Beware of this woman Aware of the wolf If the world that you wanted Was so far from what's wanted I might as well jump From the stop sign I bought At the Art walk. That should do it. Man, fuck Jimmy Fallon. I can't! My hands are tied! That's – not what I meant. FOOTBALL (EN ESPANOL) GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL GOAT: I'm Skrillex. lol celebrities. Everyone is perfect, and huge Well, the women are tiny But also some are huge– And still tiny. But more on the atrocious expectations of man later And why my God apparently fucking hates me so much That my body might not ever see the sun. What in the fuck does Skrillex even DO on the red carpet? Isn't that dude like 4'11? Does he just show up and have to look up at everybody, like “Hey” Or do they run it like elementary school, Shortest to tallest ok: Sonny, you go first Then all the pop stars and disney kids… Wait, those are the same people Hold up. There's only like 20 names on the A list And like 5 of them Rotate. What's that like? Nobody remembers you like 5 seconds after your first Grammy– I guess that's like “15 minutes” Or Nobody can ever forget you, Cause you're Billie Ellish, Or Taylor Swift, And literally every other grammy award ever made is like Made specifically, just for you. What's that like? What's that world? Meanwhile i'm over here wondering what the fuck kind of favor Jimmy Fallon put in with the Heavens To get this many entries in The Festival Project™ (Almost as much as Skrillex) Almost, But not FUck dude, I just want to try that trifruit jam I made on the organic sourdough bread I have, but I haven't been to the gym today– and I'm teetering on rest day, or just getting it in super hard until I still die of sexual starvation anyway, cause– How the fuck do you be that tall anyway? What the fuck is “5'11?” WHY are you that TALL? WHAT do you DO up there? What are you doing up there?! WHAT'S up there to SEE. Meanwhile, i'm like 5'7 masquerading as 5'4 Cause, you know– Skrillex. Meanwhile, I'm reading Russell Brand's Booky Wookie And it might as well just be Every male celebrity's bookie wookie Cause who wouldn't go out and et the maximum amount of pussy with like Umpteen million fucking dollars?! Am i right, or am I just DYing of celibacy? “Jimmy Fallon's Alibi” And other short stories By Story Lord As Told By CCS Stone “The Scribe of all Times” They say you had a show today at 14th street. Couldn't have been me! I was out— Uh— Sick. Can't find him anywhere. He's gone. GONE. Look, I'm just gonna Hover here, for a second. Goddammit, Jimmy Fallon! Fallon, you idiot. Come with me. No: Don't say that. I need new interns! Why! Make sure they're— Like— guys. (Guys being guys) Ugh. Okay. Look— Just make them— Like—more mature? Smarter? I don't know {older guys being older guys) Ugh. You're losing at this. I know. I can feel it. WHERES JIMMY FALLON I DKNT MNOW JUST KILL HIM. Look, he's probably. Found him. Are you sure? What tipped you off? The horribly awesome bad Australian accent Fuck this nigga up. WHERE IS IT AND WE'RE ON IN 5… Mfuck man. I don't know how the fuck to be Iimmy Fallon! (Yes you do) Just— Do an impression! Of WHO Of Jimmy Fallon! Uhhhhhhhh—- I'm so fucking dead for this. Can it, would you. OKOKOKIHATETHISFUCKINGPIECEOFSHITJOB— CHAOSMAGICK. Aww. I love your mom. She's awesome. Here's some snacks. Awww. Yay. Moms. Yay. She's awesome. Sometimes. But uhh—who's your dad. *ploof* PILLOW FIIIIIIIIGHTTTT! *shoots with a tranq dart* Nice. Ahahaha… *drinks harder* Haha… *falls onto bean bag chair, sleeps* …hasaahhh. Holy shit. Okay idk what the fuck— This can't be accurate, or anything, is it? It is…it's…extremely accurate. Okay, Jimmy Fallon Okay, God— Your Wikipedia just told me everything I needed to know. You can thank my wife I did. I read her page first. And the Grammy award goes to.. *plz let it be me* NOT. You Wait… I can… I just realized This goes in the COMEDY category. Oh, fucking —SHIT. This is fucked up. This—is accurate. Look, I've been praying a lot about this I guess so much that Jimmy What's up. I knew everything on your Wikipedia page about you before I even read it, Which must mean— OH FUCK. I've got to get out of here. The Illuminati offered me like 1 million dollars to wreck your marriage And I said no, but I love you anyway— And your family, So— Whatever, Hope it works out. There should be some crazy fine ass hoes and cumsluts on approach if that's like— What you wanted, or whatever. Please GOD— Just make it STOP! FUCK THIS JIMMY FALLON MOTHERFUCKER JUST GET HIM WHATEVER THE FUCK HE WANTS WHATEVER HE WANTS, just GIVE IT TO HIM. PLEASE. Jesus CHRIST. “Yeshua” Huh. What. Oh, that shut you up, didn't it? What happened? Okay, so there's the impenetrable ten— Alright alright Apparently these 5 dudes [5 GUYS] I TOLD YOU IT WAS SHH. Be quiet. K It's like Breakfasts in bed stuff And back rubs And Bathtubs Long getaways on islands Where I'm sure nobody knows us And I hope it holds up, Cause I couldn't hold off Somewhere I'm still homeless And lost as I always was but Hey, That's music Someone must be Something somewhere Something something I'm sure of it, I'm sure I was — one of her muses? Look, just use this for music. Well, he…is amusing. He's obnoxious. This is a toxic relationship. Do you want this? Do you really want this again? Right now all I want is some drugs And a boyfriend who loves me I don't do husbands For nothing My trust is all fucked up And plus GYM JIMMY FALLON I don't do black girls. I hate them. Noted. Anyway. My times up. Want this job? Uhh? [insert inflammatory drunkenly racist rant here] Fuck this dude. Okay, woah. Okay— See ya in New York. WhT. The Mafia is coming. Don't you mean the mob? Go…fuck yourself. It—Woah. Okay. T. Hanks Here's a dollar. Oh shit: Tacos $1 Lights on I told you It's gonna be a long night, hon. You might want to run more I don't though. Alright, so just Run for cover Adjust, And don't be so remarkable As to summon up Another God To your Alter So Justin Timberlake is your friend, huh Oh those eyes That's so— Blinding Well, that sucks, cause Britney Spears is my best friend And my worst nightmare Like Everything I wanted to And should have been Beautiful, scrawny, Talented and gorgeous And yet somehow also Obnoxiously burdened By so much being wanted That now I'm just washed up And wasted by sunup To sundown Now how's that sound? H—inin.. Hi See, [Redacted]'s wife Controls all our lives His life and mine; His for the better, however And mine for the worse, I fear For better or worse, they said Year after year For better or worse, they said Year after year I want a divorce, I said I wouldn't hear it The cycle of toxicity Stops here with me Hear ye! Here ye! Court is now in session Hear ye Here he Ii hope you learned your lesson Here he Here Designer children, —Do you want this? Here ye— I hear ye! —Your soulmate is Skrillex. Well, just like the rest of them The oceans of oceans of Ocean eyed blondes That I also love But this shit gets haunting Like mm— (daunting) Why would he Or anybody Want me? This apprenticeship isn't going to be easy, you know… Break her heart, Jim! Alright, Jim-Boy—you got this. It already is hard, on my heart. That's what I've been trying to tell you—- This— Will require you to love with boundlessness, beyond limitation—- unconditionally, with no expectation. I already hadn't any expectations regarding [Redacted] . Besides— he's married. —No expectations whatsoever. I've noticed your nonconformity and intention to mass appeal, actually. I'm astonished, really. I'm telling you, this is a dangerous man. —my God, just beautiful. A weaponized person, you see. I do see. Weaponized by beauty. He's just beautiful. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. What wouldn't you do? —What did you do, actually? —What didn't we? We share a middle name, and so we share a middle ground, I think I found— Something I can't have, But want Distractions, This one has it all. Go that way! It appears, however, though, My focus is here, suddenly. Why. I don't know. Are you in any way miserable, at all, sire? (They're all miserable, when they get to me, actually.) I need peace with this. Dearly beloved, We are dearly departed, You started a war with my heart Then put some water on it Sons and daughters of the alter, Father figures and celebrities, We are gathered here today, To finally rest in peace, Posthumously Amen Amen. You may be seated. Father! My child. Please! What is it? Come quickly! Oh shit, what the fuck. Shhh! Not in the church! It's not a real church! They're just Catholics. SHHHH. Come on: What the fuck Jimmy Fallon is this. You know, I've got them all gathered up here, At your alter. pew-pew-pew Haha, get it. Very funny, God Look, you got this. Not now, imagination. I don't have time for this. I gotta get rid of all this Jimmy Fallon before… I'm gonna kill that kid. Fuck, man. Well, you started it— You know we're at war, here, We're at work here With each other and ourselves The Hell comes from Stardust above us Neither or nor Forever or awkward The charm that undoes, Then Comes up as The Impossible Sweet and sour Patches and pick up, Lick up your weapons, And kick out your husbands, kids! God the Judge has come Once and for all, To the pulpit Will she kill herself again? Or finally publish [The Festival Project ™] “The Fallon Files” Is an extention of the infinite Skrillifiles, most notably due to its conjunction within the enter the multiverse and legends franchises, as the infinite multiverses begin to more consistently intersect eith one another, creating continuity within the plots of each series respectively, and collectively combining eventually into a singularity in which the fictional SKRILLEX and the fictitious JIMMY FALLON, both established as extremely gifted extraterrestrial shapeshifters, possibly even of some, if even distant relation, due to their shared aviary hereditary ancestry and notable presence in the shared collective consciousness pre existence, which extends throughout the duration of the Ascension series, and appearing within nearly every subsidiary in some way shape or form within each series, playing either protagonists, or sometimes even exaggerated antagonists, caricatures of each other or themselves, or sometimes even playing themselves, and therefore one another, creating a soft of chaotic confusion Lol— I'm typing this with one finger cause I have a palm full of shea butter in my hand. Lol. —amongst the audience, and other characters—almost invariably and distinctly being as undetectably as possible, one another, at some point/- reflectively at any given time within the series. Line? Nothing, you're just a bird right now, actually, Jimmy. —looking like Jimmy? Yes, but [Aviary behavior] —but maybe “Skrillex?” Up to you, actually. [The Appraisal of the Shapeshifted Ascended Mastery, Transcended, INC. ] And alternate titles… The Jimmy Fallon Effect The Unrequittance of Jimmy Fallon The Jimmy Fallon Disaster {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.
