Podcasts about shia labouf

This science fiction fantasy film was written, produced and directed by Francis Ford Coppola and has a star studded cast that includes Adam Driver, Nathalie Emanuel, Giancarlo Esposito, Shia LaBouf, Aubrey Plaza, Jon Voight, Jason Schwartzman, Talia Shire, Laurence Fishbourne, D.B. Sweeney & Dustin Hoffman. In this film, a Roman story is told in a futuristic setting as a eccentric architect clashes with a corrupt mayor of the city over the future of city's economy and developments. Francis Ford Coppola has been waiting over 4 decades to make this film but never the money and or scripts together. Plans were announced in 1989 and 2001 with no action taken. Coppola spend a large sum of his own money to get this movie made and it went into production in 2022. The film debuted at The Cannes Film Festival in May of 2024 before hitting theaters nationwide later in November.

We review Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (2008) on movie podcast The Collector's Cut. Kingdom of the Crystal Skullis directed by Steven Spielberg and stars Harrison Ford, Shia Labouf, Cate Blanchett, Karen Allen, John Hurt patreon: https://www.patreon.com/mildfuzztv twitter: https://twitter.com/ScreamsMidnight email: mftvquestions@gmail.com Audio version: https://the-collectors-cut.pinecast.co/

He found the Ark of the Covenant, recovered the Sankara Stones, he even drank from the Holy Grail! Who knew it was the crystal skull of an alien, sorry, Inter-dimensional being, that would take him down. Before you Dial Destiny, you gotta listen to our take on Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull!

The 3rd in this series is once again directed by Michael Bay and sees Shia LaBouf, Tyrese Gibson, Josh Duhamel & John Turturro all return and joined by newcomers Frances McDormand, Patrick Demsey, Rosie Huntington-Whitley, Ken Jeong, John Malkovich & Alan Tudyk. There's even a cameo appearance from Astronaut Buzz Aldrich & famed journalist, Bill O'Reilly. Peter Cullen & Hugo Weaving return as the voices of “Optimus Prime” & “Megatron” and are joined by the legendary, Leonard Nimoy who voices “Sentinel Prime”. 2 years after the events of the previous film, the war between the Autobots & Decepticons winds down but when new information about the US government covering up the “Moon Landing” of the 1960s is discovered, a new threat emerges and begins to invade Earth. Notably missing from the cast is Megan Fox. She was written out of the script after a behind the scenes falling out with her and the studio led to her departure from the film. Originally set for a 2012 release, Paramount was rush release this film ahead of Marvel's “The Avengers” I order to beat out Disney. The film did financially better than the previous film but still received mixed reviews from critics despite being nominated for 4 Academy Awards, including Best Visual Effects & Best Sound Mixing.

The first film in this series was directed by Michael Bay and is based on Hasbro's toy line of the same name. The film stars Shia LaBouf, Megan Fox, Josh Duhamel, Tyrese Gibson, Rachel Taylor, Anthony Anderson, John Turturro & Jon Voight. Hugo Weaving & Peter Cullen would be the voices of “Megatron” & “Optimus Prime”. Cullen voiced “Optimus Prime” in the 1980s animated series as well as the iconic 1986 animated film. A teenage boy's life is turned upside down after a group of robotic soldiers come to Earth looking for an artifact from their planet before another group finds it. This would the first of a 7 film series that has been released from 2007 - 2023.

After the huge success of the first film, a sequel was released and saw Michael Bay return as director as well as Shia LaBouf, Megan Fox, Josh Duhamel, Tyrese Gibson & John Turturro. A few newcomers join in such as Ramon Rodriguez, Isabel Lucas, John Benjamin Hickey & Rainn Wilson. In this film, Sam Witwicky is warned by the Autobots of an imminent threat in the form the creator of the Decepticons, known as “The Fallen”. To save Earth, Sam must locate (yet again) another artifact from Cybertron that was lost on Earth. Despite this film being the 4th highest grossing film of the year, it received negative reviews for being overlong and lacking a plot. It won the “Razzie” for Worst Picture.

I fell into a dream with you last night And when I woke I had to cry And when I looked inside your eyes I had to realize they were mine Now I'm alive And in alignment Something like a diamond shines inside It's just another night Our love is just inside my mind I had to hide it Your highness Right on time. As expected. Hey, I just wanted you to know: Your evil shamanic curse worked( I've been homeless since I left you and demonic forces follow me everywhere So I'm going to kill myself eventually Just the way you hoped I would So no one will have to know that you hit me so hard it made me lose my mind You have an evil spirit and a heartless soul and nobody will ever love you except for our son— So just tell him I love him You fucking win Your curse worked Every single person you ever try to love will cheat and lie to you Just like you did to me And the only reason I don't wish homelessness and suicide onto you Like you wished onto me Is because you have our son Thanks for ruining my life I hope there's heaven on the other side I fucking hate you You're fucking evil You fat stupid retarded motherfucker —but I didn't text him that, of course I wanted to; But in my heart and soul, I knew it would be the end of me, And that he'd know he really had won— And though I didn't want to give him the power or the light of day, I knew I was cursed, Followed by coughing demons, pretty, skinny women, mindfucked by Skrillex and Dillon Francis and set to die in the streets with nothing to eat, nowhere to go, and nothing to lose but myself, not that it mattered— It would be a quiet suicide, And my son might never know I died alone and homeless in New York City; But i loved him the most And the hole in my heart that made me a ghost was shaped just like him ; And though I had nothing left but love to give, Which meant nothing in a cruel and loveless world made of money, The best that I could do was just to love him, And hope that on the other side would be heaven, Where I could know him again I just passed the white rabbit; I'd laugh at it, if I weren't rabid with absolute madness I've had it! I can't stand it I mismanaged My finances, It's fine, actually; I've got enough time (Money) To climb the Empire The Devil's a Liar, But so am I, And God's a bird on a wire How inspiring I'm one off of everything, I can't run, when I'm too busy thinking “Where the fuxk am I gonna sleep” Tomorrow, I can pawn my drum machine— That buys me one more night in a nice dream A nice clean apartment in Brooklyn, Some rice and beans; Another dream… ‘Is it supposed to be a secret?' I really had fallen in love with Sonny, but it didn't seem to matter anymore about anything—I didn't have what I needed at all—and the irony and reality was setting in that the Sonny was dropping his album on the exact day that I would run out of everything—out of money for food, a place to sleep…everything. I had loved him so wholehearly that I had recorded ïambīc; only to be devastated in the following weeks with the discovery that he had been spending time with Kayla Laurenc who I didn't exactly despise, as much as I resented—as in all of my life, girls like her had always gotten ahead and gotten everything I wanted, without even trying—just because they looked the way they did—and, at least by all the people I had been around, even my mother—I was ugly, fat, and retarded. Perhaps he did operate on the Devil's power, with my ex husband; I was homeless, at least not yet hungry, but on my way to it—and finally, out of “nowhere”, Sonny being Skrillex was in New York, releasing the album we had all been waiting for. I was either being cruicified or… Connected to a greater purpose, but it hurt either way—and either way I wanted to end it. Every time I dreamt of Dillon, it was of his entire family—in fact, I had almost forgotten that he had a brother at all; it didn't make sense to me, actually I had stopped breathing. I was crying quietly from the moment I left Equinox—I had done my best not to, but couldn't help it entirely. It had been too long since I had any sense of security. I tossed my head back to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks, staring up with widened eyes, which suddenly focused on the digital LCD screen, flashing the streets at which the train would stop; I was of course sitting directly beneath the stop for 88th street—Sonny's birth year, and a number that had repeatedly jumped out to me since our “meeting”. ‘Why would he do this to me?' Maybe this is all supposed to murder me. My ex husband had been tied to White Supremacy; “I belong to an organization that will kill you and bury you somewhere no one will ever find you.” He once said—one of the things which lead to my attempt—or completing, alternatively, suicide. “You know why I have the power to control demons?” Another notion which had the tendency to repeat itself in my mind, whenever a demonic energy found its way to me, in the form of a skinny, attractive woman or a coughing homeless person, in the form of Kayla Lauren, Dillon Francis, or even Sonny—and though none of the latter two actually ever seemed like actual demons, at least to me—the demonic energy was in knowing that someone like me, in reality, could never deserve or afford someone like Sonny, or Dillon respectively—and although the attraction that I felt to either of them was extreme wrnough to me, and could even be called love, the truth was that the effect of fame meant that it wasn't just me, but hundreds of thousands of other human beings like me, better than me, more attractive than me—and with a better perception of reality that would make more ideal partners, mates, and lovers, and that my own perception of beauty and self love had been shattered by Society. Maybe don't post this. What does it matter? What am I supposed to believe? That Sonny's come to New York to rescue me and take me to freedom—that with someone like me he'd be actually happy? That everything in my head, in my heart, in my mind—the belief that we were meant to be is actually reality? He has every reason and every right to be wary of me. I had read about the teenaged girl that had become obsessed with Drake Bell, following him to all his shows and eventually, even becoming close with him; texting back and forth, and from the looks of it—probably even meeting, hanging out together and who knows what else exactly, besides the man himself and God, on whose behalf it sometimes seeemed I was acting, however— “New York Or Nowhere” Oh shit. The orange and blue basketballs on the fabric clutch held under the arm of the man in front of me distracted my mind for a moment from my writing; the color orange had always reminded me of Dillon, because it was so prevalent in the music which had first captivated me, even before I knew who Dillon Francis was exactly, and had somehow managed to have implanted the notion —especially after the realization that he was, in fact, using magic— that perhaps such a gifted shapeshifter had learned to even transform himself into an object that was inanimate; a traffic cone, whatever that meant. [DON'T HIT ME.] Years had passed since the idea had been established, and though I couldn't seem to remember how I had first actually imagined it, besides listening to what probably may have been ‘too much' Dillon Francis, an entire storyline had been written, as Dillon Francis, having become at some point captain of The Bampheraphs, had instructed the other Insomniacs, Bampheramphs, Motherfuckers, and DJs to also transform into the very simple, very inanimate traffic cones— and though Skrillex, or Sonny—was also given an extreme amount of power and magic, especially even the ability to become inanimate himself, or, “The Inanimate Skrillex”, as it had once been written—as it remarkably turned out, Skrillex would find that he could be every color traffic cone besides Neon Orange—which, as the curator of such an idea, had, over time, become both comedic and tragic—as everywhere I seemed to go, tended to produce strangely colored tragic cones at random. ‘That did happen' Maybe all this means Is when I find the bravery To finally fly, or something… INT. AIRPLANE. DAY BLŪ is seated in a window seat towards the back of a BOEING 747. Oh man, this scene. Sometimes my worst nightmares are airplane crashes, actually. Since I could remember, maybe from the age of about two or three—I would dream awful tragedies—‘nightmares, or night terrors, actually—tornadoes, horrible fires and burning buildings and sometimes, airplane crashes, which even to this day, haunt me when I sleep. You know, nobody has a ticket to the soul train. What. You just jump. Trains in New York do come suicide fast. I was on the platform and still almost got hit! Okay, this isn't really funny anymore, is it? No. Suddenly, a sound rang out into my ears and Ugh, it's hard to write when you want to die this much ‘Why do you want to die this much? I had extended my air bnb for one more night, but it meant giving up one of my drum machines go to the pawn shop—the one which I had just reclaimed from the pawn shop in Las Vegas, and seemed an entire waste, as it was the heaviest thing in all my luggage, and I had dragged it across the country in order to use it as a performance piece to give myself an edge over the other DJs who simply mixed—But, as it turned out, of course, the world, “especially New York”, was over saturated with DJs— though I had done what I could, or most of what I could, to get a head start, I had so much work backed up that in the two weeks since I had left my job in LA, that it didn't matter now that I even had my drum machine with me—I was scrambling to gather money to keep a place to sleep, and so the drum machine would have to go in the morning, in exchange for one or two more nights of housing—and with any luck or by the grace or God I could somehow fish it back out of the pawn shop in some weeks or months time—not that I enjoyed the idea of going back into the workforce as anything but an artist—but so far, this artist that I was had been the lowest of all the low paying jobs I had ever had. ‘What is that?' I had heard the album over and over—it had infinite replay value, of course, and I was using its tones and auras to dry my tears on the long train back to Brooklyn from Manhattan—but, in this moment, as I exited the subway station and made my way down my usual route back to the flat I had depleted my entire savings on staying in—the sound shook through my entirety, rumbling strangely into the arcs of my feet and even stopping me dead in my tracks for a moment, ringing strangely in my chest and into the palms of my hands, up my shoulders and into my hollow lungs, wrapping around my heart, and colliding with the very odd thought “I gotta stay alive to ask Joel what that was.” How bizarre. It was past midnight—and now that I was above ground, I hadn't thought to check again if the new Skrillex album was being released on East Coast time, where Sonny supposedly still was, or if it might not be available until later; and I hadn't thought to look or try to check Instagram again—I had only been on Instagram anyway in hopes of finding a job—and had only checked the Skrillex Instagram hoping that I would see something that would make the way I felt about Sonny stop, by now, suddenly realizing that it never would until he married or procreated with someone else, (or I did) once and for all wiping out any dillusions I had dreamt up or summoned in the wake of our crossing paths. As quickly as he had come to New York, he could have left and probably may have—but I didn't know, and didn't care; it would be futile to believe he would come to rescue me, even if it was what I wanted and needed so much that I couldn't bear the thought of anything more than just departing the entire world. Earlier, even though I had been pressed for time to make it to the gym, having spent the day of course collecting my things and trying to figure a way out ot the homeless box I had built my way into, still stressing the somehow ‘need' to publish the entirety or the 6th season so that I could go on hiatus— It really hadn't occurred to me for more than a moment that Sonny might be listening to my podcast at all, besides listening to Renaissance which I had briefly vaulted, having worked out to it too much and beyond honestly hating myself for not being either Skrillex, or perhaps even more disappointingly, Beyoncè—and either one would have done— I retracted my last couple steps, doubling back to the discotheque—All Night Skate—where I had already asked for a job one of my first nights in Brooklyn, collecting the number of the manager but having lost it, deleting it by accident— INT. ALL NIGHT SKATE. 12:56 AM I realized it was nearly closing time; I had stopped back by after Equinox to write, hoping to music mine whatever the DJ was playing, my body strangely acting and writing quite automatically, with reason to live, shaken suddenly alive by an unidentifiable bass sound seated safely on While 1>2, and still seeking purpose Bryan eno complex heaven Terrors in my head The two songs mixed perfectly into my minds eye as I left, snapping photos for albums yet to be written, and wondering whether or not I would live long enough to write them, or to mix the two songs which had so perfectly mixed—one playing in my headphones and the other over the PA system—and wondering how less than an hour earlier I had experienced a sound I had heard at least a hundred times under the arches of my feet. Oh, wow. ‘Errors In My Bread' The numbers 404 had always triggered the thought: Error, perhaps suggesting even I myself was nothing more than just a simulation or computer of some sort, a robotic formulation of all that had been programmed and crated to exist in the way that I had, a short circuit or some kind of malfunction; I'd trickled into Equinox at precisely 9:52, which allowed me exactly 8 minutes to prepare to record the beginning of the closing announcements at 10:00 for the Equinox + EP, peel off my outer layer of clothes, and pour into the sauna for at least 15 minutes, squeezing in a light workout—warranted, considering I had spent the entirety of the day before at the club, auditioning the rest of the 6th season between the sauna and steamroom, Suffering the Skrillex that had descended onto the city I neither loved nor lived in—which might have totaled altogether about 4 hours in the sauna alone, and what seemed like 56 gallons of sweat—but I was grasping at straws, searching for random numbers to complete my thoughts. I had left Manhattan, as usual, at 11:00 PM as Sports Club closed—pulling my belongings from locker 403, with locker number 404 catching my attention from out of the corner or my eye—and as tears gushed from my face, blasted through the revolving doors—-there was indeed an Error in my Bread, and so to self soothe as usual only seemed fitting, as the words began to pour from my fingertips once more. ‘Not Your Mother's Drag Night' had ended, and the either irony or synchronicity subtly toyed with my inherent need for survival and awestruck emotions, as the last and final episode of the 6th season, which I had already named [Not Your Mother's Episode] before arriving to my Equinox venture at the party — the episode in which everything I had written, assembled with every entry for the 6th season, to be left in its description —was yet still unreleased; it had been a grueling train ride full of tears, and I had yet to neatly tie together the Jimmy Fallon timeline—the Timmy Turner Timeline, which of course connected the Amanda Bynes timelines and all of the Nickelodeon timelines respectively—and though the Skrillex and Dillon Francis timelines had driven nearly every series in their entireties in one way or another, Sonny's sudden arrival into New York City mere hours after Act III, Part IIhad been posted —indicating that either he himself or someone on his campaign had been listening and reading along with my series, jolting me into a frenzy, of course… (though I had already planned to release the end of the season concurrently—as I had with a majority of the previous seasons, taking a hiatus to regroup after each season conclusion or finale) my homeless-suicidal pattern had shown itself to be cyclical, by now—not that one thing hadn't anything to do with the other, and though someone or something may have found it interesting and entertaining, I myself was growing tired of making a mockery of my own self, remaining unloved, unhoused, and unfelt enough so much so that nothing had really changed—and although the 3rd season's hiatus had warranted the 4th season's Anandar, the 4th seasons return to the United States had of course warranted more racism, capitalistic greed, hereditary confinement, algorithmic condemnation, corporate slavery, and an interesting series of mixtapes—which of course had resulted in the 6th season's hope for a better future, my almost-return to Hollywood via the actual real-life Drake Bell and his man-habits, my mental degradation via lack of privacy, and of course, the empathic enforcement or feeling everything at once besides love, human connection or trust. My ex had texted me some weeks earlier, finally having apologized for cheating and assuring me that his karma had been paid in full—without responding, I simply screenshotted the message for future use on an album cover, deleted Google voice, and reassured myself that if his long-overdue karma for cheating had just now been ‘paid-in-full', that it surely had not been paid in full at all and was only just beginning—as he had never apologized or admitted to anything else he'd done—of course, as our relationship had ended, my re-awakening of creativity had been flourishing; I was always recording, taking samples, and writing down ideas for music I wanted to make—and besides that—openly admitting that he had hit me would probably open a disastrous wormhole of self-realization and shame no true narcissist could take—that which he was, not that I at this point had resented it, besides of course the scarring on my lower lip that had come as a result, the estrangement from my son, or the mental anguish I had suffered—and, looking back, I still could never recount whether I had… Just then, I realized that there was an error in my thinking; I had already been running off my weight at a tremendously rapid pace, working out to Recess in the living room between shifts at the veterinary clinic, where I took pride and joy in running with the greyhounds at then-top speed, racing to Diplo, Doctor P, and Rusko—of course, only stopping to express, my breasts still heavy from lactation, and realizing that it was painful to run with boobs full of anything—let alone, milk—which sometimes I pumped for Annie once her glands had gone dry, donated to the NICU, or winded up in my ex's coffee, because it gave him “superpowers.” This is a weird story. Well, if I tell some of it I have to tell all of it. Why are you even telling some of it? Because someone threw Skrillex in my tent and I should have raped him. You can't rape the willing. This is a sick bitch we're dealing with. How do you know he was willing? (He was wiling.) Idk,bro. He looked sick. Or scared. Or Ill. “ill” Get it. I put the ill in Skrillex Better fix my will forreal This could be my last meal Cause I feel like jumping off a building Or a cliff, Like dead horse point— We're beating/being a dead horse, Aren't we? Or an F'n Pig: Oink Oink! Boisterous, Aren't we boys? Let me annoint you all with oil, On upholstery You want a half, Or a whole thing? I want you to hold— I want you to know me I want you to love me I love you Are you happy? Oh, you fucked up. Oh, you think?! I barely sleep, Then you start showing up in my dreams? I don't believe you, I don't believe in anything but me, And I could be you, maybe Maybe there's a sequel, If we're equal— Or if he isn't evil; Maybe I'll just Evil Kinivel Fuck you people! Maybe I'll go fuxkin sleep with Lil Peep I'll call the reaper, Jesus Weeps, But probably not as much as _________ He's a keeper. Fun fact: when you cry, I cry. Plz. Stop crying. I can't. INT. A FIREY PLANE CRASH Wait. THE BILDERBERG MEETING. Jesus Christ, why is Shia Labouf so fuckin ripped. Ew. Who feeds him. CHICKEN. gross. BEFORE: SHIA LABEOUF ITS ME, I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. Ū Oh noooo… SHIA LABEOUF THE FESTIVAL PROJECT Ū … What. SHIA LABEOUF THE FESTIVAL PROJECT Ū k. SHIA LABEOUF NOW WAKE UP, Ū What? SHIA LABEOUF WAKE—UP. Narcissistic Cannibal- Korn, Skrillex. UP. [C.C. Wakes up, drenched in sweat. ] … … … C.C. …Shia LaBeouf…? (That was an actual dream I had once—give or take a few parts.) Yeah, give or take. Ahem. I probably would have forgotten he existed, too, were it not for that dream—and shortly thereafter… FLASHBACK: C.C. Is binge watching Hot Ones. I want—all the sauce. What's that dudes name. Sean. He seems a little off. Yeah, I bet he's off. E Q U I N O X huh. …huh. INT. THE BILDERBERG MEETING SHIA LABEOUF I DONT GIVE A SINGLE FUCK. ILLUMINATI perfect. SECURITY GET OUT. SHIA LABEOUF I WAS NEVER IN. CHICKEN. Ew. ILLUMINATI SEQUENCE C - GREENLIGNT. Wtf is happening in this show. Idk, but I like it. Where's — CHAL (From season 4) IT DOESNT MAAAAAAATER. Right. CUT BACK TO: INT. A FIREY PLANECRASH. DAY. QUEST FOR FIRE. LOOK TO THE SKIES, YOUNG PADOWAN. oh my god. It's a fire breathing dragon! No, dude, that's a firey plane crash. Fuck. FIRE BREATHING DRAGON. That's a fire breathing dragon. W0W. Which do you think is gonna be more interesting? Neither, I'd rather watch The Legend of SupaCree What time is it on? SUPACREE it's always on. How is that even possible! SUPACREE you're on it, Are you recording me? SUPACREE I record everything. Srsly?! SUPACREE Except lovemaking. … SUPACREE That is private. … SCARY TERRY SEX IS SACRED, BITCH. SUPACREE don't cal me a bitch. … go watch TV. CUT BACK TO: INT. A FIREY PLANE CRASH. DAY [Terror has stricken the passengers of flight 626, as the BOEING 747 plunges rapidly, falling from the sky at an alarming speed, as the airplane decentigrates, falling into pieces] SHIA LABEOUF Does this character not have a name? No, it's literally Shia LaBeouf; he's playing himself. CUT TO: SHIA LABEOUF I'M AN AIR MARSHALL WHEN I'M NOT ACTING Why is he still yelling? SHIA LABEOUF ‘CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. CUT BACK TO: Just before: SHIA LABEOUF looks over the rims of his glasses, staring forward at CC/SUPACREE, before lowering his head back down, momentarily pretending to read a magazine from under the brim of his tan cap, obscuring his identity. He places his hand over the gun in his holster, revealing by the golden badge beside it that he is a federal air Marshall (to the audience) before adjusting his brown leather jacket to cover it, squinting conspicuously under his bifocal lenses, peering once more at CC/SUPACREE, and swallowing subtly, licking his lips and flashing away a secondary glimpse of fear in his eyes, before presuming a fierce gaze as he braces for impact, calmly unbuckling his seatbelt. Suddenly, the plane is struck— as the passengers scream and panic in fear, he simply stands up, stabilizing his balance, and moves towards the terrified and hyperventilating SUPACREE. ] Ok. That'll do. What about Drake Bell?! what about Drake Bell!? And Drake And Josh?! AND THE AMANDA SHOW AND ARIANA GRANDE AND ALL THE NICHELODEON KIDS?! It can wait. NO! BUT WHAT ABOUT COSMO + WANDA?! AND SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS AND HEY ARNOLD I never got to Hey Arnold, but I've been thinking about it a lot since I got to New York; but—that's also Nickelodeon, so— BUT WHAT ABOUT DILLON FRANCIS. he's very attractive. WHAt ab0Ut SKriLLeX?! he's also very attractive, And just dropped his album— So we can just assume that the previously mentioned are perhaps both getting their dicks sucked often enough that I don't have to worry about it. Why would you worry about it. CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. This is not kid friendly. AHHHHHHHHHH WHAT ABOUT JIMMY FALLON. Everything naughty he says in this series is censored caused he has a contract with NBC. WHERE'S WHOOPI GOLDBERG?! WHO!? I don't like this. I don't like this at all. Then keep scrolling. What about deadmau5. Probably also presumably getting his dick sucked. W0W. I re-entered the apartment at exactly 1:15. BLŪ Of course. And though I had been filled with nothing but words and heartache, I could do no more than to peel off my layers and tumble into the shower, no longer in tears, but still devastated — and somehow dying to know if the Skrillex album just so happened to mark my Deathwish, or restore my faith in humanity…neither of which actually mattered; I had fallen prey once more to the cycle of poverty's destruction and relentlessness, if even by my own doing—the respective love I held for Sonny, Dillon Francis, or anyone else simply a faction of obsessive fandom, my writings a mere glimpse into the unobstructed world of the fourth dimension, which I undoubtedly still believed and was living in, only hoping that I was indeed not the hopeless protagonist to die, in the end—and perhaps, that even if I did, the worlds and works that I had published on The Legend of Supacree, OWSLA Confidential: The Infinite Skrillifiles, Gerald's World, and Enter The Multiverse would stand as the backbone for an unimaginable flurry of Whatever. The End. ENTER THE MULTIVERSE WAR OF WORLDS LEGENDS HOLY WAR EARTH WORLD WAR WATER (WWIII) {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U. I ain't got nothing but wants for you; I guess I'll thicken the plot, like a cannonball holy where are you? man, Angel, or martyr? I have still a heart, but halfheartedly departed, Your honorable marker, a son, for the sonnet: a song for the road- and a bun, for a bonnet I saw you more often then mom, the bombshell forgot what you called it I've got to run off, And run on to go faux at the faucet i saw you once and You've got all the love, I've got none left- well some-- but it's not the kind I wanted; i gues I'm just a mom, And you're the son; you're the Sun, then. love you, Sonny.