“How Patty Met Kandi” A flashback episode,season 1 Veronica Moises is an extremely attractive young starlett, known in entertainment for her sexually aggressive attitude, especially towards men of power–after turning her down, Veronica fires back from being rejected by planting a seed in Katie's mind, suggesting that she ‘the camera man caught us” and urgent her to check the tapes–however, without the audio, as the microphones were off, Catherine mistakes Veronica and Patrick's gestures as infidelity, and after Patrick returns home, Catherine, in a wine-fueled and drunken rage, ejects Patrick from their home, and as he is captured upon the townhome's doorstep, stil scolded by Katherine (Catherine?) *check notes*, Well, he does call her Katie, right? Right. So it must have been Katherina It was actually Katherina, and was changed to Katherine But couldn't Katherine have changed, then, to Catherine? DOES IT MATTER? YES. She's a very important character, we almost actually can sympathize with this person. For WHAT? She's listed as an antagonist in the first season. SECONDARY Antagonist, cause that other lady. Who, Karen? Her name isn't Karen, she's just A Karen… What is her name? Idk. And how does Esha go from receptionist– Secretary. Whatever. How did this bitch go from working at Starbucks to hosting her own Television series. Since when did she work at Starbucks?! I don't know! I haven't written that part, yet! FUCK FUCK. FUCK! I thought for sure Goldberg would pull us out of this. Doctor Goldberg! Doctor Goldberg! WHAT! I'm BUSY. My Proctor… What, Ishii? You must see… Fuck. Fuck. If i write this I'm dead. Take my hand– Fuck that. If I don't write this, i'm dead. FFUCK! Two F's on that. It's a sharp fuck FUCK. Then what's that? That's a hard fuck. What's the difference? FUCK, man! *shrugs* Somethin'. Episode Summary: –Patrick's daughter watches in awe from the bottom window of their townhome, though she is supposed to be sleeping, more than likely the cause of his spiral than actually being thrown out of his home–the eyes of his daughter watching he and Katherine Are we sticking with Katherina, then? Katherine. Whatever, yeah. Alright. Fine. –argue sets him off into his own drunken rampage, as he rents an opulent suite and for the first time in his life, hires a companion to accompany his drug-fueled backhanded google , synonyms for revenge…. Requital or Retribution? I like Requital, but let's see what best suits Patrick's rampage. This dude is a bleeding heart. Or half of one, at best. We like Patrick. No, we love Patrick. Everyone does. Too close for comfort, And too far to talk I fed my soul instead of burning my body for once A luck of the draw, A call of the cards, Is the ace of wands It's Wednesday, But feels like Sunday Run, would you, offhand for someone Not only do I not qualify, but Alright, I have no alibi. I lied. I died that night. Finally, a truce. What would you like, Ivy? Hmm Buy me a motorcycle. A motorcycle, really? Yes, i'd like that. Really? What kind? A fast one! like – A kawasaki. OWW– Shut up, Frank. Alright. WHo the FUCK is FRANK. Yo, I fucked hobo Johnson in a bathroom stall at some festival in my dream once, and that guy was like an adonis. You what. But let's be fair, i've fucked deadmau5 way more times both sleeping and in my waking life, than anybody–and that includes the father of my children. Explain to me this part. Which part. Alright, i'm calling it off. THe engagement? No, the stipulations surrounding the engagement. WHO'S DRIVING THIS? IT'S IN AUTOPILOT. Sir, i've lost control. That's what you think. PATRICK: KATIE, WAIT. KATHERINE: KATHERINA? NO, it'S KATHERINE. PERIOT. BEFORE: WHOOPI GOLDBERG I'm a “mimick” Not with those hands, she isn't! How many talismans is that? Looks like FACTS: That's a magician! Good cover, though. WOAH, WOAH, WOAH. Not yet, Joe. Not yet. “The New YOrkisode” CUT BACK TO: [THE TV PEOPLE] PATRICK: KATIE! WAIT– [KATHERINE slams the door] PATRICK (CONT'D) KATIE! [KATHERINE CONTINUES YELLING FROM THE PARLOR (UPSTAIRS WINDOW)] Lol that is some New York-y shit– Yelling out the window Yeah, if you're in a neighborhood that doesn't have bars on the window Or like– This fancy ass shit, right here Yeah, my luxury apartment with paper thin walls and paper mache exterior made so cost effectively that the traffic alone gives me whatever disgusting trash disease is plaguing the rest of this city's inhabitants. [I haven't made my bed for like 3 days straight and my room is not clean. This is bizarre to me, besides the fact that I'm basically still writing as if I might actually find gainful employment with this– Creativity, is it? I'm pretty sure at this point, it's just divinity, all of which will be [SKYROCKETED TO LITERAL FAME BY MEANS OF A VERY IMAGINARY, METAPHORICAL KITE] Devastating to kill myself without seeing any of this stuff actually published. HOW DO I EMBED MY SUICIDE LETTER ONTO MY WEBPAGE. Excuse me. IS THAT INCLUDED IN MY FREE TRIAL?! ELOHIM Oh, my God. Which Elohim? The singer or– GOD ALMIGHTY AH, MY GOD. Tell the one about the wedding ring. *lols infinitely* KATHERINE: Your kids are sleeping. Try not to wake them up! PATRICK: They're our kids… KATHERINE: That's what you think… Technically, this line doesn't make sense, and Katherine is simply trying to be flippant, however, she does, as often so, get the last words–as Patrick spots his eldest (read: favorite) child, poking her head out from below, where however her mother cannot see her, but Patrick can, and is clearly made ashamed of his presence, locked out and on the doorstep of his own home, leaving afterward in a calm and disgraced rage, as not to further disturb his daughter; this initial occurrence can, at the very least for the audience be seen as Hazel's reason for such obstinate aggression and rebellion towards her mother, especially as the series progresses. Patrick then lashes out against Veronica, ultimately swearing to have her blacklisted from the entertainment industry, to which her egotistic response only allows Patrick's more deviant shadow to become awakened, his response something along the lines of… Wait, what was that conversation? Something like PATRICK You'll never work in this town again. VERONICA Well, lucky for me, I'm more fond of the Hollywood life. PATRICK You think my reach doesn't extend across the country since its on the only arm that hasn't been up your ass? yeah , something like that–but i've got classic deadmau5 on trying to soothe my way into filling out my divorce papers for hopefuly the last time–but we'll see how far I get– and I'll be lucky to be divorced before being stuck in that bullshit causes a forfiture to my own life by suicide–but i'd be damned if everything I'd ever written automatically belonged by half to my only living son's father, and perhaps I had become the devil and the only real villain if it meant being so selfish as such that I would rather leave my son nothing at all in the event of my death, than have anything more I'd created end up in his father's clutches. I would rather die alone than return to the hands by which I died and crumbled. Patrick's an asshole. Yes. But not a wifebeater. Correct. ‘Tis true. Shall we? We shall. “The Oldest Souls In New York” Now, Go: I don't have a heart, I have a fist, and a gun I don't have the dirt, But a shovel and a bird I don't have to look but once, to know Two times, twice, Three times, It's done My soul is older, But I want to know you, Sit on your show Just across from this Donovan, dove or Jack Doughnogy, Lick me a doughnut So awful, my last action Is Jack Canon On James Cameron And Poor little Nancy Who never was Poverty stricken at all Or a poet The blow was so low below the belt I had hoped not to bury the hatchet or merry the knot or tie the astronaut to the dog, Click, click motherfucker I'm onto all of you Hello, You ugly motherfucker I'm an ugly motherfucker Getting older by the moment SENATOR Hello, is this Fallon? No, this is Patick. Strawberry Patches and management Haven't you had enough of the good stuff? A starburst, Ali, is all that I wanted All you wanted was done All i wanted was Aliocha back Now Alidoja runs ghost; If i put this all out, it's a pulitzer, Tony, And Oscar All in the same award show Another old and lost broken soul in New York I love God But fuck money I lost a lot more than one, Just a dollar MANAGER I got you an interview on Fallon. SUNNI BLU I'm not doin' Fallon. That dude is weird. MANAGER You're doing it. IT's PR for your next album. SUNNI BLU Whateva. MANAGER By the way–Have you picked a title yet? SUNNI BLU Yeah, I'm The President. MANAGER No, I mean–for the album. SUNNI BLU Oh yeah. It's NIGGAZ. MANAGER (kind of afraid) –Where?! SUNNI BLU Oh yeah, my friends are comin over later, too. Hehe. you racist basta'd. MANAGER I mean wait. What? SUNNI BLU That's the album title: It's NIGGAZ. MANAGER You chose the name SUNNI BLU Watch it… MANAGER (using heavy quotes) Hold on, i got something in my throat that's almost vomit, But i'm gonna ball it up into a love note or poetic whatever or something so i don't hurl All you are is a punching bag, and a bullet wound waiting to happen I'm at least half of a man, If I dress up in drag, Despise all I can't have And wind up cleaning bathrooms Rather than wining and dining Drying the eyes that I cried for you Some ungodly reason, if it's Some Unholy war that got us All up in shambles Your name upon Dollars I'm closing my curtains Curtailing my words rather carefully Looking in mirrors, aware of you Beware of this woman Aware of the wolf If the world that you wanted Was so far from what's wanted I might as well jump From the stop sign I bought At the Art walk. That should do it. Man, fuck Jimmy Fallon. I can't! My hands are tied! That's – not what I meant. FOOTBALL (EN ESPANOL) GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL GOAT: I'm Skrillex. lol celebrities. Everyone is perfect, and huge Well, the women are tiny But also some are huge– And still tiny. But more on the atrocious expectations of man later And why my God apparently fucking hates me so much That my body might not ever see the sun. What in the fuck does Skrillex even DO on the red carpet? Isn't that dude like 4'11? Does he just show up and have to look up at everybody, like “Hey” Or do they run it like elementary school, Shortest to tallest ok: Sonny, you go first Then all the pop stars and disney kids… Wait, those are the same people Hold up. There's only like 20 names on the A list And like 5 of them Rotate. What's that like? Nobody remembers you like 5 seconds after your first Grammy– I guess that's like “15 minutes” Or Nobody can ever forget you, Cause you're Billie Ellish, Or Taylor Swift, And literally every other grammy award ever made is like Made specifically, just for you. What's that like? What's that world? Meanwhile i'm over here wondering what the fuck kind of favor Jimmy Fallon put in with the Heavens To get this many entries in The Festival Project™ (Almost as much as Skrillex) Almost, But not FUck dude, I just want to try that trifruit jam I made on the organic sourdough bread I have, but I haven't been to the gym today– and I'm teetering on rest day, or just getting it in super hard until I still die of sexual starvation anyway, cause– How the fuck do you be that tall anyway? What the fuck is “5'11?” WHY are you that TALL? WHAT do you DO up there? What are you doing up there?! WHAT'S up there to SEE. Meanwhile, i'm like 5'7 masquerading as 5'4 Cause, you know– Skrillex. Meanwhile, I'm reading Russell Brand's Booky Wookie And it might as well just be Every male celebrity's bookie wookie Cause who wouldn't go out and et the maximum amount of pussy with like Umpteen million fucking dollars?! Am i right, or am I just DYing of celibacy? “Jimmy Fallon's Alibi” And other short stories By Story Lord As Told By CCS Stone “The Scribe of all Times” They say you had a show today at 14th street. Couldn't have been me! I was out— Uh— Sick. Can't find him anywhere. He's gone. GONE. Look, I'm just gonna Hover here, for a second. Goddammit, Jimmy Fallon! Fallon, you idiot. Come with me. No: Don't say that. I need new interns! Why! Make sure they're— Like— guys. (Guys being guys) Ugh. Okay. Look— Just make them— Like—more mature? Smarter? I don't know {older guys being older guys) Ugh. You're losing at this. I know. I can feel it. WHERES JIMMY FALLON I DKNT MNOW JUST KILL HIM. Look, he's probably. Found him. Are you sure? What tipped you off? The horribly awesome bad Australian accent Fuck this nigga up. WHERE IS IT AND WE'RE ON IN 5… Mfuck man. I don't know how the fuck to be Iimmy Fallon! (Yes you do) Just— Do an impression! Of WHO Of Jimmy Fallon! Uhhhhhhhh—- I'm so fucking dead for this. Can it, would you. OKOKOKIHATETHISFUCKINGPIECEOFSHITJOB— CHAOSMAGICK. Aww. I love your mom. She's awesome. Here's some snacks. Awww. Yay. Moms. Yay. She's awesome. Sometimes. But uhh—who's your dad. *ploof* PILLOW FIIIIIIIIGHTTTT! *shoots with a tranq dart* Nice. Ahahaha… *drinks harder* Haha… *falls onto bean bag chair, sleeps* …hasaahhh. Holy shit. Okay idk what the fuck— This can't be accurate, or anything, is it? It is…it's…extremely accurate. Okay, Jimmy Fallon Okay, God— Your Wikipedia just told me everything I needed to know. You can thank my wife I did. I read her page first. And the Grammy award goes to.. *plz let it be me* NOT. You Wait… I can… I just realized This goes in the COMEDY category. Oh, fucking —SHIT. This is fucked up. This—is accurate. Look, I've been praying a lot about this I guess so much that Jimmy What's up. I knew everything on your Wikipedia page about you before I even read it, Which must mean— OH FUCK. I've got to get out of here. The Illuminati offered me like 1 million dollars to wreck your marriage And I said no, but I love you anyway— And your family, So— Whatever, Hope it works out. There should be some crazy fine ass hoes and cumsluts on approach if that's like— What you wanted, or whatever. Please GOD— Just make it STOP! FUCK THIS JIMMY FALLON MOTHERFUCKER JUST GET HIM WHATEVER THE FUCK HE WANTS WHATEVER HE WANTS, just GIVE IT TO HIM. PLEASE. Jesus CHRIST. “Yeshua” Huh. What. Oh, that shut you up, didn't it? What happened? Okay, so there's the impenetrable ten— Alright alright Apparently these 5 dudes [5 GUYS] I TOLD YOU IT WAS SHH. Be quiet. K It's like Breakfasts in bed stuff And back rubs And Bathtubs Long getaways on islands Where I'm sure nobody knows us And I hope it holds up, Cause I couldn't hold off Somewhere I'm still homeless And lost as I always was but Hey, That's music Someone must be Something somewhere Something something I'm sure of it, I'm sure I was — one of her muses? Look, just use this for music. Well, he…is amusing. He's obnoxious. This is a toxic relationship. Do you want this? Do you really want this again? Right now all I want is some drugs And a boyfriend who loves me I don't do husbands For nothing My trust is all fucked up And plus GYM JIMMY FALLON I don't do black girls. I hate them. Noted. Anyway. My times up. Want this job? Uhh? [insert inflammatory drunkenly racist rant here] Fuck this dude. Okay, woah. Okay— See ya in New York. WhT. The Mafia is coming. Don't you mean the mob? Go…fuck yourself. It—Woah. Okay. T. Hanks Here's a dollar. Oh shit: Tacos $1 Lights on I told you It's gonna be a long night, hon. You might want to run more I don't though. Alright, so just Run for cover Adjust, And don't be so remarkable As to summon up Another God To your Alter So Justin Timberlake is your friend, huh Oh those eyes That's so— Blinding Well, that sucks, cause Britney Spears is my best friend And my worst nightmare Like Everything I wanted to And should have been Beautiful, scrawny, Talented and gorgeous And yet somehow also Obnoxiously burdened By so much being wanted That now I'm just washed up And wasted by sunup To sundown Now how's that sound? H—inin.. Hi See, [Redacted]'s wife Controls all our lives His life and mine; His for the better, however And mine for the worse, I fear For better or worse, they said Year after year For better or worse, they said Year after year I want a divorce, I said I wouldn't hear it The cycle of toxicity Stops here with me Hear ye! Here ye! Court is now in session Hear ye Here he Ii hope you learned your lesson Here he Here Designer children, —Do you want this? Here ye— I hear ye! —Your soulmate is Skrillex. Well, just like the rest of them The oceans of oceans of Ocean eyed blondes That I also love But this shit gets haunting Like mm— (daunting) Why would he Or anybody Want me? This apprenticeship isn't going to be easy, you know… Break her heart, Jim! Alright, Jim-Boy—you got this. It already is hard, on my heart. That's what I've been trying to tell you—- This— Will require you to love with boundlessness, beyond limitation—- unconditionally, with no expectation. I already hadn't any expectations regarding [Redacted] . Besides— he's married. —No expectations whatsoever. I've noticed your nonconformity and intention to mass appeal, actually. I'm astonished, really. I'm telling you, this is a dangerous man. —my God, just beautiful. A weaponized person, you see. I do see. Weaponized by beauty. He's just beautiful. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. What wouldn't you do? —What did you do, actually? —What didn't we? We share a middle name, and so we share a middle ground, I think I found— Something I can't have, But want Distractions, This one has it all. Go that way! It appears, however, though, My focus is here, suddenly. Why. I don't know. Are you in any way miserable, at all, sire? (They're all miserable, when they get to me, actually.) I need peace with this. Dearly beloved, We are dearly departed, You started a war with my heart Then put some water on it Sons and daughters of the alter, Father figures and celebrities, We are gathered here today, To finally rest in peace, Posthumously Amen Amen. You may be seated. Father! My child. Please! What is it? Come quickly! Oh shit, what the fuck. Shhh! Not in the church! It's not a real church! They're just Catholics. SHHHH. Come on: What the fuck Jimmy Fallon is this. You know, I've got them all gathered up here, At your alter. pew-pew-pew Haha, get it. Very funny, God Look, you got this. Not now, imagination. I don't have time for this. I gotta get rid of all this Jimmy Fallon before… I'm gonna kill that kid. Fuck, man. Well, you started it— You know we're at war, here, We're at work here With each other and ourselves The Hell comes from Stardust above us Neither or nor Forever or awkward The charm that undoes, Then Comes up as The Impossible Sweet and sour Patches and pick up, Lick up your weapons, And kick out your husbands, kids! God the Judge has come Once and for all, To the pulpit Will she kill herself again? Or finally publish [The Festival Project ™] “The Fallon Files” Is an extention of the infinite Skrillifiles, most notably due to its conjunction within the enter the multiverse and legends franchises, as the infinite multiverses begin to more consistently intersect eith one another, creating continuity within the plots of each series respectively, and collectively combining eventually into a singularity in which the fictional SKRILLEX and the fictitious JIMMY FALLON, both established as extremely gifted extraterrestrial shapeshifters, possibly even of some, if even distant relation, due to their shared aviary hereditary ancestry and notable presence in the shared collective consciousness pre existence, which extends throughout the duration of the Ascension series, and appearing within nearly every subsidiary in some way shape or form within each series, playing either protagonists, or sometimes even exaggerated antagonists, caricatures of each other or themselves, or sometimes even playing themselves, and therefore one another, creating a soft of chaotic confusion Lol— I'm typing this with one finger cause I have a palm full of shea butter in my hand. Lol. —amongst the audience, and other characters—almost invariably and distinctly being as undetectably as possible, one another, at some point/- reflectively at any given time within the series. Line? Nothing, you're just a bird right now, actually, Jimmy. —looking like Jimmy? Yes, but [Aviary behavior] —but maybe “Skrillex?” Up to you, actually. [The Appraisal of the Shapeshifted Ascended Mastery, Transcended, INC. ] And alternate titles… The Jimmy Fallon Effect The Unrequittance of Jimmy Fallon The Jimmy Fallon Disaster {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.