I fell into a dream with you last night And when I woke I had to cry And when I looked inside your eyes I had to realize they were mine Now I'm alive And in alignment Something like a diamond shines inside It's just another night Our love is just inside my mind I had to hide it Your highness Right on time. As expected. Hey, I just wanted you to know: Your evil shamanic curse worked( I've been homeless since I left you and demonic forces follow me everywhere So I'm going to kill myself eventually Just the way you hoped I would So no one will have to know that you hit me so hard it made me lose my mind You have an evil spirit and a heartless soul and nobody will ever love you except for our son— So just tell him I love him You fucking win Your curse worked Every single person you ever try to love will cheat and lie to you Just like you did to me And the only reason I don't wish homelessness and suicide onto you Like you wished onto me Is because you have our son Thanks for ruining my life I hope there's heaven on the other side I fucking hate you You're fucking evil You fat stupid retarded motherfucker —but I didn't text him that, of course I wanted to; But in my heart and soul, I knew it would be the end of me, And that he'd know he really had won— And though I didn't want to give him the power or the light of day, I knew I was cursed, Followed by coughing demons, pretty, skinny women, mindfucked by Skrillex and Dillon Francis and set to die in the streets with nothing to eat, nowhere to go, and nothing to lose but myself, not that it mattered— It would be a quiet suicide, And my son might never know I died alone and homeless in New York City; But i loved him the most And the hole in my heart that made me a ghost was shaped just like him ; And though I had nothing left but love to give, Which meant nothing in a cruel and loveless world made of money, The best that I could do was just to love him, And hope that on the other side would be heaven, Where I could know him again I just passed the white rabbit; I'd laugh at it, if I weren't rabid with absolute madness I've had it! I can't stand it I mismanaged My finances, It's fine, actually; I've got enough time (Money) To climb the Empire The Devil's a Liar, But so am I, And God's a bird on a wire How inspiring I'm one off of everything, I can't run, when I'm too busy thinking “Where the fuxk am I gonna sleep” Tomorrow, I can pawn my drum machine— That buys me one more night in a nice dream A nice clean apartment in Brooklyn, Some rice and beans; Another dream… ‘Is it supposed to be a secret?' I really had fallen in love with Sonny, but it didn't seem to matter anymore about anything—I didn't have what I needed at all—and the irony and reality was setting in that the Sonny was dropping his album on the exact day that I would run out of everything—out of money for food, a place to sleep…everything. I had loved him so wholehearly that I had recorded ïambīc; only to be devastated in the following weeks with the discovery that he had been spending time with Kayla Laurenc who I didn't exactly despise, as much as I resented—as in all of my life, girls like her had always gotten ahead and gotten everything I wanted, without even trying—just because they looked the way they did—and, at least by all the people I had been around, even my mother—I was ugly, fat, and retarded. Perhaps he did operate on the Devil's power, with my ex husband; I was homeless, at least not yet hungry, but on my way to it—and finally, out of “nowhere”, Sonny being Skrillex was in New York, releasing the album we had all been waiting for. I was either being cruicified or… Connected to a greater purpose, but it hurt either way—and either way I wanted to end it. Every time I dreamt of Dillon, it was of his entire family—in fact, I had almost forgotten that he had a brother at all; it didn't make sense to me, actually I had stopped breathing. I was crying quietly from the moment I left Equinox—I had done my best not to, but couldn't help it entirely. It had been too long since I had any sense of security. I tossed my head back to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks, staring up with widened eyes, which suddenly focused on the digital LCD screen, flashing the streets at which the train would stop; I was of course sitting directly beneath the stop for 88th street—Sonny's birth year, and a number that had repeatedly jumped out to me since our “meeting”. ‘Why would he do this to me?' Maybe this is all supposed to murder me. My ex husband had been tied to White Supremacy; “I belong to an organization that will kill you and bury you somewhere no one will ever find you.” He once said—one of the things which lead to my attempt—or completing, alternatively, suicide. “You know why I have the power to control demons?” Another notion which had the tendency to repeat itself in my mind, whenever a demonic energy found its way to me, in the form of a skinny, attractive woman or a coughing homeless person, in the form of Kayla Lauren, Dillon Francis, or even Sonny—and though none of the latter two actually ever seemed like actual demons, at least to me—the demonic energy was in knowing that someone like me, in reality, could never deserve or afford someone like Sonny, or Dillon respectively—and although the attraction that I felt to either of them was extreme wrnough to me, and could even be called love, the truth was that the effect of fame meant that it wasn't just me, but hundreds of thousands of other human beings like me, better than me, more attractive than me—and with a better perception of reality that would make more ideal partners, mates, and lovers, and that my own perception of beauty and self love had been shattered by Society. Maybe don't post this. What does it matter? What am I supposed to believe? That Sonny's come to New York to rescue me and take me to freedom—that with someone like me he'd be actually happy? That everything in my head, in my heart, in my mind—the belief that we were meant to be is actually reality? He has every reason and every right to be wary of me. I had read about the teenaged girl that had become obsessed with Drake Bell, following him to all his shows and eventually, even becoming close with him; texting back and forth, and from the looks of it—probably even meeting, hanging out together and who knows what else exactly, besides the man himself and God, on whose behalf it sometimes seeemed I was acting, however— “New York Or Nowhere” Oh shit. The orange and blue basketballs on the fabric clutch held under the arm of the man in front of me distracted my mind for a moment from my writing; the color orange had always reminded me of Dillon, because it was so prevalent in the music which had first captivated me, even before I knew who Dillon Francis was exactly, and had somehow managed to have implanted the notion —especially after the realization that he was, in fact, using magic— that perhaps such a gifted shapeshifter had learned to even transform himself into an object that was inanimate; a traffic cone, whatever that meant. [DON'T HIT ME.] Years had passed since the idea had been established, and though I couldn't seem to remember how I had first actually imagined it, besides listening to what probably may have been ‘too much' Dillon Francis, an entire storyline had been written, as Dillon Francis, having become at some point captain of The Bampheraphs, had instructed the other Insomniacs, Bampheramphs, Motherfuckers, and DJs to also transform into the very simple, very inanimate traffic cones— and though Skrillex, or Sonny—was also given an extreme amount of power and magic, especially even the ability to become inanimate himself, or, “The Inanimate Skrillex”, as it had once been written—as it remarkably turned out, Skrillex would find that he could be every color traffic cone besides Neon Orange—which, as the curator of such an idea, had, over time, become both comedic and tragic—as everywhere I seemed to go, tended to produce strangely colored tragic cones at random. ‘That did happen' Maybe all this means Is when I find the bravery To finally fly, or something… INT. AIRPLANE. DAY BLŪ is seated in a window seat towards the back of a BOEING 747. Oh man, this scene. Sometimes my worst nightmares are airplane crashes, actually. Since I could remember, maybe from the age of about two or three—I would dream awful tragedies—‘nightmares, or night terrors, actually—tornadoes, horrible fires and burning buildings and sometimes, airplane crashes, which even to this day, haunt me when I sleep. You know, nobody has a ticket to the soul train. What. You just jump. Trains in New York do come suicide fast. I was on the platform and still almost got hit! Okay, this isn't really funny anymore, is it? No. Suddenly, a sound rang out into my ears and Ugh, it's hard to write when you want to die this much ‘Why do you want to die this much? I had extended my air bnb for one more night, but it meant giving up one of my drum machines go to the pawn shop—the one which I had just reclaimed from the pawn shop in Las Vegas, and seemed an entire waste, as it was the heaviest thing in all my luggage, and I had dragged it across the country in order to use it as a performance piece to give myself an edge over the other DJs who simply mixed—But, as it turned out, of course, the world, “especially New York”, was over saturated with DJs— though I had done what I could, or most of what I could, to get a head start, I had so much work backed up that in the two weeks since I had left my job in LA, that it didn't matter now that I even had my drum machine with me—I was scrambling to gather money to keep a place to sleep, and so the drum machine would have to go in the morning, in exchange for one or two more nights of housing—and with any luck or by the grace or God I could somehow fish it back out of the pawn shop in some weeks or months time—not that I enjoyed the idea of going back into the workforce as anything but an artist—but so far, this artist that I was had been the lowest of all the low paying jobs I had ever had. ‘What is that?' I had heard the album over and over—it had infinite replay value, of course, and I was using its tones and auras to dry my tears on the long train back to Brooklyn from Manhattan—but, in this moment, as I exited the subway station and made my way down my usual route back to the flat I had depleted my entire savings on staying in—the sound shook through my entirety, rumbling strangely into the arcs of my feet and even stopping me dead in my tracks for a moment, ringing strangely in my chest and into the palms of my hands, up my shoulders and into my hollow lungs, wrapping around my heart, and colliding with the very odd thought “I gotta stay alive to ask Joel what that was.” How bizarre. It was past midnight—and now that I was above ground, I hadn't thought to check again if the new Skrillex album was being released on East Coast time, where Sonny supposedly still was, or if it might not be available until later; and I hadn't thought to look or try to check Instagram again—I had only been on Instagram anyway in hopes of finding a job—and had only checked the Skrillex Instagram hoping that I would see something that would make the way I felt about Sonny stop, by now, suddenly realizing that it never would until he married or procreated with someone else, (or I did) once and for all wiping out any dillusions I had dreamt up or summoned in the wake of our crossing paths. As quickly as he had come to New York, he could have left and probably may have—but I didn't know, and didn't care; it would be futile to believe he would come to rescue me, even if it was what I wanted and needed so much that I couldn't bear the thought of anything more than just departing the entire world. Earlier, even though I had been pressed for time to make it to the gym, having spent the day of course collecting my things and trying to figure a way out ot the homeless box I had built my way into, still stressing the somehow ‘need' to publish the entirety or the 6th season so that I could go on hiatus— It really hadn't occurred to me for more than a moment that Sonny might be listening to my podcast at all, besides listening to Renaissance which I had briefly vaulted, having worked out to it too much and beyond honestly hating myself for not being either Skrillex, or perhaps even more disappointingly, Beyoncè—and either one would have done— I retracted my last couple steps, doubling back to the discotheque—All Night Skate—where I had already asked for a job one of my first nights in Brooklyn, collecting the number of the manager but having lost it, deleting it by accident— INT. ALL NIGHT SKATE. 12:56 AM I realized it was nearly closing time; I had stopped back by after Equinox to write, hoping to music mine whatever the DJ was playing, my body strangely acting and writing quite automatically, with reason to live, shaken suddenly alive by an unidentifiable bass sound seated safely on While 1>2, and still seeking purpose Bryan eno complex heaven Terrors in my head The two songs mixed perfectly into my minds eye as I left, snapping photos for albums yet to be written, and wondering whether or not I would live long enough to write them, or to mix the two songs which had so perfectly mixed—one playing in my headphones and the other over the PA system—and wondering how less than an hour earlier I had experienced a sound I had heard at least a hundred times under the arches of my feet. Oh, wow. ‘Errors In My Bread' The numbers 404 had always triggered the thought: Error, perhaps suggesting even I myself was nothing more than just a simulation or computer of some sort, a robotic formulation of all that had been programmed and crated to exist in the way that I had, a short circuit or some kind of malfunction; I'd trickled into Equinox at precisely 9:52, which allowed me exactly 8 minutes to prepare to record the beginning of the closing announcements at 10:00 for the Equinox + EP, peel off my outer layer of clothes, and pour into the sauna for at least 15 minutes, squeezing in a light workout—warranted, considering I had spent the entirety of the day before at the club, auditioning the rest of the 6th season between the sauna and steamroom, Suffering the Skrillex that had descended onto the city I neither loved nor lived in—which might have totaled altogether about 4 hours in the sauna alone, and what seemed like 56 gallons of sweat—but I was grasping at straws, searching for random numbers to complete my thoughts. I had left Manhattan, as usual, at 11:00 PM as Sports Club closed—pulling my belongings from locker 403, with locker number 404 catching my attention from out of the corner or my eye—and as tears gushed from my face, blasted through the revolving doors—-there was indeed an Error in my Bread, and so to self soothe as usual only seemed fitting, as the words began to pour from my fingertips once more. ‘Not Your Mother's Drag Night' had ended, and the either irony or synchronicity subtly toyed with my inherent need for survival and awestruck emotions, as the last and final episode of the 6th season, which I had already named [Not Your Mother's Episode] before arriving to my Equinox venture at the party — the episode in which everything I had written, assembled with every entry for the 6th season, to be left in its description —was yet still unreleased; it had been a grueling train ride full of tears, and I had yet to neatly tie together the Jimmy Fallon timeline—the Timmy Turner Timeline, which of course connected the Amanda Bynes timelines and all of the Nickelodeon timelines respectively—and though the Skrillex and Dillon Francis timelines had driven nearly every series in their entireties in one way or another, Sonny's sudden arrival into New York City mere hours after Act III, Part IIhad been posted —indicating that either he himself or someone on his campaign had been listening and reading along with my series, jolting me into a frenzy, of course… (though I had already planned to release the end of the season concurrently—as I had with a majority of the previous seasons, taking a hiatus to regroup after each season conclusion or finale) my homeless-suicidal pattern had shown itself to be cyclical, by now—not that one thing hadn't anything to do with the other, and though someone or something may have found it interesting and entertaining, I myself was growing tired of making a mockery of my own self, remaining unloved, unhoused, and unfelt enough so much so that nothing had really changed—and although the 3rd season's hiatus had warranted the 4th season's Anandar, the 4th seasons return to the United States had of course warranted more racism, capitalistic greed, hereditary confinement, algorithmic condemnation, corporate slavery, and an interesting series of mixtapes—which of course had resulted in the 6th season's hope for a better future, my almost-return to Hollywood via the actual real-life Drake Bell and his man-habits, my mental degradation via lack of privacy, and of course, the empathic enforcement or feeling everything at once besides love, human connection or trust. My ex had texted me some weeks earlier, finally having apologized for cheating and assuring me that his karma had been paid in full—without responding, I simply screenshotted the message for future use on an album cover, deleted Google voice, and reassured myself that if his long-overdue karma for cheating had just now been ‘paid-in-full', that it surely had not been paid in full at all and was only just beginning—as he had never apologized or admitted to anything else he'd done—of course, as our relationship had ended, my re-awakening of creativity had been flourishing; I was always recording, taking samples, and writing down ideas for music I wanted to make—and besides that—openly admitting that he had hit me would probably open a disastrous wormhole of self-realization and shame no true narcissist could take—that which he was, not that I at this point had resented it, besides of course the scarring on my lower lip that had come as a result, the estrangement from my son, or the mental anguish I had suffered—and, looking back, I still could never recount whether I had… Just then, I realized that there was an error in my thinking; I had already been running off my weight at a tremendously rapid pace, working out to Recess in the living room between shifts at the veterinary clinic, where I took pride and joy in running with the greyhounds at then-top speed, racing to Diplo, Doctor P, and Rusko—of course, only stopping to express, my breasts still heavy from lactation, and realizing that it was painful to run with boobs full of anything—let alone, milk—which sometimes I pumped for Annie once her glands had gone dry, donated to the NICU, or winded up in my ex's coffee, because it gave him “superpowers.” This is a weird story. Well, if I tell some of it I have to tell all of it. Why are you even telling some of it? Because someone threw Skrillex in my tent and I should have raped him. You can't rape the willing. This is a sick bitch we're dealing with. How do you know he was willing? (He was wiling.) Idk,bro. He looked sick. Or scared. Or Ill. “ill” Get it. I put the ill in Skrillex Better fix my will forreal This could be my last meal Cause I feel like jumping off a building Or a cliff, Like dead horse point— We're beating/being a dead horse, Aren't we? Or an F'n Pig: Oink Oink! Boisterous, Aren't we boys? Let me annoint you all with oil, On upholstery You want a half, Or a whole thing? I want you to hold— I want you to know me I want you to love me I love you Are you happy? Oh, you fucked up. Oh, you think?! I barely sleep, Then you start showing up in my dreams? I don't believe you, I don't believe in anything but me, And I could be you, maybe Maybe there's a sequel, If we're equal— Or if he isn't evil; Maybe I'll just Evil Kinivel Fuck you people! Maybe I'll go fuxkin sleep with Lil Peep I'll call the reaper, Jesus Weeps, But probably not as much as _________ He's a keeper. Fun fact: when you cry, I cry. Plz. Stop crying. I can't. INT. A FIREY PLANE CRASH Wait. THE BILDERBERG MEETING. Jesus Christ, why is Shia Labouf so fuckin ripped. Ew. Who feeds him. CHICKEN. gross. BEFORE: SHIA LABEOUF ITS ME, I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. Ū Oh noooo… SHIA LABEOUF THE FESTIVAL PROJECT Ū … What. SHIA LABEOUF THE FESTIVAL PROJECT Ū k. SHIA LABEOUF NOW WAKE UP, Ū What? SHIA LABEOUF WAKE—UP. Narcissistic Cannibal- Korn, Skrillex. UP. [C.C. Wakes up, drenched in sweat. ] … … … C.C. …Shia LaBeouf…? (That was an actual dream I had once—give or take a few parts.) Yeah, give or take. Ahem. I probably would have forgotten he existed, too, were it not for that dream—and shortly thereafter… FLASHBACK: C.C. Is binge watching Hot Ones. I want—all the sauce. What's that dudes name. Sean. He seems a little off. Yeah, I bet he's off. E Q U I N O X huh. …huh. INT. THE BILDERBERG MEETING SHIA LABEOUF I DONT GIVE A SINGLE FUCK. ILLUMINATI perfect. SECURITY GET OUT. SHIA LABEOUF I WAS NEVER IN. CHICKEN. Ew. ILLUMINATI SEQUENCE C - GREENLIGNT. Wtf is happening in this show. Idk, but I like it. Where's — CHAL (From season 4) IT DOESNT MAAAAAAATER. Right. CUT BACK TO: INT. A FIREY PLANECRASH. DAY. QUEST FOR FIRE. LOOK TO THE SKIES, YOUNG PADOWAN. oh my god. It's a fire breathing dragon! No, dude, that's a firey plane crash. Fuck. FIRE BREATHING DRAGON. That's a fire breathing dragon. W0W. Which do you think is gonna be more interesting? Neither, I'd rather watch The Legend of SupaCree What time is it on? SUPACREE it's always on. How is that even possible! SUPACREE you're on it, Are you recording me? SUPACREE I record everything. Srsly?! SUPACREE Except lovemaking. … SUPACREE That is private. … SCARY TERRY SEX IS SACRED, BITCH. SUPACREE don't cal me a bitch. … go watch TV. CUT BACK TO: INT. A FIREY PLANE CRASH. DAY [Terror has stricken the passengers of flight 626, as the BOEING 747 plunges rapidly, falling from the sky at an alarming speed, as the airplane decentigrates, falling into pieces] SHIA LABEOUF Does this character not have a name? No, it's literally Shia LaBeouf; he's playing himself. CUT TO: SHIA LABEOUF I'M AN AIR MARSHALL WHEN I'M NOT ACTING Why is he still yelling? SHIA LABEOUF ‘CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. CUT BACK TO: Just before: SHIA LABEOUF looks over the rims of his glasses, staring forward at CC/SUPACREE, before lowering his head back down, momentarily pretending to read a magazine from under the brim of his tan cap, obscuring his identity. He places his hand over the gun in his holster, revealing by the golden badge beside it that he is a federal air Marshall (to the audience) before adjusting his brown leather jacket to cover it, squinting conspicuously under his bifocal lenses, peering once more at CC/SUPACREE, and swallowing subtly, licking his lips and flashing away a secondary glimpse of fear in his eyes, before presuming a fierce gaze as he braces for impact, calmly unbuckling his seatbelt. Suddenly, the plane is struck— as the passengers scream and panic in fear, he simply stands up, stabilizing his balance, and moves towards the terrified and hyperventilating SUPACREE. ] Ok. That'll do. What about Drake Bell?! what about Drake Bell!? And Drake And Josh?! AND THE AMANDA SHOW AND ARIANA GRANDE AND ALL THE NICHELODEON KIDS?! It can wait. NO! BUT WHAT ABOUT COSMO + WANDA?! AND SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS AND HEY ARNOLD I never got to Hey Arnold, but I've been thinking about it a lot since I got to New York; but—that's also Nickelodeon, so— BUT WHAT ABOUT DILLON FRANCIS. he's very attractive. WHAt ab0Ut SKriLLeX?! he's also very attractive, And just dropped his album— So we can just assume that the previously mentioned are perhaps both getting their dicks sucked often enough that I don't have to worry about it. Why would you worry about it. CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. This is not kid friendly. AHHHHHHHHHH WHAT ABOUT JIMMY FALLON. Everything naughty he says in this series is censored caused he has a contract with NBC. WHERE'S WHOOPI GOLDBERG?! WHO!? I don't like this. I don't like this at all. Then keep scrolling. What about deadmau5. Probably also presumably getting his dick sucked. W0W. I re-entered the apartment at exactly 1:15. BLŪ Of course. And though I had been filled with nothing but words and heartache, I could do no more than to peel off my layers and tumble into the shower, no longer in tears, but still devastated — and somehow dying to know if the Skrillex album just so happened to mark my Deathwish, or restore my faith in humanity…neither of which actually mattered; I had fallen prey once more to the cycle of poverty's destruction and relentlessness, if even by my own doing—the respective love I held for Sonny, Dillon Francis, or anyone else simply a faction of obsessive fandom, my writings a mere glimpse into the unobstructed world of the fourth dimension, which I undoubtedly still believed and was living in, only hoping that I was indeed not the hopeless protagonist to die, in the end—and perhaps, that even if I did, the worlds and works that I had published on The Legend of Supacree, OWSLA Confidential: The Infinite Skrillifiles, Gerald's World, and Enter The Multiverse would stand as the backbone for an unimaginable flurry of Whatever. The End. ENTER THE MULTIVERSE WAR OF WORLDS LEGENDS HOLY WAR EARTH WORLD WAR WATER (WWIII) I fell into a dream with you last