Oww oww owwww! Today we take a trip back to North America to tackle the list of fatal wolf attacks. There's some pretty gnarly stories here so sit back and get ready. Then in our Scratch Of The Day we talk about not just one, but two bear attacks in Japan, a famous cricket player who's survived a leopard attack and a British man is badly injured by a shark. Finally, meet our Dickhead Of The Day: a drunk man who kicked a bison in Yellowstone. WEBSITE: www.maneaterspod.com PATREON: patreon.com/maneaters EMAIL: maneaterspod@gmail.com FACEBOOK: www.facebook.com/maneaterspod INSTAGRAM: @maneaterspodcast INSTAGRAM: @jimothychaps
"Oww, faz uma artezinha pra mim?" É, já se foi o tempo em que designers se resumiam a criadores de artes. Na era da inteligência artificial e diversas plataformas para criação de arquivos digitais, estes profissionais desempenham um papel fundamental na diferenciação e fortalecimento de marcas. Porém, tem que saber o que está fazendo. Recebemos o especialista, Alison Netto para debater sobre o tema.
Confidence is often the missing component when setting your ideal income goals. If you don't believe they're possible to achieve, if you don't believe you belong in the “club” of success (however you define success)... you'll struggle to accomplish your goals, income or otherwise. However, as you work on confidence, it's also important to check in with yourself: Why do you want what you believe you want? What is fueling your confidence? To talk about all this, I interviewed master life coach, advanced certified feminist coach and podcast host, Amy Latta. Because Amy specializes in helping coaches feel confident and get paid, I knew she would deliver some amazing encouragement and insights. She did not disappoint. Amy shares about flipping on potential, investing versus profit, hugging your dreams, rejecting the should, and so, so much more. This episode is so packed, you'll probably want to listen to it more than once. “We can go anywhere once we show our minds that we can create a coaching business that makes our life easier right now.” – Amy Latta What You'll Learn Flipping on potential Investing versus profit Savoring and celebrating Wow and Oww, Gap and Gain Hugging your dreams and your why Rejecting the should Loving your own experience Contact Info and Recommended Resources Podcast episodes that pairs well with this one: Impact and 7-figures: An interview with Katrina Ubell How to charge for coaching even when you're scared to Books and Programs: 90 Day Year program and The Oww & Wow Guidebook (FREE download) by Todd Herman The Gap and The Gain by Dan Sullivan Connect with Amy Latta Amy Latta is a confidence master life coach, advanced certified feminist coach and podcast host. She specializes in helping coaches feel confident and get paid. Amy in her own words… “When I began coaching 10 years ago, I invested in every ‘how to be a life coach' and 'how to be an entrepreneur' program I could get my hands on. What I really needed was a program that taught me the confidence to be me. To actually believe I could do something I'd never done before. To rely on what I already knew. To set big goals and solve for how to achieve them – without needing the achievement of the goal to verify that I deserve to be in the life coaching space. To stare these rules I've been following my whole life in the face. And dismantle every single one of them. So I can finally feel free to create the coaching business that rocks my clients' worlds and lights me up every day. The programs didn't exist. So I created them.” amylatta.com Facebook– IAmAmyLatta Instagram - IAmAmyLatta Work with Amy: amylatta.com/work-with-me Check out Amy's podcast, The Confident Coaches Podcast: amylatta.com/podcast Get Amy's FREE video, The 3 Secrets (to creating self-confidence that signs clients): amylatta.com/coachconfidence Connect with Molly Claire The 10K Accelerator: Let Molly help you dial in your message and set your goal to make your first 10K or your next 10K. mollyclaire.com/work-with-me Get Molly's FREE 10K Goal Tracker: This complimentary goal tracker will help you organize your plan so you can make money + make a difference, one client at a time. Request your instant access copy today! mollyclaire.com/make-your-first-10k-goal-tracker COACHING BUSINESS A BIT STUCK? You're not to blame. To help you unstuck, Molly has 5 Tips no one ever told you, FREE at mollyclaire.com. Advanced Certification Training: Join the Waitlist Work with Molly: mollyclaire.com/coaching molly@mollyclaire.com Get Molly's bestselling book, The Happy Mom Mindset: mollyclaire.com/book Facebook Instagram Have a minute to help me out? If you can, I appreciate you leaving a review of The Masterful Coach on your favorite podcast platform. Reviews increase the show's visibility and let me know how it's helping you. Apple Podcasts | Google Podcasts | Spotify | iHeart Radio | Amazon Music | RSS
Andy does color commentary on a football text, the week in anti-semitism, Oww! It's not TV.., Andy's shoes are laced with trauma, the great Adderall famine, listener questions, and much more Spiraling.
What kind of porn does the internet AI think you enjoy watching? Richard gets questionable suggestions. We campaign for more handjobs in the world by doing a little role play, in the theme of “Suggested Porn” in hopes to inspire y'all to put down the hand sanitizer and pick up more lube. Do we play out “The Step Dad” “Babysitter” or “Shoplifter”? Because we are all about #handsonlearning #professordaddy, we filmed the dirty part of this podcast for our dirty daddy's over at Patreon. #keepitup We go back into our memory bank to describe his first LS experience. Richard recreates his very Cinemax scene… In a hotel overlooking the NYC skyline, dressed like James Bond before he sticks his…Oww! What was that? Lauren's first was with a bunch of models rolling around in a bed but Richard won't let it count because he's jealous he wasn't there. A pile of models should count though, right? #swingles Get your fist stuck in that hole! You heard it, now watch it at patreon.com/room77 Join us in the "Rubbed" tier (how on point!) and get the only discount out there on a custom Bikini Addiction too! We love our Patreons, can you tell? We'll reveal the link and password to the custom site after you join!
PWI 500 was release! There's a lot of talk about the top 10 & the OH WE WRASSLIN' Faction doesn't completely agrees with the list. Sirr Frass & Dre, along with Arri from (GET YA BARS OFF podcast) come up with their own list. Question is do you agree with the PWI? Did you even agree with anyone's list from OWW? Come join the action, as we RUN THAT TOP 10! --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/freshfrasstv/message
Its AEW biggest PPV of the year ALL OUT! The OWW team discuss everything that happened & so much more. How does the team feel about all the drama going on backstage. Was the PPV better than WWE's? Well we get our questions answer, as Arri & Haze GAWD join the OH WE WRASSLIN' ACTION. --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/freshfrasstv/message
Wysoka wrażliwość to cecha, którą posiada około 20 proc. populacji. Nie jest to żadna choroba, ani dysfunkcja – to po prostu zestaw cech wpływających na sposób postrzegania i odbierania świata - mówi nowym odcinku podcastu Reset Joanna Kozłowska, autorka książki "Wysoka wrażliwość. Poradnik dla tych, którzy czują za dużo". Osoby wysoko wrażliwe widzą więcej. Mają analityczny umysł i potrafią dostrzec niuanse niewidoczne dla innych. Posiadają też bogate życie wewnętrzne. Wszystko nadmiernie analizują i układają w głowie różne scenariusze, wręcz dzieje się to jakby poza nimi. Dowiedz się więcej o umyśle WWO (1:17) Przedstawienie gościni - Joanny Kozłowskiej (1:50) - Kim są Osoby Wysoko Wrażliwe? (2:25) - Czy można stwierdzić na pierwszy rzut oka, czy dana osoba jest Wysoko Wrażliwa? (3:10) - Błędne postrzeganie Osób Wysoko Wrażliwych (4:45) - Szybkie ryzyko przestymulowania (6:30) - Ścieżka Joanny w temacie OWW (10:17) - Jak Wysoką Wrażliwość przekuć w siłę? (12:15) - Co wtedy gdy bodźców jest za dużo? (15:35) - Środki doraźne dla OWW (19:31) - Czy Osoby Wysoko Wrażliwe są perfekcjonistami? (23:30) - Neutralność w świecie OWW (24:14) - Sprzeczności u Osób Wysoko Wrażliwych (26:04) - Osoby Wysoko Wrażliwe w związkach
What is love? Baby don't hurt me. Don't hurt me no more. Please stop hurting me. Ouchie. Oww. oh no that hurts please stop leave me alone Anyways, are you reaady for the RAPTURE? I sure am. NOT! This entry in in the Poodwill episodic meta multiverse reaveals much about our favorite poodwill boys. Discussed topics: Sandwiches, Dairy of a wimpy kid boeok 7-9, dinos, getting a pet, last but my least: the rapture Website: poodwill.com Email, Poodwill@gmail.com Instagram: @poodwillpodcast Twitter: @poodwill Cover art by @artofaudreywagnon on Instagram
My whole life, I've struggled with sprinting through and, inevitably, killing my newly found passions, instead of slowing down and embracing the long, slow journey of learning. This episode tells, in story, how the fast, obsessed method of passion-based learning will fry your brain's computer every time. Maybe there's a better strategy to long-term success. This is Part 2 to Episode 1 of the If Then Podcast. Listen to Episode 1 first: https://youtu.be/ryv8BHh_MIc GIVEAWAY DETAILS: If you want to share the podcast, I've been giving away 2 free 1 month Audible gift cards every week this May. This isn't sponsored by Audible, but because I know most everyone has done their free trial already, I wanted a way for you to get another free audiobook. This is a gift card that will still work even if you already have an account! You'll get a free credit for an audiobook of your choice + 1 month access to their Plus catalog which includes thousands of audiobooks with no credits needed. All you have to do to enter to win is take a screenshot of this podcast and share it on your Instagram while tagging the account @ifthenpodcast in the post or story. And, also, be sure to follow @ifthenpodcast on Instagram to find out if you're the winner each week. If we get 100 shares by the end of the month, each of you will be entered to win a pair of AirPods. WEBSITE: https://www.ifthenpodcast.com CREDITS: Jordan Taylor as the traveler. Matt D'Avella's YouTube video about the journey to the South Pole: https://youtu.be/xY0tJAkukWc?t=375 Transcript: Just a heads up, this is kind of a part 2 to episode 1, so listen to that first if you haven't already. Link in the show notes. My name is Jordan Taylor, and welcome to the If Then Podcast. Our brains our a conglomerate of if/then statements, like in computer code, and oftentimes new lines of code are hard to write in our mind when we're trying new things, for example if I want to play piano, then I need to read music. Sitting down and coding that particular if then statement could take years of dedication, but when we do sit down and create new then statements for a complicated if, it feels freaking amazing. This podcast is your weekly motivation, and mine, to get uncomfortable and write some neurological code. “It's not about having the right opportunities. It's about handling the opportunities right.” — Mark Hunter After episode 1 of If Then, we all started to walk. We all embarked on our own personal journeys to find the ocean, with no understanding of where it was or which way to go, but realizing the importance of just choosing a direction, without having any frame of reference, and just moving. Logically, in so doing, we'll ALWAYS eventually hit the ocean, no matter which way we turn. Maybe initially we were a mile from the beach without knowing, and started walking in the opposite direction, all the way through the middle east and asia, only hitting the East China Sea years later. But who cares, I argued in episode 1? At least we got there. We'll always get there if we just start walking. Well, what I realized this week on my journey, is that that's not the full story. There's more to this dangerous adventure than I led on. See on my own personal route to the ocean, I realized that I had a serious, serious problem—a problem that left me withered, injured, cracked… and I was worried it might get even worse. ——— “Alright, do I have everything. Water, backpack, Phone. Check, check, check.” *Phone beeps signifying video recording* “Alright, Day 1 of my journey to the ocean. I'm not sure which way to go, but that's not the point. I'm just gonna start walking, and I'll have to find it. That's the beauty. So I'll pick this way. Here we go.” *Phone beeps again. Recording stops. Phone keyboard typing* “Post…toooo Instagram. And the journey beeegins.” ——— The day I started was a beautiful day, conditions pristine. A mindset recharged. After all, I listened to the first episode of If Then, and I mean it was pretty good. I even gave it a 5 star review AND shared about it on Instagram to maybe win those AirPods at the end of May. I heard listeners already won free audiobooks. That would be cool too. That first day, I walked 35 miles. I wanted to get to the ocean as fast as possible, so I pushed as hard as possible. And I was amazed with how much a new mindset could push me to do something so noteworthy. Something I'd never in my wildest dreams imagine I could do. Well over a marathon in one day. This new mindset I carried with me, it was somethin' special. ——— *Crickets* *Phone record beep* “35 miles in one day. Anything is possible. If I can do it, you can too! Get out there and crush those miles.” *Phone beep* “Aaaand post.” “Alright, set up camp.” *Wood drop* *Fire strike* *Groans* “My feet are sore…” ——— The next day I woke up, and it was surprisingly scorching for that time of year. And I was even more sore than I thought I'd be after a good nights sleep. I reflected on how I had just walked 35 miles the day before which is pretty insane, I mean, not many people have even tried that. I made so much ground that it was totally acceptable to rest my body up for the next big push the next day. The weather forecast seemed to be favorable then too, which would help with my next big goal. ——— “I wonder if I can go 40 miles tomorrow. *Groans* My leg's still sore, but this isn't supposed to be easy, ehhhh I think I can do it. Gotta keep moving. Get there as fast as I can.” ——— Morning came, perfect conditions as promised. I actually woke up at 5:00 AM to get an early start—I was sure to post about that too, and accomplished my goal: 40 miles—an impressive feat. My achilles started to ache around mile 35 though, but..I mean, I had to get 40. So I rested for a day or two. Alright it was five, but I had made some good progress, and the rain had also settled in, so the timing honestly couldn't be better. ——— *Phone picture takes* *Typing* “75 miles down. Push through the pain and anything can be achieved.” *Beeping sound signifying posting* “Ouch, my feet. I didn't know they could blister like that. *exhales as sits* I'm really gonna have to take a break. Wow… I'll rest up and then try hit it hard again next week.” ——— I was surprised and a little embarrassed with how exhausted and beat down I was when the sun rose, not just physically, but mentally as well after just a week of walking. ——— *Tent rustles as Jordan exits and grunts* “Yeah…not walking today, or most likely tomorrow.” ——— How many more hundreds of weeks will this go on? How many years could potentially go by? I honestly feel… kinda terrible and this is only week 2. Like, what? I found myself resting on the hot days, by a fire on the cold days, and under a tarp on the rainy days. Every step a dull pain, and so I could hardly be blamed for the lull in pace. Very few days were spring like perfection, and so very few days had forward progress. On the perfect days, then, I found myself sprinting, traveling all day all out with an urgency built up from days of idling. ——— *Jordan breathing heavy. Trying to pull it together to film. Phone record beeps* “35 miles again today. Big, big push. Follow your dreams and you can do big things too.” *Phone beep. Then typing. Sound of post goes through while Jordan still breathes heavy* “Where is it? Maybe I got lucky and picked the close route. That's all I can hope. That's all I can hope.” ——— A month went by. And then another. And then another. And then hills formed and flattened. Those were hard enough. And then… are those mountains in the distance? My legs ached more than I thought possible. Mentally, being out in the elements day in and day out with injuries and such little promise of any sign of an ocean was debilitating. And then the mountain. And then it got serious. I sat at base camp for two weeks in the shade of the peaks. The shadows cast matched my darkened spirits. Trying everything to heal and recover my legs, feet, my entire body. I just needed one week of perfect conditions to get over the top. Everyday it rained and I sat, I just had the hope “Tomorrow will be better” as the rain pelted the tarp. Another post