night And when I woke I had to cry And when I looked inside your eyes I had to realize they were mine Now I'm alive And in alignment Something like a diamond shines inside It's just another night Our love is just inside my mind I had to hide it Your highness Right on time. As expected. Hey, I just wanted you to know: Your evil shamanic curse worked( I've been homeless since I left you and demonic forces follow me everywhere So I'm going to kill myself eventually Just the way you hoped I would So no one will have to know that you hit me so hard it made me lose my mind You have an evil spirit and a heartless soul and nobody will ever love you except for our son— So just tell him I love him You fucking win Your curse worked Every single person you ever try to love will cheat and lie to you Just like you did to me And the only reason I don't wish homelessness and suicide onto you Like you wished onto me Is because you have our son Thanks for ruining my life I hope there's heaven on the other side I fucking hate you You're fucking evil You fat stupid retarded motherfucker —but I didn't text him that, of course I wanted to; But in my heart and soul, I knew it would be the end of me, And that he'd know he really had won— And though I didn't want to give him the power or the light of day, I knew I was cursed, Followed by coughing demons, pretty, skinny women, mindfucked by Skrillex and Dillon Francis and set to die in the streets with nothing to eat, nowhere to go, and nothing to lose but myself, not that it mattered— It would be a quiet suicide, And my son might never know I died alone and homeless in New York City; But i loved him the most And the hole in my heart that made me a ghost was shaped just like him ; And though I had nothing left but love to give, Which meant nothing in a cruel and loveless world made of money, The best that I could do was just to love him, And hope that on the other side would be heaven, Where I could know him again I just passed the white rabbit; I'd laugh at it, if I weren't rabid with absolute madness I've had it! I can't stand it I mismanaged My finances, It's fine, actually; I've got enough time (Money) To climb the Empire The Devil's a Liar, But so am I, And God's a bird on a wire How inspiring I'm one off of everything, I can't run, when I'm too busy thinking “Where the fuxk am I gonna sleep” Tomorrow, I can pawn my drum machine— That buys me one more night in a nice dream A nice clean apartment in Brooklyn, Some rice and beans; Another dream… ‘Is it supposed to be a secret?' I really had fallen in love with Sonny, but it didn't seem to matter anymore about anything—I didn't have what I needed at all—and the irony and reality was setting in that the Sonny was dropping his album on the exact day that I would run out of everything—out of money for food, a place to sleep…everything. I had loved him so wholehearly that I had recorded ïambīc; only to be devastated in the following weeks with the discovery that he had been spending time with Kayla Laurenc who I didn't exactly despise, as much as I resented—as in all of my life, girls like her had always gotten ahead and gotten everything I wanted, without even trying—just because they looked the way they did—and, at least by all the people I had been around, even my mother—I was ugly, fat, and retarded. Perhaps he did operate on the Devil's power, with my ex husband; I was homeless, at least not yet hungry, but on my way to it—and finally, out of “nowhere”, Sonny being Skrillex was in New York, releasing the album we had all been waiting for. I was either being cruicified or… Connected to a greater purpose, but it hurt either way—and either way I wanted to end it. Every time I dreamt of Dillon, it was of his entire family—in fact, I had almost forgotten that he had a brother at all; it didn't make sense to me, actually I had stopped breathing. I was crying quietly from the moment I left Equinox—I had done my best not to, but couldn't help it entirely. It had been too long since I had any sense of security. I tossed my head back to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks, staring up with widened eyes, which suddenly focused on the digital LCD screen, flashing the streets at which the train would stop; I was of course sitting directly beneath the stop for 88th street—Sonny's birth year, and a number that had repeatedly jumped out to me since our “meeting”. ‘Why would he do this to me?' Maybe this is all supposed to murder me. My ex husband had been tied to White Supremacy; “I belong to an organization that will kill you and bury you somewhere no one will ever find you.” He once said—one of the things which lead to my attempt—or completing, alternatively, suicide. “You know why I have the power to control demons?” Another notion which had the tendency to repeat itself in my mind, whenever a demonic energy found its way to me, in the form of a skinny, attractive woman or a coughing homeless person, in the form of Kayla Lauren, Dillon Francis, or even Sonny—and though none of the latter two actually ever seemed like actual demons, at least to me—the demonic energy was in knowing that someone like me, in reality, could never deserve or afford someone like Sonny, or Dillon respectively—and although the attraction that I felt to either of them was extreme wrnough to me, and could even be called love, the truth was that the effect of fame meant that it wasn't just me, but hundreds of thousands of other human beings like me, better than me, more attractive than me—and with a better perception of reality that would make more ideal partners, mates, and lovers, and that my own perception of beauty and self love had been shattered by Society. Maybe don't post this. What does it matter? What am I supposed to believe? That Sonny's come to New York to rescue me and take me to freedom—that with someone like me he'd be actually happy? That everything in my head, in my heart, in my mind—the belief that we were meant to be is actually reality? He has every reason and every right to be wary of me. I had read about the teenaged girl that had become obsessed with Drake Bell, following him to all his shows and eventually, even becoming close with him; texting back and forth, and from the looks of it—probably even meeting, hanging out together and who knows what else exactly, besides the man himself and God, on whose behalf it sometimes seeemed I was acting, however— “New York Or Nowhere” Oh shit. The orange and blue basketballs on the fabric clutch held under the arm of the man in front of me distracted my mind for a moment from my writing; the color orange had always reminded me of Dillon, because it was so prevalent in the music which had first captivated me, even before I knew who Dillon Francis was exactly, and had somehow managed to have implanted the notion —especially after the realization that he was, in fact, using magic— that perhaps such a gifted shapeshifter had learned to even transform himself into an object that was inanimate; a traffic cone, whatever that meant. [DON'T HIT ME.] Years had passed since the idea had been established, and though I couldn't seem to remember how I had first actually imagined it, besides listening to what probably may have been ‘too much' Dillon Francis, an entire storyline had been written, as Dillon Francis, having become at some point captain of The Bampheraphs, had instructed the other Insomniacs, Bampheramphs, Motherfuckers, and DJs to also transform into the very simple, very inanimate traffic cones— and though Skrillex, or Sonny—was also given an extreme amount of power and magic, especially even the ability to become inanimate himself, or, “The Inanimate Skrillex”, as it had once been written—as it remarkably turned out, Skrillex would find that he could be every color traffic cone besides Neon Orange—which, as the curator of such an idea, had, over time, become both comedic and tragic—as everywhere I seemed to go, tended to produce strangely colored tragic cones at random. ‘That did happen' Maybe all this means Is when I find the bravery To finally fly, or something… INT. AIRPLANE. DAY BLŪ is seated in a window seat towards the back of a BOEING 747. Oh man, this scene. Sometimes my worst nightmares are airplane crashes, actually. Since I could remember, maybe from the age of about two or three—I would dream awful tragedies—‘nightmares, or night terrors, actually—tornadoes, horrible fires and burning buildings and sometimes, airplane crashes, which even to this day, haunt me when I sleep. You know, nobody has a ticket to the soul train. What. You just jump. Trains in New York do come suicide fast. I was on the platform and still almost got hit! Okay, this isn't really funny anymore, is it? No. Suddenly, a sound rang out into my ears and Ugh, it's hard to write when you want to die this much ‘Why do you want to die this much? I had extended my air bnb for one more night, but it meant giving up one of my drum machines go to the pawn shop—the one which I had just reclaimed from the pawn shop in Las Vegas, and seemed an entire waste, as it was the heaviest thing in all my luggage, and I had dragged it across the country in order to use it as a performance piece to give myself an edge over the other DJs who simply mixed—But, as it turned out, of course, the world, “especially New York”, was over saturated with DJs— though I had done what I could, or most of what I could, to get a head start, I had so much work backed up that in the two weeks since I had left my job in LA, that it didn't matter now that I even had my drum machine with me—I was scrambling to gather money to keep a place to sleep, and so the drum machine would have to go in the morning, in exchange for one or two more nights of housing—and with any luck or by the grace or God I could somehow fish it back out of the pawn shop in some weeks or months time—not that I enjoyed the idea of going back into the workforce as anything but an artist—but so far, this artist that I was had been the lowest of all the low paying jobs I had ever had. ‘What is that?' I had heard the album over and over—it had infinite replay value, of course, and I was using its tones and auras to dry my tears on the long train back to Brooklyn from Manhattan—but, in this moment, as I exited the subway station and made my way down my usual route back to the flat I had depleted my entire savings on staying in—the sound shook through my entirety, rumbling strangely into the arcs of my feet and even stopping me dead in my tracks for a moment, ringing strangely in my chest and into the palms of my hands, up my shoulders and into my hollow lungs, wrapping around my heart, and colliding with the very odd thought “I gotta stay alive to ask Joel what that was.” How bizarre. It was past midnight—and now that I was above ground, I hadn't thought to check again if the new Skrillex album was being released on East Coast time, where Sonny supposedly still was, or if it might not be available until later; and I hadn't thought to look or try to check Instagram again—I had only been on Instagram anyway in hopes of finding a job—and had only checked the Skrillex Instagram hoping that I would see something that would make the way I felt about Sonny stop, by now, suddenly realizing that it never would until he married or procreated with someone else, (or I did) once and for all wiping out any dillusions I had dreamt up or summoned in the wake of our crossing paths. As quickly as he had come to New York, he could have left and probably may have—but I didn't know, and didn't care; it would be futile to believe he would come to rescue me, even if it was what I wanted and needed so much that I couldn't bear the thought of anything more than just departing the entire world. Earlier, even though I had been pressed for time to make it to the gym, having spent the day of course collecting my things and trying to figure a way out ot the homeless box I had built my way into, still stressing the somehow ‘need' to publish the entirety or the 6th season so that I could go on hiatus— It really hadn't occurred to me for more than a moment that Sonny might be listening to my podcast at all, besides listening to Renaissance which I had briefly vaulted, having worked out to it too much and beyond honestly hating myself for not being either Skrillex, or perhaps even more disappointingly, Beyoncè—and either one would have done— I retracted my last couple steps, doubling back to the discotheque—All Night Skate—where I had already asked for a job one of my first nights in Brooklyn, collecting the number of the manager but having lost it, deleting it by accident— INT. ALL NIGHT SKATE. 12:56 AM I realized it was nearly closing time; I had stopped back by after Equinox to write, hoping to music mine whatever the DJ was playing, my body strangely acting and writing quite automatically, with reason to live, shaken suddenly alive by an unidentifiable bass sound seated safely on While 1>2, and still seeking purpose Bryan eno complex heaven Terrors in my head The two songs mixed perfectly into my minds eye as I left, snapping photos for albums yet to be written, and wondering whether or not I would live long enough to write them, or to mix the two songs which had so perfectly mixed—one playing in my headphones and the other over the PA system—and wondering how less than an hour earlier I had experienced a sound I had heard at least a hundred times under the arches of my feet. Oh, wow. ‘Errors In My Bread' The numbers 404 had always triggered the thought: Error, perhaps suggesting even I myself was nothing more than just a simulation or computer of some sort, a robotic formulation of all that had been programmed and crated to exist in the way that I had, a short circuit or some kind of malfunction; I'd trickled into Equinox at precisely 9:52, which allowed me exactly 8 minutes to prepare to record the beginning of the closing announcements at 10:00 for the Equinox + EP, peel off my outer layer of clothes, and pour into the sauna for at least 15 minutes, squeezing in a light workout—warranted, considering I had spent the entirety of the day before at the club, auditioning the rest of the 6th season between the sauna and steamroom, Suffering the Skrillex that had descended onto the city I neither loved nor lived in—which might have totaled altogether about 4 hours in the sauna alone, and what seemed like 56 gallons of sweat—but I was grasping at straws, searching for random numbers to complete my thoughts. I had left Manhattan, as usual, at 11:00 PM as Sports Club closed—pulling my belongings from locker 403, with locker number 404 catching my attention from out of the corner or my eye—and as tears gushed from my face, blasted through the revolving doors—-there was indeed an Error in my Bread, and so to self soothe as usual only seemed fitting, as the words began to pour from my fingertips once more. ‘Not Your Mother's Drag Night' had ended, and the either irony or synchronicity subtly toyed with my inherent need for survival and awestruck emotions, as the last and final episode of the 6th season, which I had already named [Not Your Mother's Episode] before arriving to my Equinox venture at the party — the episode in which everything I had written, assembled with every entry for the 6th season, to be left in its description —was yet still unreleased; it had been a grueling train ride full of tears, and I had yet to neatly tie together the Jimmy Fallon timeline—the Timmy Turner Timeline, which of course connected the Amanda Bynes timelines and all of the Nickelodeon timelines respectively—and though the Skrillex and Dillon Francis timelines had driven nearly every series in their entireties in one way or another, Sonny's sudden arrival into New York City mere hours after Act III, Part IIhad been posted —indicating that either he himself or someone on his campaign had been listening and reading along with my series, jolting me into a frenzy, of course… (though I had already planned to release the end of the season concurrently—as I had with a majority of the previous seasons, taking a hiatus to regroup after each season conclusion or finale) my homeless-suicidal pattern had shown itself to be cyclical, by now—not that one thing hadn't anything to do with the other, and though someone or something may have found it interesting and entertaining, I myself was growing tired of making a mockery of my own self, remaining unloved, unhoused, and unfelt enough so much so that nothing had really changed—and although the 3rd season's hiatus had warranted the 4th season's Anandar, the 4th seasons return to the United States had of course warranted more racism, capitalistic greed, hereditary confinement, algorithmic condemnation, corporate slavery, and an interesting series of mixtapes—which of course had resulted in the 6th season's hope for a better future, my almost-return to Hollywood via the actual real-life Drake Bell and his man-habits, my mental degradation via lack of privacy, and of course, the empathic enforcement or feeling everything at once besides love, human connection or trust. My ex had texted me some weeks earlier, finally having apologized for cheating and assuring me that his karma had been paid in full—without responding, I simply screenshotted the message for future use on an album cover, deleted Google voice, and reassured myself that if his long-overdue karma for cheating had just now been ‘paid-in-full', that it surely had not been paid in full at all and was only just beginning—as he had never apologized or admitted to anything else he'd done—of course, as our relationship had ended, my re-awakening of creativity had been flourishing; I was always recording, taking samples, and writing down ideas for music I wanted to make—and besides that—openly admitting that he had hit me would probably open a disastrous wormhole of self-realization and shame no true narcissist could take—that which he was, not that I at this point had resented it, besides of course the scarring on my lower lip that had come as a result, the estrangement from my son, or the mental anguish I had suffered—and, looking back, I still could never recount whether I had… Just then, I realized that there was an error in my thinking; I had already been running off my weight at a tremendously rapid pace, working out to Recess in the living room between shifts at the veterinary clinic, where I took pride and joy in running with the greyhounds at then-top speed, racing to Diplo, Doctor P, and Rusko—of course, only stopping to express, my breasts still heavy from lactation, and realizing that it was painful to run with boobs full of anything—let alone, milk—which sometimes I pumped for Annie once her glands had gone dry, donated to the NICU, or winded up in my ex's coffee, because it gave him “superpowers.” This is a weird story. Well, if I tell some of it I have to tell all of it. Why are you even telling some of it? Because someone threw Skrillex in my tent and I should have raped him. You can't rape the willing. This is a sick bitch we're dealing with. How do you know he was willing? (He was wiling.) Idk,bro. He looked sick. Or scared. Or Ill. “ill” Get it. I put the ill in Skrillex Better fix my will forreal This could be my last meal Cause I feel like jumping off a building Or a cliff, Like dead horse point— We're beating/being a dead horse, Aren't we? Or an F'n Pig: Oink Oink! Boisterous, Aren't we boys? Let me annoint you all with oil, On upholstery You want a half, Or a whole thing? I want you to hold— I want you to know me I want you to love me I love you Are you happy? Oh, you fucked up. Oh, you think?! I barely sleep, Then you start showing up in my dreams? I don't believe you, I don't believe in anything but me, And I could be you, maybe Maybe there's a sequel, If we're equal— Or if he isn't evil; Maybe I'll just Evil Kinivel Fuck you people! Maybe I'll go fuxkin sleep with Lil Peep I'll call the reaper, Jesus Weeps, But probably not as much as _________ He's a keeper. Fun fact: when you cry, I cry. Plz. Stop crying. I can't. INT. A FIREY PLANE CRASH Wait. THE BILDERBERG MEETING. Jesus Christ, why is Shia Labouf so fuckin ripped. Ew. Who feeds him. CHICKEN. gross. BEFORE: SHIA LABEOUF ITS ME, I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. Ū Oh noooo… SHIA LABEOUF THE FESTIVAL PROJECT Ū … What. SHIA LABEOUF THE FESTIVAL PROJECT Ū k. SHIA LABEOUF NOW WAKE UP, Ū What? SHIA LABEOUF WAKE—UP. Narcissistic Cannibal- Korn, Skrillex. UP. [C.C. Wakes up, drenched in sweat. ] … … … C.C. …Shia LaBeouf…? (That was an actual dream I had once—give or take a few parts.) Yeah, give or take. Ahem. I probably would have forgotten he existed, too, were it not for that dream—and shortly thereafter… FLASHBACK: C.C. Is binge watching Hot Ones. I want—all the sauce. What's that dudes name. Sean. He seems a little off. Yeah, I bet he's off. E Q U I N O X huh. …huh. INT. THE BILDERBERG MEETING SHIA LABEOUF I DONT GIVE A SINGLE FUCK. ILLUMINATI perfect. SECURITY GET OUT. SHIA LABEOUF I WAS NEVER IN. CHICKEN. Ew. ILLUMINATI SEQUENCE C - GREENLIGNT. Wtf is happening in this show. Idk, but I like it. Where's — CHAL (From season 4) IT DOESNT MAAAAAAATER. Right. CUT BACK TO: INT. A FIREY PLANECRASH. DAY. QUEST FOR FIRE. LOOK TO THE SKIES, YOUNG PADOWAN. oh my god. It's a fire breathing dragon! No, dude, that's a firey plane crash. Fuck. FIRE BREATHING DRAGON. That's a fire breathing dragon. W0W. Which do you think is gonna be more interesting? Neither, I'd rather watch The Legend of SupaCree What time is it on? SUPACREE it's always on. How is that even possible! SUPACREE you're on it, Are you recording me? SUPACREE I record everything. Srsly?! SUPACREE Except lovemaking. … SUPACREE That is private. … SCARY TERRY SEX IS SACRED, BITCH. SUPACREE don't cal me a bitch. … go watch TV. CUT BACK TO: INT. A FIREY PLANE CRASH. DAY [Terror has stricken the passengers of flight 626, as the BOEING 747 plunges rapidly, falling from the sky at an alarming speed, as the airplane decentigrates, falling into pieces] SHIA LABEOUF Does this character not have a name? No, it's literally Shia LaBeouf; he's playing himself. CUT TO: SHIA LABEOUF I'M AN AIR MARSHALL WHEN I'M NOT ACTING Why is he still yelling? SHIA LABEOUF ‘CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. CUT BACK TO: Just before: SHIA LABEOUF looks over the rims of his glasses, staring forward at CC/SUPACREE, before lowering his head back down, momentarily pretending to read a magazine from under the brim of his tan cap, obscuring his identity. He places his hand over the gun in his holster, revealing by the golden badge beside it that he is a federal air Marshall (to the audience) before adjusting his brown leather jacket to cover it, squinting conspicuously under his bifocal lenses, peering once more at CC/SUPACREE, and swallowing subtly, licking his lips and flashing away a secondary glimpse of fear in his eyes, before presuming a fierce gaze as he braces for impact, calmly unbuckling his seatbelt. Suddenly, the plane is struck— as the passengers scream and panic in fear, he simply stands up, stabilizing his balance, and moves towards the terrified and hyperventilating SUPACREE. ] Ok. That'll do. What about Drake Bell?! what about Drake Bell!? And Drake And Josh?! AND THE AMANDA SHOW AND ARIANA GRANDE AND ALL THE NICHELODEON KIDS?! It can wait. NO! BUT WHAT ABOUT COSMO + WANDA?! AND SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS AND HEY ARNOLD I never got to Hey Arnold, but I've been thinking about it a lot since I got to New York; but—that's also Nickelodeon, so— BUT WHAT ABOUT DILLON FRANCIS. he's very attractive. WHAt ab0Ut SKriLLeX?! he's also very attractive, And just dropped his album— So we can just assume that the previously mentioned are perhaps both getting their dicks sucked often enough that I don't have to worry about it. Why would you worry about it. CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. This is not kid friendly. AHHHHHHHHHH WHAT ABOUT JIMMY FALLON. Everything naughty he says in this series is censored caused he has a contract with NBC. WHERE'S WHOOPI GOLDBERG?! WHO!? I don't like this. I don't like this at all. Then keep scrolling. What about deadmau5. Probably also presumably getting his dick sucked. W0W. I re-entered the apartment at exactly 1:15. BLŪ Of course. And though I had been filled with nothing but words and heartache, I could do no more than to peel off my layers and tumble into the shower, no longer in tears, but still devastated — and somehow dying to know if the Skrillex album just so happened to mark my Deathwish, or restore my faith in humanity…neither of which actually mattered; I had fallen prey once more to the cycle of poverty's destruction and relentlessness, if even by my own doing—the respective love I held for Sonny, Dillon Francis, or anyone else simply a faction of obsessive fandom, my writings a mere glimpse into the unobstructed world of the fourth dimension, which I undoubtedly still believed and was living in, only hoping that I was indeed not the hopeless protagonist to die, in the end—and perhaps, that even if I did, the worlds and works that I had published on The Legend of Supacree, OWSLA Confidential: The Infinite Skrillifiles, Gerald's World, and Enter The Multiverse would stand as the backbone for an unimaginable flurry of Whatever. The End. ENTER THE MULTIVERSE WAR OF WORLDS LEGENDS HOLY WAR EARTH WORLD WAR WATER (WWIII) {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U. I love You.