to Instagram. I wonder why I only got a few likes on that one. Does no one care I'm out here anymore, doing what they won't even try? Then the morning came, and the mud took over, but it had been too long, and I just had to start no matter what. This was getting ridiculous. I got up and trudged. After a few sinking steps, I paused, my boots slurped from the sticky mud as my feet sank—my backpack shifted. ——— “hhhhh….Tomorrow will be better.” ——— I backtracked. Setup camp. The phone again. Another post. More likes this time. Good. They do care. Another night fell. Another day under the looming mountain. “Tomorrow will be better.” Late morning came. I woke up. ——— “Why does it keep being so cold? It's not even that late in the year, and it's still a little wet. I really don't want to get sick. Like, not now. Tomorrow will be better.” *Phone picture takes* *Typing* “Take some time today for your mental health. Today is dedicated to marshmallows and recovery.” *Beeping sound signifying posting* “Wait, is that Jeremy? We left at the same time, how did he—-how did Jeremy get to the ocean so fast??? What??? No…wait he really did. That makes no sense. I saw his posts, I was waking up earlier, I was pushing harder. Like seriously harder. This is ridiculous. Guh…so st—that's so dumb.” ——— Camp. Another fire. Another post. An Instagram story. Not many views. They don't care. This is probably all just stupid. Then the next day comes. Wait…there's a nice breeze. The first in weeks. Wow, perfect temperatures. Perfect… everything! Maybe I can do this. I think I can make it over the top. ——— “This is it. This is the day I've wanted. Finally! Here we go.” *Phone record beep as Jordan walks* "Alright, it's the BIG day, starting the big climb. What mountain in your life do you need to climb? We all have one. Send me a message with what yours is and then just star—” *Trips and falls while walking* "OWW!!! owww my ANKLE! THIS IS STUPID!!!! I'M DONE! I CAN'T DO IT ANYMORE! I'm done. I quit.” ——— And I really did. I quit that day. And can you blame me? I broke my ankle. Like I physically couldn't walk. I couldn't take another step even if I tried. It would be smart to go on. After 3 months, and not as many miles as I had hoped, I slunk home. It's understandable, but the hard thing to suggest to someone at that point, is that maybe it was their own fault, and not anything else—not the weather, mud, the fall, just yours. Maybe I should have taken a different approach altogether from the very first day, and then none of that would have mattered or happened. I heard a story last month about the men who raced to the south pole on Matt DUHvella's YouTube video “The problem with most productivity advice.” There were two groups who wanted to be the first humans to ever reach the South Pole. One group's strategy was exactly mine, As Greg Mckeown put it in that video quote “they walked with an insecure overachiever approach…. They would walk all out on the good weather days, and then on the bad weather days be so exhausted they would make no progress at all and felt the psychological burden of not making even an inch of progress forward.” Sometimes they would travel as much as 50 miles in a day. The other group took the exact opposite approach. They did the thing honestly harder to do. They limited themselves. They committed to 15 miles a day every single day no matter the conditions, no matter what the moral, no matter anything. On bad days, 15 miles. But more notably, on good days, they would simply walk 15 miles even if they felt fresh and could go further. They purposefully held a consistent sustainable pace. For the first group, the fastest way, in their mind, was to go all out every single good weather day. They complained and complained about the situation and the weather all while the other team, slow and steady, progressed daily. 15 miles no matter what, they kept that steady pace. In the end, what happened? Well, they got there 30 days ahead of the insecure overachievers and all even safely made the long journey home. Mckeown points out how the biographer miraculously described them: Quote“They progressed every day without particular effort.” Unquote. One of the hardest tasks humans had ever done in history, done “without particular effort.” Meanwhile the other team? They tragically died from their effort. Recently I've come to grips with the fact of why all my hobbies seem to die in the tundra—on the journey. Every single time I get into something new and begin the long process of writing new if then statements in the computer of my brain, I go all out. I get impatient. I overachieve. 24/7 it's all I think about. Literally, it's all I do. I write huge neurological programs in an incredibly short amount of time, like Neo learning kung fu, more code than most people would be willing to write in that span, and I take pride in that. But then predictably… my computer fries from the workload and burns up, and the people I thought I was better then, slowly pass up my programs with more lengthy, advanced, clean pieces of working code in their minds. And I never finish my program. I never reach my ocean while they're all on the sand. I don't want to make the same mistake again. My newest venture is what your listening to. This podcast. And I've been actively working to slow down. To pace myself. To find my 15 miles a day, and slowly chip away. Consistently. Sustainably. And I think I really found something that works incredibly well. Next week I'm excited to share that secret strategy I've been following to get a ton done without burning out all while leading a very tight schedule. So I'll leave you with this: “It's not about having the right opportunities. It's about handling the opportunities right.” — Mark Hunter Thank you so much for listening to the third episode of the If Then Podcast. If you have feedback you want to give me or if you have anything you want to say, email me at contact@ifthenpodcast.com. And if you would, leave me a 5 star review if you found this podcast valuable. It really helps the podcast to get seen by other people like yourself. We reached #26 for Education on all of Spotify, and I have you to thank for that. We're almost at 200 reviews on Apple Podcasts and 300 on Spotify. And as an extra bonus, for those of you who help me spread the word, I've been giving away 2 free 1 month Audible gift cards every week this May. Last week, Tabita and Johnathan won a free credit for an audiobook of their choice + access to their Plus catalog which includes thousands of audiobooks with no credits needed. And if you win this week, don't worry the gift card is available to you even if you already have an Audible account. All you have to do to enter to win is take a screenshot of this podcast and share it on your Instagram while tagging the account @ifthenpodcast in the post or story. If you shared the last episode, you can also share this one too to be entered to win again. And, also, be sure to follow @ifthenpodcast on Instagram to find out if you're the winner this week. If we get 100 shares by the end of the month, each of you will be entered to win a pair of AirPods. We're over half way there, so keep sharing! Thank you so much for listening, my name is Jordan Taylor, and what if/then will you write today?
Sebastian returns from an epic voyage through the James Bond franchise to tell Kim and Laura about one of its low points—or high points, depending on how you look at it—Lee Tamahori's Die Another Day (2002). Some cool articles for further inquiry: Barry Barclay, “Celebrating Fourth Cinema”: https://www.academia.edu/4905111/Printed_in_Illusions_Magazine_NZ_July_2003_CELEBRATING_FOURTH_CINEMA Cynthia Baron, “Doctor No: Bonding Britishness to Racial Sovereignty”: https://www.google.com/books/edition/The_James_Bond_Phenomenon/x9-1QY5boUsC?hl=en&gbpv=1&printsec=frontcover Heather Davis and Zoe Todd, “On the Importance of a Date, or Decolonizing the Anthropocene”: https://www.researchgate.net/publication/322328154_On_the_importance_of_a_date_or_decolonizing_the_Anthropocene T.J. Demos, Against the Anthropocene: Visual Culture and Environment Today: https://icamiami-org.storage.googleapis.com/2017/06/dc83ec96-mirzoeff-demos_anthropocene-proofs-jan2017.pdf Lee Edelman, No Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive: https://www.degruyter.com/document/doi/10.1515/9780822385981/html?lang=en Jamie Shinhee Lee, “North Korea, South Korea, and 007 Die Another Day”: https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/abs/10.1080/17405900701464865 Max Liboiron, Pollution is Colonialism: https://www.degruyter.com/document/doi/10.1515/9781478021445/html Emiel Martens, Once Were Warriors: The Aftermath: The Controversy of OWW in Aotearoa New Zealand: https://www.amazon.com/Once-were-Warriors-Aftermath-Controversy/dp/9052602360 Audra Simpson, Mohawk Interrupts: Political Life Across the Borders of Settler States: https://www.degruyter.com/document/doi/10.1515/9780822376781/html Fernando Solanas and Octavio Getino, “Toward a Third Cinema”: https://www.jstor.org/stable/41685716 Vanessa Watts, “Indigenous Place-Thought and Agency Amongst Humans and Non Humans (First Woman and Sky Woman Go on a European World Tour!)”: https://jps.library.utoronto.ca/index.php/des/article/view/19145
6:00 – Concert That Changed Your Plans 7:00 – Telling Your Partner Their Overweight, Used To Hate But Now Love 8:00 - Intriguing Conversation You Overheard, OWW 90's Songs, Catch On Your Ring Doorbell 9:00 - 1992 Rewind Quiz See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
Natalia de Barbaro otrzymała nagrodę Bestseller Empiku za "Czułą przewodniczkę"! Z tej okazji zapraszamy do wysłuchania rozmowy Natalii Waloch z laureatką o jej książce. W naszej populacji osób wysoko wrażliwych (OWW) może być nawet 25%! Zaliczają się do nich zarówno introwertycy jak i ekstrawertycy. "To nie jest tylko kwestia ilości, ale też głębokości przetwarzania" - wyjaśnia sposób odczuwania osób wysoko wrażliwych psycholożka i trenerka Natalia de Barbaro, która sama jest jedną z nich. Razem z Natalią Waloch rozmawiają o tym, jak osoby wysoko wrażliwe mogą "przejąć" emocje od innych i skąd właściwie bierze się ich wysoka wrażliwość. Spokojnie, nie zabraknie też wielu przykładów pozytywnych doświadczeń OWW. Może sama jesteś wśród osób odczuwających o 30% więcej bodźców ze świata więcej niż większość społeczeństwa? Wysoko wrażliwość nie jest jednak jedynym tematem rozmowy. Wiele z nas ma tak silnie wpojone pewne wzorce, że postępujemy według nich, nawet jeśli nam nie służą. To główny temat najnowszej książki Natalii de Barbaro "Czuła przewodniczka. Kobieca droga do siebie", dlatego wspólnie z autorką tej drogi poszukamy.
6:00 – Petty Problem 7:00 – Who 'Among Us' Game, Career Portrayed on TV 8:00 - Mercedes’ Car Broken Into, OWW – 80s Pop Songs, Almost Name, Best 90’s Music Videos 900 - Rewind Game Year 2000 See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
This was a lengthy talk on Syntropy becoming part of all societal structures over time again and how we may get ourselves into that place quicker through RESTORATIVE BUSINESS PRACTICES. Myself I have run and operated a restorative local food network in Far North Queensland Australia for 7 years with great joy and fulfillment. It was a tremendous experience based learning environment to figure out how to transition our current ways and means of navigating into a regenerative culture as a society. for more connection go to https://www.souvereignsharing.blog/ where you can sign up for my Course in Syntropy! Oww.. yeah! You can contact me anytime at souvereignsharing@gmail.com Much love, Souvereign ps image from here, worth a read also! https://designforsustainability.medium.com/sustainability-is-not-enough-we-need-regenerative-cultures-4abb3c78e68b --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/souvereignsharing/message Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/souvereignsharing/support
Our mindset shapes our internal dialogue and our relationship with the world around us. I thought i would explore with you today an approach to mindset created by Todd Herman. Do you have an OWW brain or a WOW brain?
We are Halfway to St Patrick’s Day. Let’s Celebrate with the Celtic Women of holiday. Friday Frolics, Orla Fallon, Karan Casey, Dark Isle Piper (Tress Maksimuk), Erin Ruth, The Merry Wives of Windsor, Poisoned Dwarf, Ravens Three, Anna Bosnick, Whalebone, Jiggernaut, Kyle Carey, Screaming Orphans, Mrs Ferris' Pighouse Collection I hope you enjoyed this week's show. If you did, please share the show with ONE friend. The Irish & Celtic Music Podcast is here to build our community and help the incredible artists who so generously share their music with you. If you hear music you love, buy the albums, shirts, and songbooks, follow the artists on Spotify, see their shows, and drop them an email to let them know you heard them on the Irish and Celtic Music Podcast. Remember also to Subscribe to the Celtic Music Magazine. Every week, you will get a few cool bits of Celtic music news. It's a quick and easy way to plug yourself into more great Celtic culture. Plus, you'll get 34 Celtic MP3s for Free, just for signing up today. VOTE IN THE CELTIC TOP 20 This is our way of finding the best songs and artists each year. Just list the show number, and the name of as many bands in the episode as you like. Your vote helps me create next year's Best Celtic music of 2020 episode. Vote Now! THIS WEEK IN CELTIC MUSIC 0:03 - "Assembly Point (Vänkärin Polska / Julia Delaney’s / Refuxio)" by Friday Frolics from Factor 3out of Barcelonafeat: Marta Ponce on Fiddle 4:35 - WELCOME 5:32 - "Citi Na gCumann" by Orla Fallon from LorePronunciation: Sit-ee nah Gom-an 8:46 - "Seoithin" by Karan Casey from Seal Maiden - A Celtic MusicalPronunciation: Show-heen 10:53 - "Sassenach" by Dark Isle Piper (Tress Maksimuk) from SiubhailPronunciation: Shoe-vell 13:51 - "A Lady in Her Father's Garden" by Erin Ruth from Erin Ruth 18:22 - CELTIC FEEDBACK 20:55 - "Finnegan's Wake" by The Merry Wives of Windsor from Drink This Pub Dry 23:01 - "Stewart's Dudel-Sac O'Matic" by Poisoned Dwarf from Bolt the Doorfeat: Mei-Li Garcia on Fiddle 26:40 - "Wild Rover" by Ravens Three from Flightfeat: Audra Blankenship-Pierce on Lead vocals, Irish drum & penny whistle and Shawna Kennedy on Fiddle & vocals 29:41 - "Teach Me" by Anna Bosnick from The Ring 33:40 - "Thynge" by Whalebone from Mirabiliafeat: Charlotte Watson on guitar and Sarah on fiddle 36:21 - CELTIC PODCAST NEWS 39:30 - "Martyr" by Jiggernaut from The Wellfeat: Deanna Smith Scotland on vocals, guitar, percussion and Linda Relph on Fiddle 45:48 - "Miner Jolly" by The Rowan Tree from Kolar's Goldfeat: Laura Garcia on flute, piano, accordion, vocals 49:50 - "Sios Dhan an Abhainn" by Kyle Carey from The Art of ForgettingPronunciation: She-us Ghan an Oww-ann 54:26 - "Mary from Dungloe" by Screaming Orphans from Sunshine and Mossfeat: Joan Diver - drums, vocalsAngela Diver - bass, violin, vocalsGráinne Diver - guitar, vocalsMarie Thérèse Diver - keys, accordion, vocalsfrom Bundoran 58:01 - CLOSING 1:00:20 - "Newry Highwayman" by Mrs Ferris' Pighouse Collection from CroatiaTina Miškovic- bodhranMargareta Piljek - violinAna Markovinovic- vocals The Irish & Celtic Music Podcast was edited by Mitchell Petersen with Graphics by Miranda Nelson Designs. The show was produced by Marc Gunn, The Celtfather. To subscribe, go to Apple Podcasts or to our website where you can become a Patron of the Podcast for as little as $1 per episode. Promote Celtic culture through music at http://celticmusicpodcast.com/. WELCOME TO CELTIC MUSIC * Helping you celebrate Celtic culture through music. My name is Marc Gunn. I am a Celtic musician and podcaster. This show is dedicated to the indie Celtic musicians. Please support these artists. Share the show with your friends. And find more episodes at celticmusicpodcast.com. You can also support this podcast on Patreon. CELTIC PODCAST NEWS Find out more about Halfway to St Patrick’s Day. The 2021 Sainted Celts Collection is once again on sale in my store. It was only shortly available at the beginning of the year. And this offer will not last much longer. Order yours today! I’ll also send you a bonus CD of mine when you order from now through October 15, 2021. THANK YOU PATRONS OF THE PODCAST! Because of Your kind and generous support, this show comes out every week. Your generosity funds the creation, promotion and production of the show. It allows us to attract new listeners and to help our community grow. As a patron, you get to hear episodes before regular listeners. When we hit a milestone, you get an extra-long episode. You can pledge a dollar or more per episode and cap how much you want to spend each month over on Patreon. Your contribution also allows us to support the Middle Tennessee Highland Games & Celtic Festival on September 2021 and the Texas Scottish Festival on April 30 - May 2, 2021. A super special thanks to our newest patrons: Brooks Smith, Trixie Horror, Peter Alexander, Joel Smith, Tom Purvis You can become a generous Patron of the Podcast on Patreon at SongHenge.com. TRAVEL WITH CELTIC INVASION VACATIONS Every year, I take a small group of Celtic music fans on the relaxing adventure of a lifetime. We don't see everything. Instead, we stay in one area. We get to know the region through its culture, history, and legends. You can join us with an auditory and visual adventure through podcasts and videos. Learn more about the invasion at http://celticinvasion.com/ #celticmusic #irishmusic #celticpodcast I WANT YOUR FEEDBACK What are you doing today while listening to the podcast? You can send a written comment along with a picture of what you're doing while listening. Email a voicemail message to celticpodcast@gmail.com Ely Sánchez replied to the Celtic Music Magazine: "I adore Celtic music, my daughters are Celtic descendants, we really enjoy the music you send me, I do a little exercise listening to this beautiful music, or on the internet looking at pictures, this music makes me feel very happy, thank you for sharing it! greetings Marc, from México city!" Jim Whitfield commented on Patreon: "Yay! A Workout Mix!! Putting it on while I work now! Back in the Before-Times, I always listened to the podcast while at the gym. I'm very very behind in episodes now because I'm very very behind in exercise. I _will_ do a long bike ride this week and I will listen (again)!" Brad Platt emailed a photo: "I’m listening to the podcast now and making Banana Wuffins. It is my banana muffin mix made in my trusty waffle iron. The counter is a mess, but the wuffins are TASTY. I love the podcast and listen to it almost every day as I deliver fence products all over the state of Utah. I’ve always been a fan of anything Irish or Scottish and was rather disappointed when I did my genealogy and realized I was English and Scandinavian! But I figure I’ve just enjoyed the land in between the two!!! Thanks for making the podcast. Don’t ever go away!!!"
Adventist World Radio Programme in English Language (Ghana – West Africa)
Listen to us talk about why Jona likes bad Star Wars movies, DC’s Birds of Prey, the 2020 Oscars, why Jona hates Tarantino films, Steve Martin movies, favorite comedies, Landon’s staples, Mr. X in Resident Evil, really scary movies, some Batman stuff, unannounced Harry Potter game and Death Stranding. Starring Landon Browning, Mick Parker, Wil Dobratz, and Jona Gallegos. Recorded February 7th, 2020.
Bill is joined by friends and classic MST3K vets Trace Beaulieu and Mary Jo Pehl to discuss the super-fun topic of aging! An honest but not particularly serious chat about getting older in the arts & entertainment world, and the world in general. Spoiler: it’s really not that bad. Oww my knees.