I fell into a dream with you last night And when I woke I had to cry And when I looked inside your eyes I had to realize they were mine Now I'm alive And in alignment Something like a diamond shines inside It's just another night Our love is just inside my mind I had to hide it Your highness Right on time. As expected. Hey, I just wanted you to know: Your evil shamanic curse worked( I've been homeless since I left you and demonic forces follow me everywhere So I'm going to kill myself eventually Just the way you hoped I would So no one will have to know that you hit me so hard it made me lose my mind You have an evil spirit and a heartless soul and nobody will ever love you except for our son— So just tell him I love him You fucking win Your curse worked Every single person you ever try to love will cheat and lie to you Just like you did to me And the only reason I don't wish homelessness and suicide onto you Like you wished onto me Is because you have our son Thanks for ruining my life I hope there's heaven on the other side I fucking hate you You're fucking evil You fat stupid retarded motherfucker —but I didn't text him that, of course I wanted to; But in my heart and soul, I knew it would be the end of me, And that he'd know he really had won— And though I didn't want to give him the power or the light of day, I knew I was cursed, Followed by coughing demons, pretty, skinny women, mindfucked by Skrillex and Dillon Francis and set to die in the streets with nothing to eat, nowhere to go, and nothing to lose but myself, not that it mattered— It would be a quiet suicide, And my son might never know I died alone and homeless in New York City; But i loved him the most And the hole in my heart that made me a ghost was shaped just like him ; And though I had nothing left but love to give, Which meant nothing in a cruel and loveless world made of money, The best that I could do was just to love him, And hope that on the other side would be heaven, Where I could know him again I just passed the white rabbit; I'd laugh at it, if I weren't rabid with absolute madness I've had it! I can't stand it I mismanaged My finances, It's fine, actually; I've got enough time (Money) To climb the Empire The Devil's a Liar, But so am I, And God's a bird on a wire How inspiring I'm one off of everything, I can't run, when I'm too busy thinking “Where the fuxk am I gonna sleep” Tomorrow, I can pawn my drum machine— That buys me one more night in a nice dream A nice clean apartment in Brooklyn, Some rice and beans; Another dream… ‘Is it supposed to be a secret?' I really had fallen in love with Sonny, but it didn't seem to matter anymore about anything—I didn't have what I needed at all—and the irony and reality was setting in that the Sonny was dropping his album on the exact day that I would run out of everything—out of money for food, a place to sleep…everything. I had loved him so wholehearly that I had recorded ïambīc; only to be devastated in the following weeks with the discovery that he had been spending time with Kayla Laurenc who I didn't exactly despise, as much as I resented—as in all of my life, girls like her had always gotten ahead and gotten everything I wanted, without even trying—just because they looked the way they did—and, at least by all the people I had been around, even my mother—I was ugly, fat, and retarded. Perhaps he did operate on the Devil's power, with my ex husband; I was homeless, at least not yet hungry, but on my way to it—and finally, out of “nowhere”, Sonny being Skrillex was in New York, releasing the album we had all been waiting for. I was either being cruicified or… Connected to a greater purpose, but it hurt either way—and either way I wanted to end it. Every time I dreamt of Dillon, it was of his entire family—in fact, I had almost forgotten that he had a brother at all; it didn't make sense to me, actually I had stopped breathing. I was crying quietly from the moment I left Equinox—I had done my best not to, but couldn't help it entirely. It had been too long since I had any sense of security. I tossed my head back to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks, staring up with widened eyes, which suddenly focused on the digital LCD screen, flashing the streets at which the train would stop; I was of course sitting directly beneath the stop for 88th street—Sonny's birth year, and a number that had repeatedly jumped out to me since our “meeting”. ‘Why would he do this to me?' Maybe this is all supposed to murder me. My ex husband had been tied to White Supremacy; “I belong to an organization that will kill you and bury you somewhere no one will ever find you.” He once said—one of the things which lead to my attempt—or completing, alternatively, suicide. “You know why I have the power to control demons?” Another notion which had the tendency to repeat itself in my mind, whenever a demonic energy found its way to me, in the form of a skinny, attractive woman or a coughing homeless person, in the form of Kayla Lauren, Dillon Francis, or even Sonny—and though none of the latter two actually ever seemed like actual demons, at least to me—the demonic energy was in knowing that someone like me, in reality, could never deserve or afford someone like Sonny, or Dillon respectively—and although the attraction that I felt to either of them was extreme wrnough to me, and could even be called love, the truth was that the effect of fame meant that it wasn't just me, but hundreds of thousands of other human beings like me, better than me, more attractive than me—and with a better perception of reality that would make more ideal partners, mates, and lovers, and that my own perception of beauty and self love had been shattered by Society. Maybe don't post this. What does it matter? What am I supposed to believe? That Sonny's come to New York to rescue me and take me to freedom—that with someone like me he'd be actually happy? That everything in my head, in my heart, in my mind—the belief that we were meant to be is actually reality? He has every reason and every right to be wary of me. I had read about the teenaged girl that had become obsessed with Drake Bell, following him to all his shows and eventually, even becoming close with him; texting back and forth, and from the looks of it—probably even meeting, hanging out together and who knows what else exactly, besides the man himself and God, on whose behalf it sometimes seeemed I was acting, however— “New York Or Nowhere” Oh shit. The orange and blue basketballs on the fabric clutch held under the arm of the man in front of me distracted my mind for a moment from my writing; the color orange had always reminded me of Dillon, because it was so prevalent in the music which had first captivated me, even before I knew who Dillon Francis was exactly, and had somehow managed to have implanted the notion —especially after the realization that he was, in fact, using magic— that perhaps such a gifted shapeshifter had learned to even transform himself into an object that was inanimate; a traffic cone, whatever that meant. [DON'T HIT ME.] Years had passed since the idea had been established, and though I couldn't seem to remember how I had first actually imagined it, besides listening to what probably may have been ‘too much' Dillon Francis, an entire storyline had been written, as Dillon Francis, having become at some point captain of The Bampheraphs, had instructed the other Insomniacs, Bampheramphs, Motherfuckers, and DJs to also transform into the very simple, very inanimate traffic cones— and though Skrillex, or Sonny—was also given an extreme amount of power and magic, especially even the ability to become inanimate himself, or, “The Inanimate Skrillex”, as it had once been written—as it remarkably turned out, Skrillex would find that he could be every color traffic cone besides Neon Orange—which, as the curator of such an idea, had, over time, become both comedic and tragic—as everywhere I seemed to go, tended to produce strangely colored tragic cones at random. ‘That did happen' Maybe all this means Is when I find the bravery To finally fly, or something… INT. AIRPLANE. DAY BLŪ is seated in a window seat towards the back of a BOEING 747. Oh man, this scene. Sometimes my worst nightmares are airplane crashes, actually. Since I could remember, maybe from the age of about two or three—I would dream awful tragedies—‘nightmares, or night terrors, actually—tornadoes, horrible fires and burning buildings and sometimes, airplane crashes, which even to this day, haunt me when I sleep. You know, nobody has a ticket to the soul train. What. You just jump. Trains in New York do come suicide fast. I was on the platform and still almost got hit! Okay, this isn't really funny anymore, is it? No. Suddenly, a sound rang out into my ears and Ugh, it's hard to write when you want to die this much ‘Why do you want to die this much? I had extended my air bnb for one more night, but it meant giving up one of my drum machines go to the pawn shop—the one which I had just reclaimed from the pawn shop in Las Vegas, and seemed an entire waste, as it was the heaviest thing in all my luggage, and I had dragged it across the country in order to use it as a performance piece to give myself an edge over the other DJs who simply mixed—But, as it turned out, of course, the world, “especially New York”, was over saturated with DJs— though I had done what I could, or most of what I could, to get a head start, I had so much work backed up that in the two weeks since I had left my job in LA, that it didn't matter now that I even had my drum machine with me—I was scrambling to gather money to keep a place to sleep, and so the drum machine would have to go in the morning, in exchange for one or two more nights of housing—and with any luck or by the grace or God I could somehow fish it back out of the pawn shop in some weeks or months time—not that I enjoyed the idea of going back into the workforce as anything but an artist—but so far, this artist that I was had been the lowest of all the low paying jobs I had ever had. ‘What is that?' I had heard the album over and over—it had infinite replay value, of course, and I was using its tones and auras to dry my tears on the long train back to Brooklyn from Manhattan—but, in this moment, as I exited the subway station and made my way down my usual route back to the flat I had depleted my entire savings on staying in—the sound shook through my entirety, rumbling strangely into the arcs of my feet and even stopping me dead in my tracks for a moment, ringing strangely in my chest and into the palms of my hands, up my shoulders and into my hollow lungs, wrapping around my heart, and colliding with the very odd thought “I gotta stay alive to ask Joel what that was.” How bizarre. It was past midnight—and now that I was above ground, I hadn't thought to check again if the new Skrillex album was being released on East Coast time, where Sonny supposedly still was, or if it might not be available until later; and I hadn't thought to look or try to check Instagram again—I had only been on Instagram anyway in hopes of finding a job—and had only checked the Skrillex Instagram hoping that I would see something that would make the way I felt about Sonny stop, by now, suddenly realizing that it never would until he married or procreated with someone else, (or I did) once and for all wiping out any dillusions I had dreamt up or summoned in the wake of our crossing paths. As quickly as he had come to New York, he could have left and probably may have—but I didn't know, and didn't care; it would be futile to believe he would come to rescue me, even if it was what I wanted and needed so much that I couldn't bear the thought of anything more than just departing the entire world. Earlier, even though I had been pressed for time to make it to the gym, having spent the day of course collecting my things and trying to figure a way out ot the homeless box I had built my way into, still stressing the somehow ‘need' to publish the entirety or the 6th season so that I could go on hiatus— It really hadn't occurred to me for more than a moment that Sonny might be listening to my podcast at all, besides listening to Renaissance which I had briefly vaulted, having worked out to it too much and beyond honestly hating myself for not being either Skrillex, or perhaps even more disappointingly, Beyoncè—and either one would have done— I retracted my last couple steps, doubling back to the discotheque—All Night Skate—where I had already asked for a job one of my first nights in Brooklyn, collecting the number of the manager but having lost it, deleting it by accident— INT. ALL NIGHT SKATE. 12:56 AM I realized it was nearly closing time; I had stopped back by after Equinox to write, hoping to music mine whatever the DJ was playing, my body strangely acting and writing quite automatically, with reason to live, shaken suddenly alive by an unidentifiable bass sound seated safely on While 1>2, and still seeking purpose Bryan eno complex heaven Terrors in my head The two songs mixed perfectly into my minds eye as I left, snapping photos for albums yet to be written, and wondering whether or not I would live long enough to write them, or to mix the two songs which had so perfectly mixed—one playing in my headphones and the other over the PA system—and wondering how less than an hour earlier I had experienced a sound I had heard at least a hundred times under the arches of my feet. Oh, wow. ‘Errors In My Bread' The numbers 404 had always triggered the thought: Error, perhaps suggesting even I myself was nothing more than just a simulation or computer of some sort, a robotic formulation of all that had been programmed and crated to exist in the way that I had, a short circuit or some kind of malfunction; I'd trickled into Equinox at precisely 9:52, which allowed me exactly 8 minutes to prepare to record the beginning of the closing announcements at 10:00 for the Equinox + EP, peel off my outer layer of clothes, and pour into the sauna for at least 15 minutes, squeezing in a light workout—warranted, considering I had spent the entirety of the day before at the club, auditioning the rest of the 6th season between the sauna and steamroom, Suffering the Skrillex that had descended onto the city I neither loved nor lived in—which might have totaled altogether about 4 hours in the sauna alone, and what seemed like 56 gallons of sweat—but I was grasping at straws, searching for random numbers to complete my thoughts. I had left Manhattan, as usual, at 11:00 PM as Sports Club closed—pulling my belongings from locker 403, with locker number 404 catching my attention from out of the corner or my eye—and as tears gushed from my face, blasted through the revolving doors—-there was indeed an Error in my Bread, and so to self soothe as usual only seemed fitting, as the words began to pour from my fingertips once more. ‘Not Your Mother's Drag Night' had ended, and the either irony or synchronicity subtly toyed with my inherent need for survival and awestruck emotions, as the last and final episode of the 6th season, which I had already named [Not Your Mother's Episode] before arriving to my Equinox venture at the party — the episode in which everything I had written, assembled with every entry for the 6th season, to be left in its description —was yet still unreleased; it had been a grueling train ride full of tears, and I had yet to neatly tie together the Jimmy Fallon timeline—the Timmy Turner Timeline, which of course connected the Amanda Bynes timelines and all of the Nickelodeon timelines respectively—and though the Skrillex and Dillon Francis timelines had driven nearly every series in their entireties in one way or another, Sonny's sudden arrival into New York City mere hours after Act III, Part IIhad been posted —indicating that either he himself or someone on his campaign had been listening and reading along with my series, jolting me into a frenzy, of course… (though I had already planned to release the end of the season concurrently—as I had with a majority of the previous seasons, taking a hiatus to regroup after each season conclusion or finale) my homeless-suicidal pattern had shown itself to be cyclical, by now—not that one thing hadn't anything to do with the other, and though someone or something may have found it interesting and entertaining, I myself was growing tired of making a mockery of my own self, remaining unloved, unhoused, and unfelt enough so much so that nothing had really changed—and although the 3rd season's hiatus had warranted the 4th season's Anandar, the 4th seasons return to the United States had of course warranted more racism, capitalistic greed, hereditary confinement, algorithmic condemnation, corporate slavery, and an interesting series of mixtapes—which of course had resulted in the 6th season's hope for a better future, my almost-return to Hollywood via the actual real-life Drake Bell and his man-habits, my mental degradation via lack of privacy, and of course, the empathic enforcement or feeling everything at once besides love, human connection or trust. My ex had texted me some weeks earlier, finally having apologized for cheating and assuring me that his karma had been paid in full—without responding, I simply screenshotted the message for future use on an album cover, deleted Google voice, and reassured myself that if his long-overdue karma for cheating had just now been ‘paid-in-full', that it surely had not been paid in full at all and was only just beginning—as he had never apologized or admitted to anything else he'd done—of course, as our relationship had ended, my re-awakening of creativity had been flourishing; I was always recording, taking samples, and writing down ideas for music I wanted to make—and besides that—openly admitting that he had hit me would probably open a disastrous wormhole of self-realization and shame no true narcissist could take—that which he was, not that I at this point had resented it, besides of course the scarring on my lower lip that had come as a result, the estrangement from my son, or the mental anguish I had suffered—and, looking back, I still could never recount whether I had… Just then, I realized that there was an error in my thinking; I had already been running off my weight at a tremendously rapid pace, working out to Recess in the living room between shifts at the veterinary clinic, where I took pride and joy in running with the greyhounds at then-top speed, racing to Diplo, Doctor P, and Rusko—of course, only stopping to express, my breasts still heavy from lactation, and realizing that it was painful to run with boobs full of anything—let alone, milk—which sometimes I pumped for Annie once her glands had gone dry, donated to the NICU, or winded up in my ex's coffee, because it gave him “superpowers.” This is a weird story. Well, if I tell some of it I have to tell all of it. Why are you even telling some of it? Because someone threw Skrillex in my tent and I should have raped him. You can't rape the willing. This is a sick bitch we're dealing with. How do you know he was willing? (He was wiling.) Idk,bro. He looked sick. Or scared. Or Ill. “ill” Get it. I put the ill in Skrillex Better fix my will forreal This could be my last meal Cause I feel like jumping off a building Or a cliff, Like dead horse point— We're beating/being a dead horse, Aren't we? Or an F'n Pig: Oink Oink! Boisterous, Aren't we boys? Let me annoint you all with oil, On upholstery You want a half, Or a whole thing? I want you to hold— I want you to know me I want you to love me I love you Are you happy? Oh, you fucked up. Oh, you think?! I barely sleep, Then you start showing up in my dreams? I don't believe you, I don't believe in anything but me, And I could be you, maybe Maybe there's a sequel, If we're equal— Or if he isn't evil; Maybe I'll just Evil Kinivel Fuck you people! Maybe I'll go fuxkin sleep with Lil Peep I'll call the reaper, Jesus Weeps, But probably not as much as _________ He's a keeper. Fun fact: when you cry, I cry. Plz. Stop crying. I can't. INT. A FIREY PLANE CRASH Wait. THE BILDERBERG MEETING. Jesus Christ, why is Shia Labouf so fuckin ripped. Ew. Who feeds him. CHICKEN. gross. BEFORE: SHIA LABEOUF ITS ME, I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. Ū Oh noooo… SHIA LABEOUF THE FESTIVAL PROJECT Ū … What. SHIA LABEOUF THE FESTIVAL PROJECT Ū k. SHIA LABEOUF NOW WAKE UP, Ū What? SHIA LABEOUF WAKE—UP. Narcissistic Cannibal- Korn, Skrillex. UP. [C.C. Wakes up, drenched in sweat. ] … … … C.C. …Shia LaBeouf…? (That was an actual dream I had once—give or take a few parts.) Yeah, give or take. Ahem. I probably would have forgotten he existed, too, were it not for that dream—and shortly thereafter… FLASHBACK: C.C. Is binge watching Hot Ones. I want—all the sauce. What's that dudes name. Sean. He seems a little off. Yeah, I bet he's off. E Q U I N O X huh. …huh. INT. THE BILDERBERG MEETING SHIA LABEOUF I DONT GIVE A SINGLE FUCK. ILLUMINATI perfect. SECURITY GET OUT. SHIA LABEOUF I WAS NEVER IN. CHICKEN. Ew. ILLUMINATI SEQUENCE C - GREENLIGNT. Wtf is happening in this show. Idk, but I like it. Where's — CHAL (From season 4) IT DOESNT MAAAAAAATER. Right. CUT BACK TO: INT. A FIREY PLANECRASH. DAY. QUEST FOR FIRE. LOOK TO THE SKIES, YOUNG PADOWAN. oh my god. It's a fire breathing dragon! No, dude, that's a firey plane crash. Fuck. FIRE BREATHING DRAGON. That's a fire breathing dragon. W0W. Which do you think is gonna be more interesting? Neither, I'd rather watch The Legend of SupaCree What time is it on? SUPACREE it's always on. How is that even possible! SUPACREE you're on it, Are you recording me? SUPACREE I record everything. Srsly?! SUPACREE Except lovemaking. … SUPACREE That is private. … SCARY TERRY SEX IS SACRED, BITCH. SUPACREE don't cal me a bitch. … go watch TV. CUT BACK TO: INT. A FIREY PLANE CRASH. DAY [Terror has stricken the passengers of flight 626, as the BOEING 747 plunges rapidly, falling from the sky at an alarming speed, as the airplane decentigrates, falling into pieces] SHIA LABEOUF Does this character not have a name? No, it's literally Shia LaBeouf; he's playing himself. CUT TO: SHIA LABEOUF I'M AN AIR MARSHALL WHEN I'M NOT ACTING Why is he still yelling? SHIA LABEOUF ‘CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. CUT BACK TO: Just before: SHIA LABEOUF looks over the rims of his glasses, staring forward at CC/SUPACREE, before lowering his head back down, momentarily pretending to read a magazine from under the brim of his tan cap, obscuring his identity. He places his hand over the gun in his holster, revealing by the golden badge beside it that he is a federal air Marshall (to the audience) before adjusting his brown leather jacket to cover it, squinting conspicuously under his bifocal lenses, peering once more at CC/SUPACREE, and swallowing subtly, licking his lips and flashing away a secondary glimpse of fear in his eyes, before presuming a fierce gaze as he braces for impact, calmly unbuckling his seatbelt. Suddenly, the plane is struck— as the passengers scream and panic in fear, he simply stands up, stabilizing his balance, and moves towards the terrified and hyperventilating SUPACREE. ] Ok. That'll do. What about Drake Bell?! what about Drake Bell!? And Drake And Josh?! AND THE AMANDA SHOW AND ARIANA GRANDE AND ALL THE NICHELODEON KIDS?! It can wait. NO! BUT WHAT ABOUT COSMO + WANDA?! AND SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS AND HEY ARNOLD I never got to Hey Arnold, but I've been thinking about it a lot since I got to New York; but—that's also Nickelodeon, so— BUT WHAT ABOUT DILLON FRANCIS. he's very attractive. WHAt ab0Ut SKriLLeX?! he's also very attractive, And just dropped his album— So we can just assume that the previously mentioned are perhaps both getting their dicks sucked often enough that I don't have to worry about it. Why would you worry about it. CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. This is not kid friendly. AHHHHHHHHHH WHAT ABOUT JIMMY FALLON. Everything naughty he says in this series is censored caused he has a contract with NBC. WHERE'S WHOOPI GOLDBERG?! WHO!? I don't like this. I don't like this at all. Then keep scrolling. What about deadmau5. Probably also presumably getting his dick sucked. W0W. I re-entered the apartment at exactly 1:15. BLŪ Of course. And though I had been filled with nothing but words and heartache, I could do no more than to peel off my layers and tumble into the shower, no longer in tears, but still devastated — and somehow dying to know if the Skrillex album just so happened to mark my Deathwish, or restore my faith in humanity…neither of which actually mattered; I had fallen prey once more to the cycle of poverty's destruction and relentlessness, if even by my own doing—the respective love I held for Sonny, Dillon Francis, or anyone else simply a faction of obsessive fandom, my writings a mere glimpse into the unobstructed world of the fourth dimension, which I undoubtedly still believed and was living in, only hoping that I was indeed not the hopeless protagonist to die, in the end—and perhaps, that even if I did, the worlds and works that I had published on The Legend of Supacree, OWSLA Confidential: The Infinite Skrillifiles, Gerald's World, and Enter The Multiverse would stand as the backbone for an unimaginable flurry of Whatever. The End. ENTER THE MULTIVERSE WAR OF WORLDS LEGENDS HOLY WAR EARTH WORLD WAR WATER (WWIII) {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U. Whatever it is-- look, whatever you want, you can have and I'll give you my love, when I've got it I'm sorry, I don't mean to fiend for a friend; If I lend you my pen, just remember: I've got nothing. listen, I've got nothing left: If you want my best friend, (Perhaps, again) then here's her address, Dillon Not that I would either wish this shit on either of you imbicles: a missile hit the plane where I and Shia were. If you were wondering- but then again, I have been meditating lately, dreaming dreams that drive me crazy wiahing I were so amazing that you'd have to date me and masterbating and fabricating traffic comes and slander, Praying for a savior, pay, and baby making it's okay, though Dillon Francis I didn't mean for this to happen; and you'd have to practice magic for the Amethyst I have for you to act like that (it fucking levitated) anyway, I know you're probably at a rave with 80 ladies and a bunch of people yelling out your name, and some hot babe who looks like Hailey Bieber naked, patiently waiting to mate with you: And I can't wait for you to make it public so I hate you and just space cadet with no regrets not laying with you in my head, like it has been- since my ex, then Kayla Lauren; this is probably boring I should be snoring someone one's outside coughing anyway, I should get going-- but you should know, I'd blow you If I blow up and Sonny never shows up as my beux, but maybe ya'll are bros, huh? fuck. I love C u P C A K E S

I fell into a dream with you last night And when I woke I had to cry And when I looked inside your eyes I had to realize they were mine Now I'm alive And in alignment Something like a diamond shines inside It's just another night Our love is just inside my mind I had to hide it Your highness Right on time. As expected. Hey, I just wanted you to know: Your evil shamanic curse worked( I've been homeless since I left you and demonic forces follow me everywhere So I'm going to kill myself eventually Just the way you hoped I would So no one will have to know that you hit me so hard it made me lose my mind You have an evil spirit and a heartless soul and nobody will ever love you except for our son— So just tell him I love him You fucking win Your curse worked Every single person you ever try to love will cheat and lie to you Just like you did to me And the only reason I don't wish homelessness and suicide onto you Like you wished onto me Is because you have our son Thanks for ruining my life I hope there's heaven on the other side I fucking hate you You're fucking evil You fat stupid retarded motherfucker —but I didn't text him that, of course I wanted to; But in my heart and soul, I knew it would be the end of me, And that he'd know he really had won— And though I didn't want to give him the power or the light of day, I knew I was cursed, Followed by coughing demons, pretty, skinny women, mindfucked by Skrillex and Dillon Francis and set to die in the streets with nothing to eat, nowhere to go, and nothing to lose but myself, not that it mattered— It would be a quiet suicide, And my son might never know I died alone and homeless in New York City; But i loved him the most And the hole in my heart that made me a ghost was shaped just like him ; And though I had nothing left but love to give, Which meant nothing in a cruel and loveless world made of money, The best that I could do was just to love him, And hope that on the other side would be heaven, Where I could know him again I just passed the white rabbit; I'd laugh at it, if I weren't rabid with absolute madness I've had it! I can't stand it I mismanaged My finances, It's fine, actually; I've got enough time (Money) To climb the Empire The Devil's a Liar, But so am I, And God's a bird on a wire How inspiring I'm one off of everything, I can't run, when I'm too busy thinking “Where the fuxk am I gonna sleep” Tomorrow, I can pawn my drum machine— That buys me one more night in a nice dream A nice clean apartment in Brooklyn, Some rice and beans; Another dream… ‘Is it supposed to be a secret?' I really had fallen in love with Sonny, but it didn't seem to matter anymore about anything—I didn't have what I needed at all—and the irony and reality was setting in that the Sonny was dropping his album on the exact day that I would run out of everything—out of money for food, a place to sleep…everything. I had loved him so wholehearly that I had recorded ïambīc; only to be devastated in the following weeks with the discovery that he had been spending time with Kayla Laurenc who I didn't exactly despise, as much as I resented—as in all of my life, girls like her had always gotten ahead and gotten everything I wanted, without even trying—just because they looked the way they did—and, at least by all the people I had been around, even my mother—I was ugly, fat, and retarded. Perhaps he did operate on the Devil's power, with my ex husband; I was homeless, at least not yet hungry, but on my way to it—and finally, out of “nowhere”, Sonny being Skrillex was in New York, releasing the album we had all been waiting for. I was either being cruicified or… Connected to a greater purpose, but it hurt either way—and either way I wanted to end it. Every time I dreamt of Dillon, it was of his entire family—in fact, I had almost forgotten that he had a brother at all; it didn't make sense to me, actually I had stopped breathing. I was crying quietly from the moment I left Equinox—I had done my best not to, but couldn't help it entirely. It had been too long since I had any sense of security. I tossed my head back to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks, staring up with widened eyes, which suddenly focused on the digital LCD screen, flashing the streets at which the train would stop; I was of course sitting directly beneath the stop for 88th street—Sonny's birth year, and a number that had repeatedly jumped out to me since our “meeting”. ‘Why would he do this to me?' Maybe this is all supposed to murder me. My ex husband had been tied to White Supremacy; “I belong to an organization that will kill you and bury you somewhere no one will ever find you.” He once said—one of the things which lead to my attempt—or completing, alternatively, suicide. “You know why I have the power to control demons?” Another notion which had the tendency to repeat itself in my mind, whenever a demonic energy found its way to me, in the form of a skinny, attractive woman or a coughing homeless person, in the form of Kayla Lauren, Dillon Francis, or even Sonny—and though none of the latter two actually ever seemed like actual demons, at least to me—the demonic energy was in knowing that someone like me, in reality, could never deserve or afford someone like Sonny, or Dillon respectively—and although the attraction that I felt to either of them was extreme wrnough to me, and could even be called love, the truth was that the effect of fame meant that it wasn't just me, but hundreds of thousands of other human beings like me, better than me, more attractive than me—and with a better perception of reality that would make more ideal partners, mates, and lovers, and that my own perception of beauty and self love had been shattered by Society. Maybe don't post this. What does it matter? What am I supposed to believe? That Sonny's come to New York to rescue me and take me to freedom—that with someone like me he'd be actually happy? That everything in my head, in my heart, in my mind—the belief that we were meant to be is actually reality? He has every reason and every right to be wary of me. I had read about the teenaged girl that had become obsessed with Drake Bell, following him to all his shows and eventually, even becoming close with him; texting back and forth, and from the looks of it—probably even meeting, hanging out together and who knows what else exactly, besides the man himself and God, on whose behalf it sometimes seeemed I was acting, however— “New York Or Nowhere” Oh shit. The orange and blue basketballs on the fabric clutch held under the arm of the man in front of me distracted my mind for a moment from my writing; the color orange had always reminded me of Dillon, because it was so prevalent in the music which had first captivated me, even before I knew who Dillon Francis was exactly, and had somehow managed to have implanted the notion —especially after the realization that he was, in fact, using magic— that perhaps such a gifted shapeshifter had learned to even transform himself into an object that was inanimate; a traffic cone, whatever that meant. [DON'T HIT ME.] Years had passed since the idea had been established, and though I couldn't seem to remember how I had first actually imagined it, besides listening to what probably may have been ‘too much' Dillon Francis, an entire storyline had been written, as Dillon Francis, having become at some point captain of The Bampheraphs, had instructed the other Insomniacs, Bampheramphs, Motherfuckers, and DJs to also transform into the very simple, very inanimate traffic cones— and though Skrillex, or Sonny—was also given an extreme amount of power and magic, especially even the ability to become inanimate himself, or, “The Inanimate Skrillex”, as it had once been written—as it remarkably turned out, Skrillex would find that he could be every color traffic cone besides Neon Orange—which, as the curator of such an idea, had, over time, become both comedic and tragic—as everywhere I seemed to go, tended to produce strangely colored tragic cones at random. ‘That did happen' Maybe all this means Is when I find the bravery To finally fly, or something… INT. AIRPLANE. DAY BLŪ is seated in a window seat towards the back of a BOEING 747. Oh man, this scene. Sometimes my worst nightmares are airplane crashes, actually. Since I could remember, maybe from the age of about two or three—I would dream awful tragedies—‘nightmares, or night terrors, actually—tornadoes, horrible fires and burning buildings and sometimes, airplane crashes, which even to this day, haunt me when I sleep. You know, nobody has a ticket to the soul train. What. You just jump. Trains in New York do come suicide fast. I was on the platform and still almost got hit! Okay, this isn't really funny anymore, is it? No. Suddenly, a sound rang out into my ears and Ugh, it's hard to write when you want to die this much ‘Why do you want to die this much? I had extended my air bnb for one more night, but it meant giving up one of my drum machines go to the pawn shop—the one which I had just reclaimed from the pawn shop in Las Vegas, and seemed an entire waste, as it was the heaviest thing in all my luggage, and I had dragged it across the country in order to use it as a performance piece to give myself an edge over the other DJs who simply mixed—But, as it turned out, of course, the world, “especially New York”, was over saturated with DJs— though I had done what I could, or most of what I could, to get a head start, I had so much work backed up that in the two weeks since I had left my job in LA, that it didn't matter now that I even had my drum machine with me—I was scrambling to gather money to keep a place to sleep, and so the drum machine would have to go in the morning, in exchange for one or two more nights of housing—and with any luck or by the grace or God I could somehow fish it back out of the pawn shop in some weeks or months time—not that I enjoyed the idea of going back into the workforce as anything but an artist—but so far, this artist that I was had been the lowest of all the low paying jobs I had ever had. ‘What is that?' I had heard the album over and over—it had infinite replay value, of course, and I was using its tones and auras to dry my tears on the long train back to Brooklyn from Manhattan—but, in this moment, as I exited the subway station and made my way down my usual route back to the flat I had depleted my entire savings on staying in—the sound shook through my entirety, rumbling strangely into the arcs of my feet and even stopping me dead in my tracks for a moment, ringing strangely in my chest and into the palms of my hands, up my shoulders and into my hollow lungs, wrapping around my heart, and colliding with the very odd thought “I gotta stay alive to ask Joel what that was.” How bizarre. It was past midnight—and now that I was above ground, I hadn't thought to check again if the new Skrillex album was being released on East Coast time, where Sonny supposedly still was, or if it might not be available until later; and I hadn't thought to look or try to check Instagram again—I had only been on Instagram anyway in hopes of finding a job—and had only checked the Skrillex Instagram hoping that I would see something that would make the way I felt about Sonny stop, by now, suddenly realizing that it never would until he married or procreated with someone else, (or I did) once and for all wiping out any dillusions I had dreamt up or summoned in the wake of our crossing paths. As quickly as he had come to New York, he could have left and probably may have—but I didn't know, and didn't care; it would be futile to believe he would come to rescue me, even if it was what I wanted and needed so much that I couldn't bear the thought of anything more than just departing the entire world. Earlier, even though I had been pressed for time to make it to the gym, having spent the day of course collecting my things and trying to figure a way out ot the homeless box I had built my way into, still stressing the somehow ‘need' to publish the entirety or the 6th season so that I could go on hiatus— It really hadn't occurred to me for more than a moment that Sonny might be listening to my podcast at all, besides listening to Renaissance which I had briefly vaulted, having worked out to it too much and beyond honestly hating myself for not being either Skrillex, or perhaps even more disappointingly, Beyoncè—and either one would have done— I retracted my last couple steps, doubling back to the discotheque—All Night Skate—where I had already asked for a job one of my first nights in Brooklyn, collecting the number of the manager but having lost it, deleting it by accident— INT. ALL NIGHT SKATE. 12:56 AM I realized it was nearly closing time; I had stopped back by after Equinox to write, hoping to music mine whatever the DJ was playing, my body strangely acting and writing quite automatically, with reason to live, shaken suddenly alive by an unidentifiable bass sound seated safely on While 1>2, and still seeking purpose Bryan eno complex heaven Terrors in my head The two songs mixed perfectly into my minds eye as I left, snapping photos for albums yet to be written, and wondering whether or not I would live long enough to write them, or to mix the two songs which had so perfectly mixed—one playing in my headphones and the other over the PA system—and wondering how less than an hour earlier I had experienced a sound I had heard at least a hundred times under the arches of my feet. Oh, wow. ‘Errors In My Bread' The numbers 404 had always triggered the thought: Error, perhaps suggesting even I myself was nothing more than just a simulation or computer of some sort, a robotic formulation of all that had been programmed and crated to exist in the way that I had, a short circuit or some kind of malfunction; I'd trickled into Equinox at precisely 9:52, which allowed me exactly 8 minutes to prepare to record the beginning of the closing announcements at 10:00 for the Equinox + EP, peel off my outer layer of clothes, and pour into the sauna for at least 15 minutes, squeezing in a light workout—warranted, considering I had spent the entirety of the day before at the club, auditioning the rest of the 6th season between the sauna and steamroom, Suffering the Skrillex that had descended onto the city I neither loved nor lived in—which might have totaled altogether about 4 hours in the sauna alone, and what seemed like 56 gallons of sweat—but I was grasping at straws, searching for random numbers to complete my thoughts. I had left Manhattan, as usual, at 11:00 PM as Sports Club closed—pulling my belongings from locker 403, with locker number 404 catching my attention from out of the corner or my eye—and as tears gushed from my face, blasted through the revolving doors—-there was indeed an Error in my Bread, and so to self soothe as usual only seemed fitting, as the words began to pour from my fingertips once more. ‘Not Your Mother's Drag Night' had ended, and the either irony or synchronicity subtly toyed with my inherent need for survival and awestruck emotions, as the last and final episode of the 6th season, which I had already named [Not Your Mother's Episode] before arriving to my Equinox venture at the party — the episode in which everything I had written, assembled with every entry for the 6th season, to be left in its description —was yet still unreleased; it had been a grueling train ride full of tears, and I had yet to neatly tie together the Jimmy Fallon timeline—the Timmy Turner Timeline, which of course connected the Amanda Bynes timelines and all of the Nickelodeon timelines respectively—and though the Skrillex and Dillon Francis timelines had driven nearly every series in their entireties in one way or another, Sonny's sudden arrival into New York City mere hours after Act III, Part IIhad been posted —indicating that either he himself or someone on his campaign had been listening and reading along with my series, jolting me into a frenzy, of course… (though I had already planned to release the end of the season concurrently—as I had with a majority of the previous seasons, taking a hiatus to regroup after each season conclusion or finale) my homeless-suicidal pattern had shown itself to be cyclical, by now—not that one thing hadn't anything to do with the other, and though someone or something may have found it interesting and entertaining, I myself was growing tired of making a mockery of my own self, remaining unloved, unhoused, and unfelt enough so much so that nothing had really changed—and although the 3rd season's hiatus had warranted the 4th season's Anandar, the 4th seasons return to the United States had of course warranted more racism, capitalistic greed, hereditary confinement, algorithmic condemnation, corporate slavery, and an interesting series of mixtapes—which of course had resulted in the 6th season's hope for a better future, my almost-return to Hollywood via the actual real-life Drake Bell and his man-habits, my mental degradation via lack of privacy, and of course, the empathic enforcement or feeling everything at once besides love, human connection or trust. My ex had texted me some weeks earlier, finally having apologized for cheating and assuring me that his karma had been paid in full—without responding, I simply screenshotted the message for future use on an album cover, deleted Google voice, and reassured myself that if his long-overdue karma for cheating had just now been ‘paid-in-full', that it surely had not been paid in full at all and was only just beginning—as he had never apologized or admitted to anything else he'd done—of course, as our relationship had ended, my re-awakening of creativity had been flourishing; I was always recording, taking samples, and writing down ideas for music I wanted to make—and besides that—openly admitting that he had hit me would probably open a disastrous wormhole of self-realization and shame no true narcissist could take—that which he was, not that I at this point had resented it, besides of course the scarring on my lower lip that had come as a result, the estrangement from my son, or the mental anguish I had suffered—and, looking back, I still could never recount whether I had… Just then, I realized that there was an error in my thinking; I had already been running off my weight at a tremendously rapid pace, working out to Recess in the living room between shifts at the veterinary clinic, where I took pride and joy in running with the greyhounds at then-top speed, racing to Diplo, Doctor P, and Rusko—of course, only stopping to express, my breasts still heavy from lactation, and realizing that it was painful to run with boobs full of anything—let alone, milk—which sometimes I pumped for Annie once her glands had gone dry, donated to the NICU, or winded up in my ex's coffee, because it gave him “superpowers.” This is a weird story. Well, if I tell some of it I have to tell all of it. Why are you even telling some of it? Because someone threw Skrillex in my tent and I should have raped him. You can't rape the willing. This is a sick bitch we're dealing with. How do you know he was willing? (He was wiling.) Idk,bro. He looked sick. Or scared. Or Ill. “ill” Get it. I put the ill in Skrillex Better fix my will forreal This could be my last meal Cause I feel like jumping off a building Or a cliff, Like dead horse point— We're beating/being a dead horse, Aren't we? Or an F'n Pig: Oink Oink! Boisterous, Aren't we boys? Let me annoint you all with oil, On upholstery You want a half, Or a whole thing? I want you to hold— I want you to know me I want you to love me I love you Are you happy? Oh, you fucked up. Oh, you think?! I barely sleep, Then you start showing up in my dreams? I don't believe you, I don't believe in anything but me, And I could be you, maybe Maybe there's a sequel, If we're equal— Or if he isn't evil; Maybe I'll just Evil Kinivel Fuck you people! Maybe I'll go fuxkin sleep with Lil Peep I'll call the reaper, Jesus Weeps, But probably not as much as _________ He's a keeper. Fun fact: when you cry, I cry. Plz. Stop crying. I can't. INT. A FIREY PLANE CRASH Wait. THE BILDERBERG MEETING. Jesus Christ, why is Shia Labouf so fuckin ripped. Ew. Who feeds him. CHICKEN. gross. BEFORE: SHIA LABEOUF ITS ME, I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. Ū Oh noooo… SHIA LABEOUF THE FESTIVAL PROJECT Ū … What. SHIA LABEOUF THE FESTIVAL PROJECT Ū k. SHIA LABEOUF NOW WAKE UP, Ū What? SHIA LABEOUF WAKE—UP. Narcissistic Cannibal- Korn, Skrillex. UP. [C.C. Wakes up, drenched in sweat. ] … … … C.C. …Shia LaBeouf…? (That was an actual dream I had once—give or take a few parts.) Yeah, give or take. Ahem. I probably would have forgotten he existed, too, were it not for that dream—and shortly thereafter… FLASHBACK: C.C. Is binge watching Hot Ones. I want—all the sauce. What's that dudes name. Sean. He seems a little off. Yeah, I bet he's off. E Q U I N O X huh. …huh. INT. THE BILDERBERG MEETING SHIA LABEOUF I DONT GIVE A SINGLE FUCK. ILLUMINATI perfect. SECURITY GET OUT. SHIA LABEOUF I WAS NEVER IN. CHICKEN. Ew. ILLUMINATI SEQUENCE C - GREENLIGNT. Wtf is happening in this show. Idk, but I like it. Where's — CHAL (From season 4) IT DOESNT MAAAAAAATER. Right. CUT BACK TO: INT. A FIREY PLANECRASH. DAY. QUEST FOR FIRE. LOOK TO THE SKIES, YOUNG PADOWAN. oh my god. It's a fire breathing dragon! No, dude, that's a firey plane crash. Fuck. FIRE BREATHING DRAGON. That's a fire breathing dragon. W0W. Which do you think is gonna be more interesting? Neither, I'd rather watch The Legend of SupaCree What time is it on? SUPACREE it's always on. How is that even possible! SUPACREE you're on it, Are you recording me? SUPACREE I record everything. Srsly?! SUPACREE Except lovemaking. … SUPACREE That is private. … SCARY TERRY SEX IS SACRED, BITCH. SUPACREE don't cal me a bitch. … go watch TV. CUT BACK TO: INT. A FIREY PLANE CRASH. DAY [Terror has stricken the passengers of flight 626, as the BOEING 747 plunges rapidly, falling from the sky at an alarming speed, as the airplane decentigrates, falling into pieces] SHIA LABEOUF Does this character not have a name? No, it's literally Shia LaBeouf; he's playing himself. CUT TO: SHIA LABEOUF I'M AN AIR MARSHALL WHEN I'M NOT ACTING Why is he still yelling? SHIA LABEOUF ‘CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. CUT BACK TO: Just before: SHIA LABEOUF looks over the rims of his glasses, staring forward at CC/SUPACREE, before lowering his head back down, momentarily pretending to read a magazine from under the brim of his tan cap, obscuring his identity. He places his hand over the gun in his holster, revealing by the golden badge beside it that he is a federal air Marshall (to the audience) before adjusting his brown leather jacket to cover it, squinting conspicuously under his bifocal lenses, peering once more at CC/SUPACREE, and swallowing subtly, licking his lips and flashing away a secondary glimpse of fear in his eyes, before presuming a fierce gaze as he braces for impact, calmly unbuckling his seatbelt. Suddenly, the plane is struck— as the passengers scream and panic in fear, he simply stands up, stabilizing his balance, and moves towards the terrified and hyperventilating SUPACREE. ] Ok. That'll do. What about Drake Bell?! what about Drake Bell!? And Drake And Josh?! AND THE AMANDA SHOW AND ARIANA GRANDE AND ALL THE NICHELODEON KIDS?! It can wait. NO! BUT WHAT ABOUT COSMO + WANDA?! AND SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS AND HEY ARNOLD I never got to Hey Arnold, but I've been thinking about it a lot since I got to New York; but—that's also Nickelodeon, so— BUT WHAT ABOUT DILLON FRANCIS. he's very attractive. WHAt ab0Ut SKriLLeX?! he's also very attractive, And just dropped his album— So we can just assume that the previously mentioned are perhaps both getting their dicks sucked often enough that I don't have to worry about it. Why would you worry about it. CAUSE I'M IN YOUR DREAMS. This is not kid friendly. AHHHHHHHHHH WHAT ABOUT JIMMY FALLON. Everything naughty he says in this series is censored caused he has a contract with NBC. WHERE'S WHOOPI GOLDBERG?! WHO!? I don't like this. I don't like this at all. Then keep scrolling. What about deadmau5. Probably also presumably getting his dick sucked. W0W. I re-entered the apartment at exactly 1:15. BLŪ Of course. And though I had been filled with nothing but words and heartache, I could do no more than to peel off my layers and tumble into the shower, no longer in tears, but still devastated — and somehow dying to know if the Skrillex album just so happened to mark my Deathwish, or restore my faith in humanity…neither of which actually mattered; I had fallen prey once more to the cycle of poverty's destruction and relentlessness, if even by my own doing—the respective love I held for Sonny, Dillon Francis, or anyone else simply a faction of obsessive fandom, my writings a mere glimpse into the unobstructed world of the fourth dimension, which I undoubtedly still believed and was living in, only hoping that I was indeed not the hopeless protagonist to die, in the end—and perhaps, that even if I did, the worlds and works that I had published on The Legend of Supacree, OWSLA Confidential: The Infinite Skrillifiles, Gerald's World, and Enter The Multiverse would stand as the backbone for an unimaginable flurry of Whatever. The End. ENTER THE MULTIVERSE WAR OF WORLDS LEGENDS HOLY WAR EARTH WORLD WAR WATER (WWIII) SEASON 6 TO GRAND TOTAL/ @skrillex @dillonfrancis @jimmyfallon @drakebell @joshpeck @amandabynes @nickelodeon @ravensymone @disney @shialabeouf @drake @mileycyrus @billieelish @britneyspears @arianagrande @beyonce @kanyewest @eminem @slimshady lol @whoopigoldberg @eddiemurphy Who else did I name drop this season? Uhhh… @diplo @deadmau5 @pasqualerotella @insomniac @jkrowling @emmawatson @danielradcliffe @rupertgrint Idk there's a lot of famous people randomly entering my, uh REALITY. “likeness is what you attract” “Like attracts like.” “Opposites Attract” “You Are What You Eat” HOUSING IS A HUMAN RIGHT HOMELESSNESS IS INHUMANE no, take that part out. The government will try to kill you. *kill you. nah, they'll just force me to kill myself or join the military. same thing. @sonnymoore @u @ccxellsoleil I didn't even do this on purpose. THIS IS: [THE FESTIVAL PROJECT ™] {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.