Day 13 and I smashed my freaking toe on my son's bed. So you get to hear me grip about it. FREAKING OWW!!Subscribe to ODO at http://odddadoutpodcast.com/subscribeJoin the Twisted World of The Odd Dad Out grouphttps://www.facebook.com/groups/odddadoutFollow Along on Social athttps://www.twitter.com/odddadout/ https://www.facebook.com/odddadout/https://www.instagram.com/odddadout/
Day 13 and I smashed my freaking toe on my son's bed. So you get to hear me grip about it. FREAKING OWW!!Subscribe to ODO at http://odddadoutpodcast.com/subscribeJoin the Twisted World of The Odd Dad Out grouphttps://www.facebook.com/groups/odddadoutFollow Along on Social athttps://www.twitter.com/odddadout/ https://www.facebook.com/odddadout/https://www.instagram.com/odddadout/
"My Goodies, Not My Goodies, Oww!" Follow us on IG: @OTN_Podcast Email: writeusanote@gmail.com Email us with questions or topics you want us to discuss on the show. Also, let us know what you think of the show! Check our social media for the latest news about On That Note Podcast, and to keep the conversation going with other MusicHeads.
Options Oddities 122: XLI, OWW, AXP Unusual Activity for February 12, 2015: Size puts trade in Sector SPDR Trust Industrial (XLI) Call buyers in Orbitz Worldwide (OWW) Puts trading in American Express Co. (AXP)
Option Block 285: Listener Mail Extravaganza Trading Block: Navigating post-shutdown markets. VIX Cash giving up the ghost post-shutdown. Google, another big after hours more last week. Netflix (aka the Widowmaker) rallying hard pre-earnings. Tesla taking in on the chin. Odd Block: Calls trade in Orbitz Worldwide, Inc. (OWW), large spread trades in iPath S&P 500 short term futures ETN (VXX), calls trade in Turquoise Hill Resources Ltd. (TRQ), and puts trade in China Ming Yang Wind Power (MY). Xpress Block: No Viceroy today - Let's play the trading patterns guessing game! Listener Mail Extravaganza: Whoa! We've got mail! Comment from Thepostguy “Not surprised by download volume”: Dear Option Block crew - Listening to the latest episode and hearing Mark's comment over the amount of downloaded hours of OB, this doesn't surprise me at all. This show is one of the very few sources of excellent option and industry content that I honestly cannot believe is free. The balance of viewpoints between each panelist brings a unique perspective that gives us great, actionable information. For myself, I work full-time and run a small side business. I managed to blow up an equity account in '08 and came to options as a way to balance the amount of risk to the 'market'. I find myself timing my evening walks to the length of your show content....if that is any indication of how this listener values your programs. When will the store be open that we can purchase our own fedora hats? Regards, Phil. Question from Jeremy - Hey Folks: Great show! Keep up the great work. Now that we have seen the success of Weeklies, do you think we will see Dailies? Or do you know how one could get exposure to daily expiration on such products as SPX? I noticed the CBOE has asked permission to start dailies, but I have not seen any product. I would expect the interest in such a product would be popular as the edge one might need to achieve to expiration can be smaller, but the end result compounded could be greater over a period of time if there are more opportunities to trade that position. Cheers, Jeremy Question from Meeshal: I trade index options on the Indian CNX Nifty Index (Bloomberg NIFTY: IND). Two weeks ago, with the Index at around 5300, I had sold 5800 calls expiring on the 26th of September. I did not sell the corresponding puts immediately as the market had run up over the past two days and I thought I could get a better rate if I waited a day or two. Since then, the market has run up some 11% and is currently trading at 5900. Two days ago, at around 5750, I bought back the 5800 September calls and sold the same number of 6000 October calls (expiring 31st October). Since then the price of the October calls has almost doubled. Would appreciate any ideas on how to get myself out of this mess. Thanks. P.S. Will share more details if needed. Around the Block: Earnings! - Thursday is a big day with Southwest, Ford, Zynga, Microsoft, and Amazon. Apple on 10/28.
Option Block 285: Listener Mail Extravaganza Trading Block: Navigating post-shutdown markets. VIX Cash giving up the ghost post-shutdown. Google, another big after hours more last week. Netflix (aka the Widowmaker) rallying hard pre-earnings. Tesla taking in on the chin. Odd Block: Calls trade in Orbitz Worldwide, Inc. (OWW), large spread trades in iPath S&P 500 short term futures ETN (VXX), calls trade in Turquoise Hill Resources Ltd. (TRQ), and puts trade in China Ming Yang Wind Power (MY). Xpress Block: No Viceroy today - Let's play the trading patterns guessing game! Listener Mail Extravaganza: Whoa! We've got mail! Comment from Thepostguy “Not surprised by download volume”: Dear Option Block crew - Listening to the latest episode and hearing Mark's comment over the amount of downloaded hours of OB, this doesn't surprise me at all. This show is one of the very few sources of excellent option and industry content that I honestly cannot believe is free. The balance of viewpoints between each panelist brings a unique perspective that gives us great, actionable information. For myself, I work full-time and run a small side business. I managed to blow up an equity account in '08 and came to options as a way to balance the amount of risk to the 'market'. I find myself timing my evening walks to the length of your show content....if that is any indication of how this listener values your programs. When will the store be open that we can purchase our own fedora hats? Regards, Phil. Question from Jeremy - Hey Folks: Great show! Keep up the great work. Now that we have seen the success of Weeklies, do you think we will see Dailies? Or do you know how one could get exposure to daily expiration on such products as SPX? I noticed the CBOE has asked permission to start dailies, but I have not seen any product. I would expect the interest in such a product would be popular as the edge one might need to achieve to expiration can be smaller, but the end result compounded could be greater over a period of time if there are more opportunities to trade that position. Cheers, Jeremy Question from Meeshal: I trade index options on the Indian CNX Nifty Index (Bloomberg NIFTY: IND). Two weeks ago, with the Index at around 5300, I had sold 5800 calls expiring on the 26th of September. I did not sell the corresponding puts immediately as the market had run up over the past two days and I thought I could get a better rate if I waited a day or two. Since then, the market has run up some 11% and is currently trading at 5900. Two days ago, at around 5750, I bought back the 5800 September calls and sold the same number of 6000 October calls (expiring 31st October). Since then the price of the October calls has almost doubled. Would appreciate any ideas on how to get myself out of this mess. Thanks. P.S. Will share more details if needed. Around the Block: Earnings! - Thursday is a big day with Southwest, Ford, Zynga, Microsoft, and Amazon. Apple on 10/28.
I just don't know what to write for an episode descriptio- OWW! ALRIGHT I GET IT HAPPY THOUGHTS! FINE!
Small Business Building with Dr. Pete from Boston - Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day is on Friday, December 7, 2012. An Interview with Co-Chairman of Operation Warrior Wellness Special Guest - Edward Schloeman, CMS (ret) NYANG, President of Fidelis Services Group, and co-founded and serves as Co-Chairman of Operation Warrior Wellness – bringing the stress-reducing Transcendental Meditation technique to veterans and their families with PTSD - http://www.operationwarriorwellness.org/ “Operation Warrior Wellness”, a division of The David Lynch Foundation. OWW supports Veteran, Active Duty, First Responder personnel who are suffering from PTS, TBI and Homelessness. Dr. Pete Savo works with an education company serving members of the military community nationwide. Dr. Savo, a respected lecturer and published author, spent 18 years with Sikorsky Aircraft and six years as a direct business operations and lean manufacturing consultant for the U.S. Air Force Small Business Manufacturing Technical Assistance Production Program (MTAPP), Air Force Outreach Program Office and the Department of Defense (DOD) supply chain missions. Dr. Pietro (Pete) Savo US Navy Veteran PietroSavoUSA@aol.com 603.321.6224 Blog - http://pietrosavo.wordpress.com
In JTS #389, Lance discusses Free Agency and What team should do about it. Lance also examines who should get money in Free Agency and why freaks must get paid. Lance also discuss the new wonderlic test, Prince’s Hip, and Oww and Achey.
In JTS #389, Lance discusses Free Agency and What team should do about it. Lance also examines who should get money in Free Agency and why freaks must get paid. Lance also discuss the new wonderlic test, Prince’s Hip, and Oww and Achey.
Shock and Oww!, part 1 of 2: Boston Legal TV Show Radio Podcast Commentary; A story of 50,000 volts, a partner at Narcotics Anonymous, fathers and daughters, vigilantes, American Homeowners and Denny finds his bliss again. Denny Crane finds just the right thing to cure his depression after his one-day-old marriage falls apart: The case of a man arrested for electrocuting and paralyzing a burglar. Meanwhile Shirley Schmidt seeks Alan Shore
Shock and Oww!, part 2 of 2: Boston Legal TV Show Radio Podcast Commentary; A story of 50,000 volts, a partner at Narcotics Anonymous, fathers and daughters, vigilantes, American Homeowners and Denny finds his bliss again. Denny Crane finds just the right thing to cure his depression after his one-day-old marriage falls apart: The case of a man arrested for electrocuting and paralyzing a burglar. Meanwhile Shirley Schmidt seeks Alan Shore