Two Chunks here with an important announcement: If you are one of two living witnesses to the biblical power of the actual Ark of the Covenant, you watched a dude's heart get Kali-mah'd out of his chest, you met a real knight of the Round Table and took a drink from his favorite cup, your son is Shia Labouf, and after all that, you still don't believe in magic, well, you just might be a Harrison Ford character. Sorry, we don't make the rules.In this episode: Trailers (Indiana Jones, Guardians 3, Mario, and Transformers), Yass or PassCatch new episodes of Two Chunks And A Hunk every Monday and Tuesday wherever you listen to podcasts.Support this podcast at — https://redcircle.com/two-chunks-and-a-hunk/donationsAdvertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

LEGENDS: ENTER THE MULTIVERSE Fuck. What was it? It was a p— Well it was a *PR Lol. *PT cruiser Yeah, but it was— It was purple. It was a purple PT. Cruiser It was—but what else was it? Ugh. I forgot. Yeah, I bet. GOOGLE SEARCH shades of purple. Ooooh. PERIWINKLE. You fucking dumb ass. I mean, Jesus. How long has it been? At least a lifetime. No, past that. It was a perfect periwinkle PT cruiser. So, start there. ‘Start there' what? Everything since then, till now— For what? Enter The Multiverse. That show is still on?! YES. What day is it? Fuxk. What time is it? What—the fuck. What?! CUPCAKES AND A MUFFIN?! I don't care how fat I am. You're not fat. QUASIMOTO Can I just say, your ass is like —woah. CC/SUPACREE Oh, thank you. QUASIMOTO I mean like—DAAAAAAMN. CC/ SUPACREE OK. QUASIMOTO i mean like—what the FAAACK. CC/SUPACREE Yeah. thanks, bro. [an awkward silence] QUASIMOTO …Good job, though. [light fist bump] EARLIER: MORE CUPCAKES. NAH. OHH, OREOS?! Oreos are the G.O.A.T. I WANTED CUPCAKES. SHUT THE FUCK UP— Before that, at the gym: —do the butt machine again. Again?! Get the glutes. But I'm tired— GET THE GLUUUUUUUUTES. Calorie Deficit Calculator: -3423 Oh shit. Well how many calories did I eat? BEFORE: …chocolate chip cookies? NO— —CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIESzzxz— [CC/SUPACREE robotically and autonomously ditches her bicycle outside of sprouts, not giving a Fuck.] —s—noh! stop it! Stop controlling me! THEY ARE VEGAN. SO? STOP IT. Ooh, what's this. I don't know— get it. CC/SUPACREE stands awkwardly at the checkout with a varied selection of vegan baked goods. *beep* Yeaaaahh. So wait. SUPACREE is controlled by aliens? WE ARE GODS. Knock it OFF! [NEW ABILITY UNLOCKED: SUPASTRENTH ] Nice. Yeah dude. Watch this. The Legend of Supacree is the #1 MMORPG in the world; it is also happening in real-time, in multiple worlds within the multiversial constrict of the actual Omniverse. AGHHHHH In fact, nobody even plays GTA or call of duty anymore. YAH! [Random objects falling from the sky. ] SUPACREE Oh, nice. INSTANT MANIFESTATION. JUST POST THE FUCKING EPISODE ALRIGHT?! this bitch is fucking crazy. Watch this. Watch what? SHIA LABEOUF discovers The Legend Of Supacree franchise and becomes villainously obsessed with It, hatching a heinous and meniacal plan to hunt her down and capture her—tracking her every move and learning everything about her he can. Wtf. I don't know. Is he a villain? I don't know. I guess. I'M A SUPERVILLAIN. …He's a supervillain. I guess. Why?! I don't know. This is creeps. It is creeps. [lifts one eyebrow.] SUPACREEps. Scary monsters and supacreeps. Heh. NO, NO MUSICIANS. Heh. SHIA LABOUF is straight up gangster. HE'S CRAZY! [SHIA LAUGHING MANIACALLY.] Oh, wow– That dude is a straight up psychopath. You're a straight up psychopath. I'm not arguing. What is THIS part of the story? Well, son, you made it through. WOODY HARRELSON? WHAT. Woody Harrelson?! WHY? I don't know. He just fit the part. WHAT PART?! WHAT/! Nobody quite understands what's happening in ENTER THE MULTIVERSE, however, THE LEGEND OF SUPACREE has taken an incredible turning point, intersecting with the world of LEGENDS and THE SECRET LIFE OF SUNNI BLŪ/ THE SUITE LIFE OF SUNNI BLŪ. IT HAS? YES? WHERE? I WANNA DIE. OH! That's not SUPACREE! [CC HULK SMASHES her bike onto the rack on the bus. THE HULK, sitting just in front stares at her wide-eyed as she boards the bus over the rim of his sunglasses. Oh, maybe, nevermind. Wait! Is it THE HULK, or MARK RUFFALO? I don't know! I don't give a shit! Why are you even writing this? Uhhhhhhhh. [CC's brain is slowly melting as she rides the bus to work. THE HULK– OR IS IT MARK FUCKING RUFFALO!? I DON”T FUCKING CARE– THERE'S A DIFFERENCE WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE IT – DOESN”T– MATTER! ‘It doesn't matter.' Chal's words echoed in my head almost too loudly–as boldly blind and sometimes even dumb as he was, he was also wise, and as it turned out, right–it really didn't matter. Nothing mattered at all. I had gone through the motions of reaching out to him, to of course as expected learn that he and whatever her name was had gone their separate ways;I understood that would be the case nearly immediately back in Mazunte, but as he was insistent he would woo her–and persistent in doing so, that I thought maybe after all love– or what really turned out to be his obstinate lust would win the day–and yet, it hadn't; he was again single and on the prowl– and although at one point I had even lusted after him briefly, trailing behind him in nonchalant platonic carelessness as he obsessively followed another woman, had allowed me to become comfortable enough in the friendzone that i could just simply exist next to him; Now, again faced with homelessness and factoring in my inability to travel much further than south of the border, especially now knowing well how to travel throughout mexico and into Guatemala, I wondered truly if my own self-worth had really been lowered to the point of allowing myself to meet Chal in Guatemala–even full well knowing that he, too, preferred perfect and illy white to my dark skin and quite seemingly matronly features, and, knowing for myself that I wasn't hsi first choice– as he and I had of course met in Mazunte around the same time he had met whom he considered to be ‘his Goddess'-- albeit while on a topless beach and thus hynotized by her breasts. Men were hopeless. Then, here I was, waking up every other sleep cycle in the cold sweat of a wet dream, the subject of which I typically at least tried to keep deeply hidden in my subconscious psyche as secrets, although by now it seemed there really were none, and all that I knew and that I thought were known and seen by some other than myself–though somehow still holding true to my belied that there really was none other than myself–in my own broken and twisted world, alone and punished in the depths of mediocrity and shame. Woah. Riding the bus. There's nothing lower. There's walking. To the bus. Yah. And all the sick people. And all the crackheads. And all the–what are those? Demons [demon hacks.] Ugh, fucking–ugh. SHIA LABOUFF'S obsession with SUPACREE is helga petaki-meets Tom Cruise jumping on Oprah's couch. Oh, wait, we're back on that storyline? I mean– I don't know how to write this. Just write it. he's a villain, right? I mean, that suit. SHIA LA– FUCK. WHAT?! Worst last name EVER. Well, not ever– Wait, is he black?! –It sounds french. GOOGLE SEARCH: ‘How Jewish is Shia LaBeouf? ‘ –no, he's Cajun – That's french-black–wait— –what? Cajun AND Jewish? –Yeah– Jesus! JESUS What? (raises one eyebrow) SUPACREE strategizes a plan of attack. Attack for what? {ATTACK} YOUUUU INCEPTED ME!!! AGH! {COUNTER ATTACK} NOT ME! DISNEY! (DODGING COUNTER ATTACK} Yeah, Blame “Disney!” I JUST DID. Oh, yeah, right!! RAVEN SYMONÉ It was Disney. THEY OK'D THIS?! They bought Marvel! THEY OK'D EVERYTHING. —Even the SKRILLEX? Especially the Skrillex —Especially the Skrillex. AGHHHHHHHH—— ———-AAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!! SHIA LABEOUF VS SUPACREE: FIGHT!!!! Everything looks good— —everything looks good. Everything looks fine— —Everything looks fine. But wait— What? What about that guy? Oh My— —oh my… Is he gonna be alright? Is that guy —gonna be alright? Is that guy gonna be alright? Is—that guy gonna be alright? Is that guy gonna be alright Is that guy— Gonna be alright? Is that guy gonna be alright?? Is that guy gonna be alright?! Is that guy gonna be alright m? Everything looks good— —everything looks fine Looks good— But what about that guy? …I don't know about that guy. Is he alright? Yo. Yooo. Stop writing songs about Skrillex. ((I literally can't.)) What?! It doesn't have to be about Skrillex! It could be about anybody! Here, they call with disco balls Stars in my eyes, but stars do fall First true love dies hard after all, No star shines bright as morning comes —(for) Sonny …I didn't write that. CUT TO: CC writes automagically between sets of heavy lifting. IMAGINARY FRIENDS, PART III DEADMAU5!!!! okay—one more—then cupcakes— Cupcakes? No cupcakes! I WANT CUPCAKES. Uh—No way! YES WAY. Mmm—no I'm sick of this diet! I'm not on a diet! I eat! You eat GRASS. I'm a vegan. This shit sucks. I told you, grass tastes bad. RICK?! (I also want cupcakes. ) Mmkay—ohh. You said that was the last one. No, more more. NO “one more” But I like this one—and it has the right amount of weights on it already—see? Jesús Christ He's not here. (Yes I am). Why the Fuxk. I also want cupcakes Okay, one more No “one more” The power of Christ compels ye! … Is that how that works? No. Maybe. (((Yes.))) AGHHH. The celebrities of Hollywood are gang stalking SUPACREE Can we— No. But I didn't even get to ask the question. The answer is no. THE CELEBRITIES OF HOLLYWOOD, after assembling with the Bampheramphs and Morherfuckers, have formed a supergroup tasked with bringing SUPACREE to THE HOLLYWOOD PEOPLE—so far, they have cunningly out-bested and outwitted THE US GOVERNMENT, including but not limited to THE FEDS, THE CIA, THE FBI and THE SECRET SERVICE. REALLY? I GUESS. HOW?! — DRAKE snoops on SUPACREE as she writes working half heartedly at THE NECK MACHINE with peaking curiosity, peaking over the time of his sunglasses. Whats it called. “Nautilus 4 way neck “ BPM: you're a jerk Do the Drake Do the Drake Do the Drake Work that neck Work that— Neck, Becky Work that neck, Work that neck Do the— “new note: Purchase ‘Honestly, nevermind' I had worked an entre month at LVAC before the circus went underway; Not a single drop of Skrillex had ever been played over the loudspeakers at any moment, for any of the time I had been employed there, nor had it burdened me any of the other time I had spent bettering myself within what I once cherished as sacred walls–now the illusion shattered, as nowhere I could seem to run – even the rural coastal jungle of Mexico-was far enough to escape the clammerings of something I quite honestly very much still loved, but wouldn't allow myself to enjoy— Or maybe, now, couldn't. BANGARANG. ‘Fuck this shit.' I wanted to move, but didn't—I wanted leave, and probably should have, but wouldn't. I just sat there through it as my coworker, standing at about 5'4 ½ in a pair of tight black skinny jeans sang along and bounced rhymically. What the fuck. Then, as it had just been earlier that I was thinking of Sonny himself, and how, be it that any of my premonitions were actually accurate and true as I had once thought them to be, there would perhaps come a day that I regretted not listening to his works, just as one regrets not spending time with a loved one before their passing not giving enough attention to the little things, the tiny details, the time they had missed, but never missed without missing their loved one until it was too late. Then again, for me, any time in the then- present was too late, as I had only been followed, taunted, and ridiculed, openly humiliated and embarrassed, and never really paid directly for anything I had done, whether it did have to do with Skrillex or otherwise –and so I had made it more than a point to distance myself from it, anything having to do with it, or him, or anything really, music related—of course besides relying heavily on deadmau5 just for my own existence–that is, willingness wake up, move about the world and its endless, pointless constructs, and even so, completing a worthwhile workout with enough satisfaction that I could allow myself to leave the building–and now, with my commute taking up a grand total of 4 hours of my entire day—I didn't have the time or the energy to stay late into the days and even afternoons as I had before, or to arrive early as I had in the days and weeks before; Now this job was amounting to nothing at all, and I was surely less than breaking even. Whats the worry? You've got 20 minutes to write a story! Don't be sorry Mind your orders. You're a war chief Marry me, Oh pretty please— I plead to you, just sing for me Just think of me as a Never ending fantasy, At the very least When you bury me —and you buried me alive, Just for the look of things What makes us even Slitting wrists Or splitting things unevenly (Either thing benefits me, And my penis, I think.) Make me famous— She said Hate me or debate me, I have everything I need And I have everything you have, But I can leave, All with my dreams intact I do believe You think I'm evil Either way, unnecessary Why would I sit down and write a story— When you just did it for me? Why would I pledge sllwgence to old glory She's ignoring me; Why would I change my name to satisfy your needs When mine sit idly by waiting Why would I dream of you, When you dream of me I have all I need, You have all of me in the other room While you watch cartoons wirh your lady I hate anime and now I hate you to, But I'm so stupid, Nothing soothes my moods, Except playing your tunes, Or music Whoop De Fucking do Would you Marry Me? He said (He never did, he just let her—) She said, I do And now they're doomed I built a tomb for two The bride and groom In music Two by two And used by Tuesday Music I presume To the beautiful Music I presume For the usual Music I presume For those who —- SHIA LABEOUF JUST DO IT. That is not how the end of the song goes. No, but this is how the end of the episode goes. Really!? How? [CC stares lifelessly forward out of the front window of the double decker bus; a man dressed in all blue catches her attention—another telepathic shapeshifter.] You brought…an umbrella? I told you there was a shit storm coming. Oh, nooh. Where's yours? I— don't care? That's right you don't. I don't. That's good you don't. I really don't. You don't give a Fuck, or a shit. I—don't give a fuck or a sh—wait— DILLON FRANCIS? I'm good at what I do. What do you DO? THIS. “A Silent Partner” Oh. I like that. That has all kinds of insinuations. Doesnt it? Hermph. Youre a creep. A Supacreep. PAUSE ITS MISTER MAGOOoOOOOOOOooO0oO. No, it's the IRS. Fuck. HOLY SHIT SUNNI. WHAT. HOW DO YOU OWE 100,000 IN BACK TAXES?! Student loan debt. WHAT. THAT DOESNT MAKE ANY SENSE. Yes it does. HOW. Calm down Marci —MY ÑAME IS— [Sunnī Blū subdues her instantly with one if Supacree's mysterious rave weapons] Sit down, please. …what is that? You like it? Yeah. [she gives her another dose of strange vapor, she relaxes even further.] See. Yeah. Now that you're happy— —am i “happy” ? [she gives her another relaxing dose] —are you Happy? Yeah. Ok. So. I never filed my taxes because I had so much student loan debt, I would never get a tax return because the stupid government would just take it away. …They're so stupid. It's s supercomputer. Huh. The government is a supercomputer—it's a giant—unfeeling— Huh? Nevermind; But Sunni— Yes, Manuel— You finally got my name right! Yeah. I did. —but you're rich now— I'm very rich. Yes. So then (hiccups) it doesn't matter if the stupid government computer takes your tax return away, cause you're—rich. Yeah! Rich people don't pay taxes dummy! Shhhhhhhh…be happy. [sunni sighs and takes a large huff themselves of the mysterious vapor, however still quite visibly insetttled. MEANWHILE, (IN A PARALLEL DIMENSION) FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUCKING—FUCKSAUCE Ooh—fuckity fucksauce?! FUCK! Haven't tried that one. Is it purple too!? SHUTTHEFUCK—UP. Ooh. It must be really hot. Let me try. Hello, Dillon Francis. Oh, no. Ha. Did you fuck my best friend? …I didn't know you…had any friends. I don't now. [he hangs his head.] ALSO MEANWHILE: (IN ANOTHER PARALLEL) DIPLO, in a villainous rage nearly murders DILLON FRANCIS, stealing his portal gun and a vast supply of his magic to track down SUPACREE and all of her living incarnations. Is this along the same timeline as Shia La— Fuck this dude's last name for real. For real _!%]_€ Is it on the same timeline? I mean, that's insane—SUPACREE is being stalked— —Hunted— Hunted by not one—but TWO super-buff celebrities— Hey, to be fair—I didn't know Shia La— Whatever— Whatever. I didn't know he was that buff. Who expected this?! Literally no one ever. How did this happen?! CUT TO: What if I threw myself in front of a school bus!? That would be the 16th time you've died, since you committed suicide So is that 16, or 17? Does it matter? I thought it was 10 to get to Skrillex. I thought we weren't trying to get to Skrillex I thought we never left. We never left. Fuck. You've got to run. It's not a race. He's very fast. What if he's spent as much time in the gym as you have? Huh. What if he's spent as much time in the studio as you have in the gym? That's it. That is it. This album is really. Golden. Golden? Really? Probably. Ive never seen gold before— Oh— Look. Look. What would they even tell the kids? “Some of you will grow up to amount to nothing and, and out of those some of you, at least one of you might just have the guts to throw yourself in front of a speeding vehicle which represents the very institution which disregarded your existence entirely in the first place.” Oh. That's…a lot for a bus full of kids. Not high schoolers. Benny Benassi (and the biz) was the word of God today. Tell me what your spirit says Show me what you pray Teach me every single part I'll be your guide You are a prisoner Looking for to be. Like heroin through a junkie's veins, the song poured through my Hesh 3's like the golden waters of a sacred fountain of wisdom; it made me reflect on the everythingness of all at once, and I was at bliss, even if only for a moment, briefly recalling how I had almost allowed it to be a bad day—but there were no more bad days, I had decided. Everything was in synchronicity, and exactly as it had to be; everything was going along just the way it was supposed to, and I had nothing to worry about. All was in time with the motion of the great flow of life—then, just suddenly—thinking of such synchronicities, as I pulled out my phone to write in the moment— You can change your face But can't change your mind No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do 11:12. ‘FUCK.' I cocked my head in complete awe to the side ‘Hard flex, Dillon Francis.' It was still hard to compute that such a man had become my literal muse—and though I knew not the exact meaning of the word—I knew what it meant. It was fascinating to me, and astonishing that something so simple could in my state of once fragile and benign vulnerability, be used as a tool to help complete this hypnotism, whatever it was meant for. I wasn't exactly making music, or anything good really—and I felt like I was bleeding money and certainly not making my worth in dollars for all the effort and energy I was spending just getting to work at all, let alone to work out—but there was still this, though I could finally falter to being irreversibly in love with Sonny Moore, or at least who he might have once been ( or the idea of such, anyway—) I did very much think of Dillon quite fondly and quite repetitively through each and passsing day, and oftentimes in my dreamworld, quite uncontrollably and involuntarily, in whatever way I was, it was forever. It didn't seem to matter, and though I purged myself from actually becoming as obsessive as I had once been with Sonny, I simply left it alone; ‘It doesn't matter!' Chal's voice sometimes overcoming my own, in the way that I did now wholeheartedly believe that pretty much nothing mattered, especially my emotions or feelings, which I wished would disappear like the title of the album I had actually written and completed but never had the chance to release, and had just the night before eaten in record time 4 entire vegan cupcakes to myself, —even when I had at least thought to share with my coworkers—a feast which usually took between 24 hours and 3 to four days, if I was moderating correctly. But I hadn't been—I was over stressed from riding busses full of people who didn't care that as the natural empath I had always been, I became gross and dysfunctional as anyone else who rode the bus just off the Las Vegas strip between the hours of 8 PM and 8 AM. Gross. I successfully pretended not to know who deadmau5 wash and upon being asked what I was listening to on the bus, I simply replied ‘progressive house'—and just later that night, as my coworkers, most of whom were about 10 years younger than I was, clammoired about fame and famous Individuals; dead-mau-five came up randomly in conversation; to which I coyfully resigned from correcting the falsity that it once had “actually” been the correct way to prounounce the artist's name, and that he had “actually” changed it—and still, later on, when for the first time over the loudspeakers, a song by deadmau5 (besides the new kx5 track) came on, nobody but me could seem to recognize that it was him playing—and though I had heard the song by now at least hundreds of times, I couldn't name it…which embarrassed me, and I failed to even look upon the screen to fact-check or correct myself—it was deadmau5, it was good, and at least it wasn't Skrillex… —who had also, though just behind deadmau5, also “coincidentally” come up in the conversation—this time less sarcastically forging a “who the fuck is that?”—of course, only to be met with what had to be a good minute and a half of my gullible coworkers explaining to me who Skrillex was, as I shrugged and nodded unassuminglu as if I didn't want to shoot myself in the foot just to dance to the tune of my own funural music. (Whatever that means.) Back to Benny Benassi Are you sleeping? Ooh. I'm sorry. Back to the Diverging lateral pull down, st a weight that looked too heavy, but was actually almost too light. Whose job is that? Ehmm— Skrillex! Is that what he does? Is that what this is? —BABY, ID LOVE FOR YOU TO TOUCH ME BAAAAABAY— ALSO: THE US GOVERNMENT has gotten a new fleet of JEEPS. Who is this. [American flag automatic antenna extends from the back of the vehicle.] Ooh. What is that? WE GOT HER GO ARMY, BITCH! Why is the Army following me?! You can time travel! So! They can not. Oh. I can shapeshift, too—why didn't they follow me when I started doing that in public? They sent navy seals! They did?! When?! Flashback: SUPACREE is swimming when caught in a rogue wave, quickly transforming into a whale, before washing up on shore and transforming back into her human self, right before the eyes of the navy seals team. What the fuck. ABORT. WHAT?! She's right there! I SAID ABORT. MORPHEUS. What. I'm retired. I know, look— Don't call me— I need a pill! How did you get this number?! It's The Matrix. Touché. I know, huh. Don't call me. [hangs up] [she calls his other line, he picks up unwittingly ñ] Hello? I need a pill! You—have them!! Don't you?! No! What is “no”? I don't need the red pill, or the blue pill! Then I can't help you! You're the only one that can help! Have you tried Jesus? Jesús is busy! Listen to me! —Jesús is always listening— I need the purple pill. The what—what?! The purple pill! …you know what? …what? Dont—call me anymore. [hangs up] What the fuck! [redials] Call from: MOM Hey Mom— Hey, Morpheus. What the Fuck! You what the fuck! Help me! God Help You! WHERE's my MOTHER?! I AM GOD. WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY MOTHER —I Am your mother, Morpheus. And I just made your favorite: pecan pie—… … —without pecans. … … … Meet me at Fatastik. Uh…the swap meet? Near the Rugs. What?! —bring the pie! [hangs up] Damn, what's gonna happen now?! I don't know. Ask Dillon Francis. What does Dillon Francis have to do with this? I dunno. Apparently a lot. [shrugs] MEAHAHILE: DILLON FRANCIS screams uncontrollably. CUT TO: BEYONCE is a big fan. Oh wow, that's incredible. No, LITERALLY BEYONCÈ, mastering her shape shifting abilities has transformed herself into a giant fan. WOW. That is cool. (Literally.) Get it? SHUTUP. [CC in a high intensity workout-induced trance merges with the character DUFF as she locks her legs across the rotary torso machine. ] DUFF is paralyzed from the waist down after crash landing feet-first from her pod; She has landed in present day earth, first spotted by millions as a UFO; upon rescuing her from the fiery crash, recovering the remains of her futuristic vehicle raises questions from the whole world about her true origins and mission's purpose—however, stricken wirh Amnesia, she only recalls that her name is DUFF, and has very few memories preceding her discovery—it is clear that she is a human, and a high-ranking military trained space explorer—but remembers nothing of her own origins. It is suspected that she may indeed be a time traveler from the distant future. WOAH I know, huh. That's what's happening in that series?! Damn! I know, huh! Sometimes I surprise muself. And I'm not even listening to deadmau5. So what's Beyoncé got to do with this storyline? Something, I'm sure. Synesthesia. Oh—yeah, that. She's so pink! Don't be gross. I— whatever. duff. DUFF! DUFF!!! [DUFF is caught in a lucid dream; the original SUPACREE is in a coma after her failed suicide attempt—their worlds collide.] Beyoncé's voice looked to me as if butterflies had long streams of silk woven wings, fluttering eloquently in hues of fluorescent pink and painted shades of rose-tinted streaking blues, auroras of bubblegum entertaining with breezy mellow waves of yellow and flooding bursts of bright purple—a pure joy in my ear sight, which meant nothing to the world, but everything to me. Creating literal auroras I had only ever before seen in the frigid arctic night skies of Alaska, sometimes I simply had to close my eyes and breathe in deeply the fluid and sometimes glowing and velvety cascades—more so pronounced than the ones I had observed in finally linking kaskade's unique electronic sound to his name—probably because rather than having come from a synthesizer, it was Beyoncé's naturally unnatural voice—and by unnatural, I only meant that it was such a singularity that divinity itself had to have put her hands into allowing such a phenomenon to exist. I had indeed fallen In love with the talent and aura of this too-perfect southern belle—but one doesn't simply aspire to be Beyoncè at the ripe old age of 30; a lifetime of dedication to artistry could only result in such an immaculate perfection in performance—perfection I humbly honored, but tried my best not to crave. [CC, on the brink of being BLŪ but not having yet arrived in the true belief of her own accomplishments or potential. emotionally stuffs her face unforgivingly with Oreo cookies; a silent, friendly ghost, the ghost of the late great COOKIE MONSTA seats himself softly beside her on the bed. Another guardian Angel.] What up, Cookie Monster. I Am Cookie Monster— ugh— [Realizing she is once again confronted with a ghost DJ, after having been visited by Avicii and I_O now years earlier, but still an ever-present memory.] COOKIE MONSTA?! [He shrugs as she stuffs another cookie in her mouth, literally overflowing with cookie and reeling in the discomfort of double-stuffiness. Ughhhhh—I cant feel my face. I can't feel anything. Consider yourself lucky. I consider myself ‘dead' Yeah, me too. Well, you shouldn't. Says the ghost. Youre the gh0st. Oh yeah, huh… [he shrugs and nods] Huh. Yeah right. But it seemed like I would never make dubstep—working two jobs, riding the bus—and despite my sweet tooth, my shrinking waistline and quest for physical perfection in the peak of my absolute loneliness, distrust for the world, and disdain for the injustice of society. All it seemed like I did really have that was mine, was deadmau5 blasting through my ears at any given moment as my dirty little secret—Oreos, my synestetic facination with Beyoncé, and, of course, one of the best athletic clubs in the world at my disposl, given that I had the time or energy to use it. Altogether self-serving, señf-soothing, and best of all self loathing—navigating life had become more outwittinglu experiencing infinite death thsn not—an endless ego death in the confines of my own limitations and judgements. I had put myself in a shelf entirely—and now, I didn't know what I was writing for, but I was still writing. Even without making music, music seemed to make itself out of the words that could connect with my broken and tired spirit in whatever synchronization it took to type out a song, or a novel, or a suicide letter, or a screenplay—whatever it was. I didn't know. And… ‘It doesn't matter. COOKIE MONSTA fades away into the reminiscent whisper of a ghost, as CC falls asleep, hugging a pillow and still clutching an Oreo in one hand and her crystals in the other. The room spins as she fades into the dreamworld, lost in her self and the world within. Might be a saint, But the back doors open and The oven's on so, I won't close it, If it gets too warm, you know I'll want you to hold me I might be lonely I might be lonely I might be (((A))) S-s-s-superstar, Where are ye? Real nice car, A mazzarati you bought me High speed dodging the paparazzi I got to be lucky I got to be the lucky one We sure are lucky, aren't we Darling, you're sparking Park this thing Spark me up Let's party What are we? S-s-s-superstars, Yeah Red carpet party Set the alarm, No harming a full carbon body Yah You want this blonde fawning for your autograph? Or you want me? What are we— Let's party; Just us three Right here in the lobby Oh my god, That's just raunchy Stop to talk The audacity Or night at the odyssey Whichever one Haunts me less awfully C'mon! We don't follow the models! They follow me! What the Fuck Kind of husband Does this 1x1 = nothin The marriage was loveless But honest, I'd honor it over another, And that was the start of Another concept album FADE TO BLUE TO BE CONTINUED. Copyright 2022 The Festival Project Small Rights Reserved

LEGENDS: ENTER THE MULTIVERSE Fuck. What was it? It was a p— Well it was a *PR Lol. *PT cruiser Yeah, but it was— It was purple. It was a purple PT. Cruiser It was—but what else was it? Ugh. I forgot. Yeah, I bet. GOOGLE SEARCH shades of purple. Ooooh. PERIWINKLE. You fucking dumb ass. I mean, Jesus. How long has it been? At least a lifetime. No, past that. It was a perfect periwinkle PT cruiser. So, start there. ‘Start there' what? Everything since then, till now— For what? Enter The Multiverse. That show is still on?! YES. What day is it? Fuxk. What time is it? What—the fuck. What?! CUPCAKES AND A MUFFIN?! I don't care how fat I am. You're not fat. QUASIMOTO Can I just say, your ass is like —woah. CC/SUPACREE Oh, thank you. QUASIMOTO I mean like—DAAAAAAMN. CC/ SUPACREE OK. QUASIMOTO i mean like—what the FAAACK. CC/SUPACREE Yeah. thanks, bro. [an awkward silence] QUASIMOTO …Good job, though. [light fist bump] EARLIER: MORE CUPCAKES. NAH. OHH, OREOS?! Oreos are the G.O.A.T. I WANTED CUPCAKES. SHUT THE FUCK UP— Before that, at the gym: —do the butt machine again. Again?! Get the glutes. But I'm tired— GET THE GLUUUUUUUUTES. Calorie Deficit Calculator: -3423 Oh shit. Well how many calories did I eat? BEFORE: …chocolate chip cookies? NO— —CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIESzzxz— [CC/SUPACREE robotically and autonomously ditches her bicycle outside of sprouts, not giving a Fuck.] —s—noh! stop it! Stop controlling me! THEY ARE VEGAN. SO? STOP IT. Ooh, what's this. I don't know— get it. CC/SUPACREE stands awkwardly at the checkout with a varied selection of vegan baked goods. *beep* Yeaaaahh. So wait. SUPACREE is controlled by aliens? WE ARE GODS. Knock it OFF! [NEW ABILITY UNLOCKED: SUPASTRENTH ] Nice. Yeah dude. Watch this. The Legend of Supacree is the #1 MMORPG in the world; it is also happening in real-time, in multiple worlds within the multiversial constrict of the actual Omniverse. AGHHHHH In fact, nobody even plays GTA or call of duty anymore. YAH! [Random objects falling from the sky. ] SUPACREE Oh, nice. INSTANT MANIFESTATION. JUST POST THE FUCKING EPISODE ALRIGHT?! this bitch is fucking crazy. Watch this. Watch what? SHIA LABEOUF discovers The Legend Of Supacree franchise and becomes villainously obsessed with It, hatching a heinous and meniacal plan to hunt her down and capture her—tracking her every move and learning everything about her he can. Wtf. I don't know. Is he a villain? I don't know. I guess. I'M A SUPERVILLAIN. …He's a supervillain. I guess. Why?! I don't know. This is creeps. It is creeps. [lifts one eyebrow.] SUPACREEps. Scary monsters and supacreeps. Heh. NO, NO MUSICIANS. Heh. SHIA LABOUF is straight up gangster. HE'S CRAZY! [SHIA LAUGHING MANIACALLY.] Oh, wow– That dude is a straight up psychopath. You're a straight up psychopath. I'm not arguing. What is THIS part of the story? Well, son, you made it through. WOODY HARRELSON? WHAT. Woody Harrelson?! WHY? I don't know. He just fit the part. WHAT PART?! WHAT/! Nobody quite understands what's happening in ENTER THE MULTIVERSE, however, THE LEGEND OF SUPACREE has taken an incredible turning point, intersecting with the world of LEGENDS and THE SECRET LIFE OF SUNNI BLŪ/ THE SUITE LIFE OF SUNNI BLŪ. IT HAS? YES? WHERE? I WANNA DIE. OH! That's not SUPACREE! [CC HULK SMASHES her bike onto the rack on the bus. THE HULK, sitting just in front stares at her wide-eyed as she boards the bus over the rim of his sunglasses. Oh, maybe, nevermind. Wait! Is it THE HULK, or MARK RUFFALO? I don't know! I don't give a shit! Why are you even writing this? Uhhhhhhhh. [CC's brain is slowly melting as she rides the bus to work. THE HULK– OR IS IT MARK FUCKING RUFFALO!? I DON”T FUCKING CARE– THERE'S A DIFFERENCE WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE IT – DOESN”T– MATTER! ‘It doesn't matter.' Chal's words echoed in my head almost too loudly–as boldly blind and sometimes even dumb as he was, he was also wise, and as it turned out, right–it really didn't matter. Nothing mattered at all. I had gone through the motions of reaching out to him, to of course as expected learn that he and whatever her name was had gone their separate ways;I understood that would be the case nearly immediately back in Mazunte, but as he was insistent he would woo her–and persistent in doing so, that I thought maybe after all love– or what really turned out to be his obstinate lust would win the day–and yet, it hadn't; he was again single and on the prowl– and although at one point I had even lusted after him briefly, trailing behind him in nonchalant platonic carelessness as he obsessively followed another woman, had allowed me to become comfortable enough in the friendzone that i could just simply exist next to him; Now, again faced with homelessness and factoring in my inability to travel much further than south of the border, especially now knowing well how to travel throughout mexico and into Guatemala, I wondered truly if my own self-worth had really been lowered to the point of allowing myself to meet Chal in Guatemala–even full well knowing that he, too, preferred perfect and illy white to my dark skin and quite seemingly matronly features, and, knowing for myself that I wasn't hsi first choice– as he and I had of course met in Mazunte around the same time he had met whom he considered to be ‘his Goddess'-- albeit while on a topless beach and thus hynotized by her breasts. Men were hopeless. Then, here I was, waking up every other sleep cycle in the cold sweat of a wet dream, the subject of which I typically at least tried to keep deeply hidden in my subconscious psyche as secrets, although by now it seemed there really were none, and all that I knew and that I thought were known and seen by some other than myself–though somehow still holding true to my belied that there really was none other than myself–in my own broken and twisted world, alone and punished in the depths of mediocrity and shame. Woah. Riding the bus. There's nothing lower. There's walking. To the bus. Yah. And all the sick people. And all the crackheads. And all the–what are those? Demons [demon hacks.] Ugh, fucking–ugh. SHIA LABOUFF'S obsession with SUPACREE is helga petaki-meets Tom Cruise jumping on Oprah's couch. Oh, wait, we're back on that storyline? I mean– I don't know how to write this. Just write it. he's a villain, right? I mean, that suit. SHIA LA– FUCK. WHAT?! Worst last name EVER. Well, not ever– Wait, is he black?! –It sounds french. GOOGLE SEARCH: ‘How Jewish is Shia LaBeouf? ‘ –no, he's Cajun – That's french-black–wait— –what? Cajun AND Jewish? –Yeah– Jesus! JESUS What? (raises one eyebrow) SUPACREE strategizes a plan of attack. Attack for what? {ATTACK} YOUUUU INCEPTED ME!!! AGH! {COUNTER ATTACK} NOT ME! DISNEY! (DODGING COUNTER ATTACK} Yeah, Blame “Disney!” I JUST DID. Oh, yeah, right!! RAVEN SYMONÉ It was Disney. THEY OK'D THIS?! They bought Marvel! THEY OK'D EVERYTHING. —Even the SKRILLEX? Especially the Skrillex —Especially the Skrillex. AGHHHHHHHH—— ———-AAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!! SHIA LABEOUF VS SUPACREE: FIGHT!!!! Everything looks good— —everything looks good. Everything looks fine— —Everything looks fine. But wait— What? What about that guy? Oh My— —oh my… Is he gonna be alright? Is that guy —gonna be alright? Is that guy gonna be alright? Is—that guy gonna be alright? Is that guy gonna be alright Is that guy— Gonna be alright? Is that guy gonna be alright?? Is that guy gonna be alright?! Is that guy gonna be alright m? Everything looks good— —everything looks fine Looks good— But what about that guy? …I don't know about that guy. Is he alright? Yo. Yooo. Stop writing songs about Skrillex. ((I literally can't.)) What?! It doesn't have to be about Skrillex! It could be about anybody! Here, they call with disco balls Stars in my eyes, but stars do fall First true love dies hard after all, No star shines bright as morning comes —(for) Sonny …I didn't write that. CUT TO: CC writes automagically between sets of heavy lifting. IMAGINARY FRIENDS, PART III DEADMAU5!!!! okay—one more—then cupcakes— Cupcakes? No cupcakes! I WANT CUPCAKES. Uh—No way! YES WAY. Mmm—no I'm sick of this diet! I'm not on a diet! I eat! You eat GRASS. I'm a vegan. This shit sucks. I told you, grass tastes bad. RICK?! (I also want cupcakes. ) Mmkay—ohh. You said that was the last one. No, more more. NO “one more” But I like this one—and it has the right amount of weights on it already—see? Jesús Christ He's not here. (Yes I am). Why the Fuxk. I also want cupcakes Okay, one more No “one more” The power of Christ compels ye! … Is that how that works? No. Maybe. (((Yes.))) AGHHH. The celebrities of Hollywood are gang stalking SUPACREE Can we— No. But I didn't even get to ask the question. The answer is no. THE CELEBRITIES OF HOLLYWOOD, after assembling with the Bampheramphs and Morherfuckers, have formed a supergroup tasked with bringing SUPACREE to THE HOLLYWOOD PEOPLE—so far, they have cunningly out-bested and outwitted THE US GOVERNMENT, including but not limited to THE FEDS, THE CIA, THE FBI and THE SECRET SERVICE. REALLY? I GUESS. HOW?! — DRAKE snoops on SUPACREE as she writes working half heartedly at THE NECK MACHINE with peaking curiosity, peaking over the time of his sunglasses. Whats it called. “Nautilus 4 way neck “ BPM: you're a jerk Do the Drake Do the Drake Do the Drake Work that neck Work that— Neck, Becky Work that neck, Work that neck Do the— “new note: Purchase ‘Honestly, nevermind' I had worked an entre month at LVAC before the circus went underway; Not a single drop of Skrillex had ever been played over the loudspeakers at any moment, for any of the time I had been employed there, nor had it burdened me any of the other time I had spent bettering myself within what I once cherished as sacred walls–now the illusion shattered, as nowhere I could seem to run – even the rural coastal jungle of Mexico-was far enough to escape the clammerings of something I quite honestly very much still loved, but wouldn't allow myself to enjoy— Or maybe, now, couldn't. BANGARANG. ‘Fuck this shit.' I wanted to move, but didn't—I wanted leave, and probably should have, but wouldn't. I just sat there through it as my coworker, standing at about 5'4 ½ in a pair of tight black skinny jeans sang along and bounced rhymically. What the fuck. Then, as it had just been earlier that I was thinking of Sonny himself, and how, be it that any of my premonitions were actually accurate and true as I had once thought them to be, there would perhaps come a day that I regretted not listening to his works, just as one regrets not spending time with a loved one before their passing not giving enough attention to the little things, the tiny details, the time they had missed, but never missed without missing their loved one until it was too late. Then again, for me, any time in the then- present was too late, as I had only been followed, taunted, and ridiculed, openly humiliated and embarrassed, and never really paid directly for anything I had done, whether it did have to do with Skrillex or otherwise –and so I had made it more than a point to distance myself from it, anything having to do with it, or him, or anything really, music related—of course besides relying heavily on deadmau5 just for my own existence–that is, willingness wake up, move about the world and its endless, pointless constructs, and even so, completing a worthwhile workout with enough satisfaction that I could allow myself to leave the building–and now, with my commute taking up a grand total of 4 hours of my entire day—I didn't have the time or the energy to stay late into the days and even afternoons as I had before, or to arrive early as I had in the days and weeks before; Now this job was amounting to nothing at all, and I was surely less than breaking even. Whats the worry? You've got 20 minutes to write a story! Don't be sorry Mind your orders. You're a war chief Marry me, Oh pretty please— I plead to you, just sing for me Just think of me as a Never ending fantasy, At the very least When you bury me —and you buried me alive, Just for the look of things What makes us even Slitting wrists Or splitting things unevenly (Either thing benefits me, And my penis, I think.) Make me famous— She said Hate me or debate me, I have everything I need And I have everything you have, But I can leave, All with my dreams intact I do believe You think I'm evil Either way, unnecessary Why would I sit down and write a story— When you just did it for me? Why would I pledge sllwgence to old glory She's ignoring me; Why would I change my name to satisfy your needs When mine sit idly by waiting Why would I dream of you, When you dream of me I have all I need, You have all of me in the other room While you watch cartoons wirh your lady I hate anime and now I hate you to, But I'm so stupid, Nothing soothes my moods, Except playing your tunes, Or music Whoop De Fucking do Would you Marry Me? He said (He never did, he just let her—) She said, I do And now they're doomed I built a tomb for two The bride and groom In music Two by two And used by Tuesday Music I presume To the beautiful Music I presume For the usual Music I presume For those who —- SHIA LABEOUF JUST DO IT. That is not how the end of the song goes. No, but this is how the end of the episode goes. Really!? How? [CC stares lifelessly forward out of the front window of the double decker bus; a man dressed in all blue catches her attention—another telepathic shapeshifter.] You brought…an umbrella? I told you there was a shit storm coming. Oh, nooh. Where's yours? I— don't care? That's right you don't. I don't. That's good you don't. I really don't. You don't give a Fuck, or a shit. I—don't give a fuck or a sh—wait— DILLON FRANCIS? I'm good at what I do. What do you DO? THIS. “A Silent Partner” Oh. I like that. That has all kinds of insinuations. Doesnt it? Hermph. Youre a creep. A Supacreep. PAUSE ITS MISTER MAGOOoOOOOOOOooO0oO. No, it's the IRS. Fuck. HOLY SHIT SUNNI. WHAT. HOW DO YOU OWE 100,000 IN BACK TAXES?! Student loan debt. WHAT. THAT DOESNT MAKE ANY SENSE. Yes it does. HOW. Calm down Marci —MY ÑAME IS— [Sunnī Blū subdues her instantly with one if Supacree's mysterious rave weapons] Sit down, please. …what is that? You like it? Yeah. [she gives her another dose of strange vapor, she relaxes even further.] See. Yeah. Now that you're happy— —am i “happy” ? [she gives her another relaxing dose] —are you Happy? Yeah. Ok. So. I never filed my taxes because I had so much student loan debt, I would never get a tax return because the stupid government would just take it away. …They're so stupid. It's s supercomputer. Huh. The government is a supercomputer—it's a giant—unfeeling— Huh? Nevermind; But Sunni— Yes, Manuel— You finally got my name right! Yeah. I did. —but you're rich now— I'm very rich. Yes. So then (hiccups) it doesn't matter if the stupid government computer takes your tax return away, cause you're—rich. Yeah! Rich people don't pay taxes dummy! Shhhhhhhh…be happy. [sunni sighs and takes a large huff themselves of the mysterious vapor, however still quite visibly insetttled. MEANWHILE, (IN A PARALLEL DIMENSION) FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUCKING—FUCKSAUCE Ooh—fuckity fucksauce?! FUCK! Haven't tried that one. Is it purple too!? SHUTTHEFUCK—UP. Ooh. It must be really hot. Let me try. Hello, Dillon Francis. Oh, no. Ha. Did you fuck my best friend? …I didn't know you…had any friends. I don't now. [he hangs his head.] ALSO MEANWHILE: (IN ANOTHER PARALLEL) DIPLO, in a villainous rage nearly murders DILLON FRANCIS, stealing his portal gun and a vast supply of his magic to track down SUPACREE and all of her living incarnations. Is this along the same timeline as Shia La— Fuck this dude's last name for real. For real _!%]_€ Is it on the same timeline? I mean, that's insane—SUPACREE is being stalked— —Hunted— Hunted by not one—but TWO super-buff celebrities— Hey, to be fair—I didn't know Shia La— Whatever— Whatever. I didn't know he was that buff. Who expected this?! Literally no one ever. How did this happen?! CUT TO: What if I threw myself in front of a school bus!? That would be the 16th time you've died, since you committed suicide So is that 16, or 17? Does it matter? I thought it was 10 to get to Skrillex. I thought we weren't trying to get to Skrillex I thought we never left. We never left. Fuck. You've got to run. It's not a race. He's very fast. What if he's spent as much time in the gym as you have? Huh. What if he's spent as much time in the studio as you have in the gym? That's it. That is it. This album is really. Golden. Golden? Really? Probably. Ive never seen gold before— Oh— Look. Look. What would they even tell the kids? “Some of you will grow up to amount to nothing and, and out of those some of you, at least one of you might just have the guts to throw yourself in front of a speeding vehicle which represents the very institution which disregarded your existence entirely in the first place.” Oh. That's…a lot for a bus full of kids. Not high schoolers. Benny Benassi (and the biz) was the word of God today. Tell me what your spirit says Show me what you pray Teach me every single part I'll be your guide You are a prisoner Looking for to be. Like heroin through a junkie's veins, the song poured through my Hesh 3's like the golden waters of a sacred fountain of wisdom; it made me reflect on the everythingness of all at once, and I was at bliss, even if only for a moment, briefly recalling how I had almost allowed it to be a bad day—but there were no more bad days, I had decided. Everything was in synchronicity, and exactly as it had to be; everything was going along just the way it was supposed to, and I had nothing to worry about. All was in time with the motion of the great flow of life—then, just suddenly—thinking of such synchronicities, as I pulled out my phone to write in the moment— You can change your face But can't change your mind No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do 11:12. ‘FUCK.' I cocked my head in complete awe to the side ‘Hard flex, Dillon Francis.' It was still hard to compute that such a man had become my literal muse—and though I knew not the exact meaning of the word—I knew what it meant. It was fascinating to me, and astonishing that something so simple could in my state of once fragile and benign vulnerability, be used as a tool to help complete this hypnotism, whatever it was meant for. I wasn't exactly making music, or anything good really—and I felt like I was bleeding money and certainly not making my worth in dollars for all the effort and energy I was spending just getting to work at all, let alone to work out—but there was still this, though I could finally falter to being irreversibly in love with Sonny Moore, or at least who he might have once been ( or the idea of such, anyway—) I did very much think of Dillon quite fondly and quite repetitively through each and passsing day, and oftentimes in my dreamworld, quite uncontrollably and involuntarily, in whatever way I was, it was forever. It didn't seem to matter, and though I purged myself from actually becoming as obsessive as I had once been with Sonny, I simply left it alone; ‘It doesn't matter!' Chal's voice sometimes overcoming my own, in the way that I did now wholeheartedly believe that pretty much nothing mattered, especially my emotions or feelings, which I wished would disappear like the title of the album I had actually written and completed but never had the chance to release, and had just the night before eaten in record time 4 entire vegan cupcakes to myself, —even when I had at least thought to share with my coworkers—a feast which usually took between 24 hours and 3 to four days, if I was moderating correctly. But I hadn't been—I was over stressed from riding busses full of people who didn't care that as the natural empath I had always been, I became gross and dysfunctional as anyone else who rode the bus just off the Las Vegas strip between the hours of 8 PM and 8 AM. Gross. I successfully pretended not to know who deadmau5 wash and upon being asked what I was listening to on the bus, I simply replied ‘progressive house'—and just later that night, as my coworkers, most of whom were about 10 years younger than I was, clammoired about fame and famous Individuals; dead-mau-five came up randomly in conversation; to which I coyfully resigned from correcting the falsity that it once had “actually” been the correct way to prounounce the artist's name, and that he had “actually” changed it—and still, later on, when for the first time over the loudspeakers, a song by deadmau5 (besides the new kx5 track) came on, nobody but me could seem to recognize that it was him playing—and though I had heard the song by now at least hundreds of times, I couldn't name it…which embarrassed me, and I failed to even look upon the screen to fact-check or correct myself—it was deadmau5, it was good, and at least it wasn't Skrillex… —who had also, though just behind deadmau5, also “coincidentally” come up in the conversation—this time less sarcastically forging a “who the fuck is that?”—of course, only to be met with what had to be a good minute and a half of my gullible coworkers explaining to me who Skrillex was, as I shrugged and nodded unassuminglu as if I didn't want to shoot myself in the foot just to dance to the tune of my own funural music. (Whatever that means.) Back to Benny Benassi Are you sleeping? Ooh. I'm sorry. Back to the Diverging lateral pull down, st a weight that looked too heavy, but was actually almost too light. Whose job is that? Ehmm— Skrillex! Is that what he does? Is that what this is? —BABY, ID LOVE FOR YOU TO TOUCH ME BAAAAABAY— ALSO: THE US GOVERNMENT has gotten a new fleet of JEEPS. Who is this. [American flag automatic antenna extends from the back of the vehicle.] Ooh. What is that? WE GOT HER GO ARMY, BITCH! Why is the Army following me?! You can time travel! So! They can not. Oh. I can shapeshift, too—why didn't they follow me when I started doing that in public? They sent navy seals! They did?! When?! Flashback: SUPACREE is swimming when caught in a rogue wave, quickly transforming into a whale, before washing up on shore and transforming back into her human self, right before the eyes of the navy seals team. What the fuck. ABORT. WHAT?! She's right there! I SAID ABORT. MORPHEUS. What. I'm retired. I know, look— Don't call me— I need a pill! How did you get this number?! It's The Matrix. Touché. I know, huh. Don't call me. [hangs up] [she calls his other line, he picks up unwittingly ñ] Hello? I need a pill! You—have them!! Don't you?! No! What is “no”? I don't need the red pill, or the blue pill! Then I can't help you! You're the only one that can help! Have you tried Jesus? Jesús is busy! Listen to me! —Jesús is always listening— I need the purple pill. The what—what?! The purple pill! …you know what? …what? Dont—call me anymore. [hangs up] What the fuck! [redials] Call from: MOM Hey Mom— Hey, Morpheus. What the Fuck! You what the fuck! Help me! God Help You! WHERE's my MOTHER?! I AM GOD. WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY MOTHER —I Am your mother, Morpheus. And I just made your favorite: pecan pie—… … —without pecans. … … … Meet me at Fatastik. Uh…the swap meet? Near the Rugs. What?! —bring the pie! [hangs up] Damn, what's gonna happen now?! I don't know. Ask Dillon Francis. What does Dillon Francis have to do with this? I dunno. Apparently a lot. [shrugs] MEAHAHILE: DILLON FRANCIS screams uncontrollably. CUT TO: BEYONCE is a big fan. Oh wow, that's incredible. No, LITERALLY BEYONCÈ, mastering her shape shifting abilities has transformed herself into a giant fan. WOW. That is cool. (Literally.) Get it? SHUTUP. [CC in a high intensity workout-induced trance merges with the character DUFF as she locks her legs across the rotary torso machine. ] DUFF is paralyzed from the waist down after crash landing feet-first from her pod; She has landed in present day earth, first spotted by millions as a UFO; upon rescuing her from the fiery crash, recovering the remains of her futuristic vehicle raises questions from the whole world about her true origins and mission's purpose—however, stricken wirh Amnesia, she only recalls that her name is DUFF, and has very few memories preceding her discovery—it is clear that she is a human, and a high-ranking military trained space explorer—but remembers nothing of her own origins. It is suspected that she may indeed be a time traveler from the distant future. WOAH I know, huh. That's what's happening in that series?! Damn! I know, huh! Sometimes I surprise muself. And I'm not even listening to deadmau5. So what's Beyoncé got to do with this storyline? Something, I'm sure. Synesthesia. Oh—yeah, that. She's so pink! Don't be gross. I— whatever. duff. DUFF! DUFF!!! [DUFF is caught in a lucid dream; the original SUPACREE is in a coma after her failed suicide attempt—their worlds collide.] Beyoncé's voice looked to me as if butterflies had long streams of silk woven wings, fluttering eloquently in hues of fluorescent pink and painted shades of rose-tinted streaking blues, auroras of bubblegum entertaining with breezy mellow waves of yellow and flooding bursts of bright purple—a pure joy in my ear sight, which meant nothing to the world, but everything to me. Creating literal auroras I had only ever before seen in the frigid arctic night skies of Alaska, sometimes I simply had to close my eyes and breathe in deeply the fluid and sometimes glowing and velvety cascades—more so pronounced than the ones I had observed in finally linking kaskade's unique electronic sound to his name—probably because rather than having come from a synthesizer, it was Beyoncé's naturally unnatural voice—and by unnatural, I only meant that it was such a singularity that divinity itself had to have put her hands into allowing such a phenomenon to exist. I had indeed fallen In love with the talent and aura of this too-perfect southern belle—but one doesn't simply aspire to be Beyoncè at the ripe old age of 30; a lifetime of dedication to artistry could only result in such an immaculate perfection in performance—perfection I humbly honored, but tried my best not to crave. [CC, on the brink of being BLŪ but not having yet arrived in the true belief of her own accomplishments or potential. emotionally stuffs her face unforgivingly with Oreo cookies; a silent, friendly ghost, the ghost of the late great COOKIE MONSTA seats himself softly beside her on the bed. Another guardian Angel.] What up, Cookie Monster. I Am Cookie Monster— ugh— [Realizing she is once again confronted with a ghost DJ, after having been visited by Avicii and I_O now years earlier, but still an ever-present memory.] COOKIE MONSTA?! [He shrugs as she stuffs another cookie in her mouth, literally overflowing with cookie and reeling in the discomfort of double-stuffiness. Ughhhhh—I cant feel my face. I can't feel anything. Consider yourself lucky. I consider myself ‘dead' Yeah, me too. Well, you shouldn't. Says the ghost. Youre the gh0st. Oh yeah, huh… [he shrugs and nods] Huh. Yeah right. But it seemed like I would never make dubstep—working two jobs, riding the bus—and despite my sweet tooth, my shrinking waistline and quest for physical perfection in the peak of my absolute loneliness, distrust for the world, and disdain for the injustice of society. All it seemed like I did really have that was mine, was deadmau5 blasting through my ears at any given moment as my dirty little secret—Oreos, my synestetic facination with Beyoncé, and, of course, one of the best athletic clubs in the world at my disposl, given that I had the time or energy to use it. Altogether self-serving, señf-soothing, and best of all self loathing—navigating life had become more outwittinglu experiencing infinite death thsn not—an endless ego death in the confines of my own limitations and judgements. I had put myself in a shelf entirely—and now, I didn't know what I was writing for, but I was still writing. Even without making music, music seemed to make itself out of the words that could connect with my broken and tired spirit in whatever synchronization it took to type out a song, or a novel, or a suicide letter, or a screenplay—whatever it was. I didn't know. And… ‘It doesn't matter. COOKIE MONSTA fades away into the reminiscent whisper of a ghost, as CC falls asleep, hugging a pillow and still clutching an Oreo in one hand and her crystals in the other. The room spins as she fades into the dreamworld, lost in her self and the world within. Might be a saint, But the back doors open and The oven's on so, I won't close it, If it gets too warm, you know I'll want you to hold me I might be lonely I might be lonely I might be (((A))) S-s-s-superstar, Where are ye? Real nice car, A mazzarati you bought me High speed dodging the paparazzi I got to be lucky I got to be the lucky one We sure are lucky, aren't we Darling, you're sparking Park this thing Spark me up Let's party What are we? S-s-s-superstars, Yeah Red carpet party Set the alarm, No harming a full carbon body Yah You want this blonde fawning for your autograph? Or you want me? What are we— Let's party; Just us three Right here in the lobby Oh my god, That's just raunchy Stop to talk The audacity Or night at the odyssey Whichever one Haunts me less awfully C'mon! We don't follow the models! They follow me! What the Fuck Kind of husband Does this 1x1 = nothin The marriage was loveless But honest, I'd honor it over another, And that was the start of Another concept album FADE TO BLUE TO BE CONTINUED. Copyright 2022 The Festival Project All Rights Reserved

LEGENDS: ENTER THE MULTIVERSE Fuck. What was it? It was a p— Well it was a *PR Lol. *PT cruiser Yeah, but it was— It was purple. It was a purple PT. Cruiser It was—but what else was it? Ugh. I forgot. Yeah, I bet. GOOGLE SEARCH shades of purple. Ooooh. PERIWINKLE. You fucking dumb ass. I mean, Jesus. How long has it been? At least a lifetime. No, past that. It was a perfect periwinkle PT cruiser. So, start there. ‘Start there' what? Everything since then, till now— For what? Enter The Multiverse. That show is still on?! YES. What day is it? Fuxk. What time is it? What—the fuck. What?! CUPCAKES AND A MUFFIN?! I don't care how fat I am. You're not fat. QUASIMOTO Can I just say, your ass is like —woah. CC/SUPACREE Oh, thank you. QUASIMOTO I mean like—DAAAAAAMN. CC/ SUPACREE OK. QUASIMOTO i mean like—what the FAAACK. CC/SUPACREE Yeah. thanks, bro. [an awkward silence] QUASIMOTO …Good job, though. [light fist bump] EARLIER: MORE CUPCAKES. NAH. OHH, OREOS?! Oreos are the G.O.A.T. I WANTED CUPCAKES. SHUT THE FUCK UP— Before that, at the gym: —do the butt machine again. Again?! Get the glutes. But I'm tired— GET THE GLUUUUUUUUTES. Calorie Deficit Calculator: -3423 Oh shit. Well how many calories did I eat? BEFORE: …chocolate chip cookies? NO— —CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIESzzxz— [CC/SUPACREE robotically and autonomously ditches her bicycle outside of sprouts, not giving a Fuck.] —s—noh! stop it! Stop controlling me! THEY ARE VEGAN. SO? STOP IT. Ooh, what's this. I don't know— get it. CC/SUPACREE stands awkwardly at the checkout with a varied selection of vegan baked goods. *beep* Yeaaaahh. So wait. SUPACREE is controlled by aliens? WE ARE GODS. Knock it OFF! [NEW ABILITY UNLOCKED: SUPASTRENTH ] Nice. Yeah dude. Watch this. The Legend of Supacree is the #1 MMORPG in the world; it is also happening in real-time, in multiple worlds within the multiversial constrict of the actual Omniverse. AGHHHHH In fact, nobody even plays GTA or call of duty anymore. YAH! [Random objects falling from the sky. ] SUPACREE Oh, nice. INSTANT MANIFESTATION. JUST POST THE FUCKING EPISODE ALRIGHT?! this bitch is fucking crazy. Watch this. Watch what? SHIA LABEOUF discovers The Legend Of Supacree franchise and becomes villainously obsessed with It, hatching a heinous and meniacal plan to hunt her down and capture her—tracking her every move and learning everything about her he can. Wtf. I don't know. Is he a villain? I don't know. I guess. I'M A SUPERVILLAIN. …He's a supervillain. I guess. Why?! I don't know. This is creeps. It is creeps. [lifts one eyebrow.] SUPACREEps. Scary monsters and supacreeps. Heh. NO, NO MUSICIANS. Heh. SHIA LABOUF is straight up gangster. HE'S CRAZY! [SHIA LAUGHING MANIACALLY.] Oh, wow– That dude is a straight up psychopath. You're a straight up psychopath. I'm not arguing. What is THIS part of the story? Well, son, you made it through. WOODY HARRELSON? WHAT. Woody Harrelson?! WHY? I don't know. He just fit the part. WHAT PART?! WHAT/! Nobody quite understands what's happening in ENTER THE MULTIVERSE, however, THE LEGEND OF SUPACREE has taken an incredible turning point, intersecting with the world of LEGENDS and THE SECRET LIFE OF SUNNI BLŪ/ THE SUITE LIFE OF SUNNI BLŪ. IT HAS? YES? WHERE? I WANNA DIE. OH! That's not SUPACREE! [CC HULK SMASHES her bike onto the rack on the bus. THE HULK, sitting just in front stares at her wide-eyed as she boards the bus over the rim of his sunglasses. Oh, maybe, nevermind. Wait! Is it THE HULK, or MARK RUFFALO? I don't know! I don't give a shit! Why are you even writing this? Uhhhhhhhh. [CC's brain is slowly melting as she rides the bus to work. THE HULK– OR IS IT MARK FUCKING RUFFALO!? I DON”T FUCKING CARE– THERE'S A DIFFERENCE WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE IT – DOESN”T– MATTER! ‘It doesn't matter.' Chal's words echoed in my head almost too loudly–as boldly blind and sometimes even dumb as he was, he was also wise, and as it turned out, right–it really didn't matter. Nothing mattered at all. I had gone through the motions of reaching out to him, to of course as expected learn that he and whatever her name was had gone their separate ways;I understood that would be the case nearly immediately back in Mazunte, but as he was insistent he would woo her–and persistent in doing so, that I thought maybe after all love– or what really turned out to be his obstinate lust would win the day–and yet, it hadn't; he was again single and on the prowl– and although at one point I had even lusted after him briefly, trailing behind him in nonchalant platonic carelessness as he obsessively followed another woman, had allowed me to become comfortable enough in the friendzone that i could just simply exist next to him; Now, again faced with homelessness and factoring in my inability to travel much further than south of the border, especially now knowing well how to travel throughout mexico and into Guatemala, I wondered truly if my own self-worth had really been lowered to the point of allowing myself to meet Chal in Guatemala–even full well knowing that he, too, preferred perfect and illy white to my dark skin and quite seemingly matronly features, and, knowing for myself that I wasn't hsi first choice– as he and I had of course met in Mazunte around the same time he had met whom he considered to be ‘his Goddess'-- albeit while on a topless beach and thus hynotized by her breasts. Men were hopeless. Then, here I was, waking up every other sleep cycle in the cold sweat of a wet dream, the subject of which I typically at least tried to keep deeply hidden in my subconscious psyche as secrets, although by now it seemed there really were none, and all that I knew and that I thought were known and seen by some other than myself–though somehow still holding true to my belied that there really was none other than myself–in my own broken and twisted world, alone and punished in the depths of mediocrity and shame. Woah. Riding the bus. There's nothing lower. There's walking. To the bus. Yah. And all the sick people. And all the crackheads. And all the–what are those? Demons [demon hacks.] Ugh, fucking–ugh. SHIA LABOUFF'S obsession with SUPACREE is helga petaki-meets Tom Cruise jumping on Oprah's couch. Oh, wait, we're back on that storyline? I mean– I don't know how to write this. Just write it. he's a villain, right? I mean, that suit. SHIA LA– FUCK. WHAT?! Worst last name EVER. Well, not ever– Wait, is he black?! –It sounds french. GOOGLE SEARCH: ‘How Jewish is Shia LaBeouf? ‘ –no, he's Cajun – That's french-black–wait— –what? Cajun AND Jewish? –Yeah– Jesus! JESUS What? (raises one eyebrow) SUPACREE strategizes a plan of attack. Attack for what? {ATTACK} YOUUUU INCEPTED ME!!! AGH! {COUNTER ATTACK} NOT ME! DISNEY! (DODGING COUNTER ATTACK} Yeah, Blame “Disney!” I JUST DID. Oh, yeah, right!! RAVEN SYMONÉ It was Disney. THEY OK'D THIS?! They bought Marvel! THEY OK'D EVERYTHING. —Even the SKRILLEX? Especially the Skrillex —Especially the Skrillex. AGHHHHHHHH—— ———-AAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!! SHIA LABEOUF VS SUPACREE: FIGHT!!!! Everything looks good— —everything looks good. Everything looks fine— —Everything looks fine. But wait— What? What about that guy? Oh My— —oh my… Is he gonna be alright? Is that guy —gonna be alright? Is that guy gonna be alright? Is—that guy gonna be alright? Is that guy gonna be alright Is that guy— Gonna be alright? Is that guy gonna be alright?? Is that guy gonna be alright?! Is that guy gonna be alright m? Everything looks good— —everything looks fine Looks good— But what about that guy? …I don't know about that guy. Is he alright? Yo. Yooo. Stop writing songs about Skrillex. ((I literally can't.)) What?! It doesn't have to be about Skrillex! It could be about anybody! Here, they call with disco balls Stars in my eyes, but stars do fall First true love dies hard after all, No star shines bright as morning comes —(for) Sonny …I didn't write that. CUT TO: CC writes automagically between sets of heavy lifting. IMAGINARY FRIENDS, PART III DEADMAU5!!!! okay—one more—then cupcakes— Cupcakes? No cupcakes! I WANT CUPCAKES. Uh—No way! YES WAY. Mmm—no I'm sick of this diet! I'm not on a diet! I eat! You eat GRASS. I'm a vegan. This shit sucks. I told you, grass tastes bad. RICK?! (I also want cupcakes. ) Mmkay—ohh. You said that was the last one. No, more more. NO “one more” But I like this one—and it has the right amount of weights on it already—see? Jesús Christ He's not here. (Yes I am). Why the Fuxk. I also want cupcakes Okay, one more No “one more” The power of Christ compels ye! … Is that how that works? No. Maybe. (((Yes.))) AGHHH. The celebrities of Hollywood are gang stalking SUPACREE Can we— No. But I didn't even get to ask the question. The answer is no. THE CELEBRITIES OF HOLLYWOOD, after assembling with the Bampheramphs and Morherfuckers, have formed a supergroup tasked with bringing SUPACREE to THE HOLLYWOOD PEOPLE—so far, they have cunningly out-bested and outwitted THE US GOVERNMENT, including but not limited to THE FEDS, THE CIA, THE FBI and THE SECRET SERVICE. REALLY? I GUESS. HOW?! — DRAKE snoops on SUPACREE as she writes working half heartedly at THE NECK MACHINE with peaking curiosity, peaking over the time of his sunglasses. Whats it called. “Nautilus 4 way neck “ BPM: you're a jerk Do the Drake Do the Drake Do the Drake Work that neck Work that— Neck, Becky Work that neck, Work that neck Do the— “new note: Purchase ‘Honestly, nevermind' I had worked an entre month at LVAC before the circus went underway; Not a single drop of Skrillex had ever been played over the loudspeakers at any moment, for any of the time I had been employed there, nor had it burdened me any of the other time I had spent bettering myself within what I once cherished as sacred walls–now the illusion shattered, as nowhere I could seem to run – even the rural coastal jungle of Mexico-was far enough to escape the clammerings of something I quite honestly very much still loved, but wouldn't allow myself to enjoy— Or maybe, now, couldn't. BANGARANG. ‘Fuck this shit.' I wanted to move, but didn't—I wanted leave, and probably should have, but wouldn't. I just sat there through it as my coworker, standing at about 5'4 ½ in a pair of tight black skinny jeans sang along and bounced rhymically. What the fuck. Then, as it had just been earlier that I was thinking of Sonny himself, and how, be it that any of my premonitions were actually accurate and true as I had once thought them to be, there would perhaps come a day that I regretted not listening to his works, just as one regrets not spending time with a loved one before their passing not giving enough attention to the little things, the tiny details, the time they had missed, but never missed without missing their loved one until it was too late. Then again, for me, any time in the then- present was too late, as I had only been followed, taunted, and ridiculed, openly humiliated and embarrassed, and never really paid directly for anything I had done, whether it did have to do with Skrillex or otherwise –and so I had made it more than a point to distance myself from it, anything having to do with it, or him, or anything really, music related—of course besides relying heavily on deadmau5 just for my own existence–that is, willingness wake up, move about the world and its endless, pointless constructs, and even so, completing a worthwhile workout with enough satisfaction that I could allow myself to leave the building–and now, with my commute taking up a grand total of 4 hours of my entire day—I didn't have the time or the energy to stay late into the days and even afternoons as I had before, or to arrive early as I had in the days and weeks before; Now this job was amounting to nothing at all, and I was surely less than breaking even. Whats the worry? You've got 20 minutes to write a story! Don't be sorry Mind your orders. You're a war chief Marry me, Oh pretty please— I plead to you, just sing for me Just think of me as a Never ending fantasy, At the very least When you bury me —and you buried me alive, Just for the look of things What makes us even Slitting wrists Or splitting things unevenly (Either thing benefits me, And my penis, I think.) Make me famous— She said Hate me or debate me, I have everything I need And I have everything you have, But I can leave, All with my dreams intact I do believe You think I'm evil Either way, unnecessary Why would I sit down and write a story— When you just did it for me? Why would I pledge sllwgence to old glory She's ignoring me; Why would I change my name to satisfy your needs When mine sit idly by waiting Why would I dream of you, When you dream of me I have all I need, You have all of me in the other room While you watch cartoons wirh your lady I hate anime and now I hate you to, But I'm so stupid, Nothing soothes my moods, Except playing your tunes, Or music Whoop De Fucking do Would you Marry Me? He said (He never did, he just let her—) She said, I do And now they're doomed I built a tomb for two The bride and groom In music Two by two And used by Tuesday Music I presume To the beautiful Music I presume For the usual Music I presume For those who —- SHIA LABEOUF JUST DO IT. That is not how the end of the song goes. No, but this is how the end of the episode goes. Really!? How? [CC stares lifelessly forward out of the front window of the double decker bus; a man dressed in all blue catches her attention—another telepathic shapeshifter.] You brought…an umbrella? I told you there was a shit storm coming. Oh, nooh. Where's yours? I— don't care? That's right you don't. I don't. That's good you don't. I really don't. You don't give a Fuck, or a shit. I—don't give a fuck or a sh—wait— DILLON FRANCIS? I'm good at what I do. What do you DO? THIS. “A Silent Partner” Oh. I like that. That has all kinds of insinuations. Doesnt it? Hermph. Youre a creep. A Supacreep. PAUSE ITS MISTER MAGOOoOOOOOOOooO0oO. No, it's the IRS. Fuck. HOLY SHIT SUNNI. WHAT. HOW DO YOU OWE 100,000 IN BACK TAXES?! Student loan debt. WHAT. THAT DOESNT MAKE ANY SENSE. Yes it does. HOW. Calm down Marci —MY ÑAME IS— [Sunnī Blū subdues her instantly with one if Supacree's mysterious rave weapons] Sit down, please. …what is that? You like it? Yeah. [she gives her another dose of strange vapor, she relaxes even further.] See. Yeah. Now that you're happy— —am i “happy” ? [she gives her another relaxing dose] —are you Happy? Yeah. Ok. So. I never filed my taxes because I had so much student loan debt, I would never get a tax return because the stupid government would just take it away. …They're so stupid. It's s supercomputer. Huh. The government is a supercomputer—it's a giant—unfeeling— Huh? Nevermind; But Sunni— Yes, Manuel— You finally got my name right! Yeah. I did. —but you're rich now— I'm very rich. Yes. So then (hiccups) it doesn't matter if the stupid government computer takes your tax return away, cause you're—rich. Yeah! Rich people don't pay taxes dummy! Shhhhhhhh…be happy. [sunni sighs and takes a large huff themselves of the mysterious vapor, however still quite visibly insetttled. MEANWHILE, (IN A PARALLEL DIMENSION) FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUCKING—FUCKSAUCE Ooh—fuckity fucksauce?! FUCK! Haven't tried that one. Is it purple too!? SHUTTHEFUCK—UP. Ooh. It must be really hot. Let me try. Hello, Dillon Francis. Oh, no. Ha. Did you fuck my best friend? …I didn't know you…had any friends. I don't now. [he hangs his head.] ALSO MEANWHILE: (IN ANOTHER PARALLEL) DIPLO, in a villainous rage nearly murders DILLON FRANCIS, stealing his portal gun and a vast supply of his magic to track down SUPACREE and all of her living incarnations. Is this along the same timeline as Shia La— Fuck this dude's last name for real. For real _!%]_€ Is it on the same timeline? I mean, that's insane—SUPACREE is being stalked— —Hunted— Hunted by not one—but TWO super-buff celebrities— Hey, to be fair—I didn't know Shia La— Whatever— Whatever. I didn't know he was that buff. Who expected this?! Literally no one ever. How did this happen?! CUT TO: What if I threw myself in front of a school bus!? That would be the 16th time you've died, since you committed suicide So is that 16, or 17? Does it matter? I thought it was 10 to get to Skrillex. I thought we weren't trying to get to Skrillex I thought we never left. We never left. Fuck. You've got to run. It's not a race. He's very fast. What if he's spent as much time in the gym as you have? Huh. What if he's spent as much time in the studio as you have in the gym? That's it. That is it. This album is really. Golden. Golden? Really? Probably. Ive never seen gold before— Oh— Look. Look. What would they even tell the kids? “Some of you will grow up to amount to nothing and, and out of those some of you, at least one of you might just have the guts to throw yourself in front of a speeding vehicle which represents the very institution which disregarded your existence entirely in the first place.” Oh. That's…a lot for a bus full of kids. Not high schoolers. Benny Benassi (and the biz) was the word of God today. Tell me what your spirit says Show me what you pray Teach me every single part I'll be your guide You are a prisoner Looking for to be. Like heroin through a junkie's veins, the song poured through my Hesh 3's like the golden waters of a sacred fountain of wisdom; it made me reflect on the everythingness of all at once, and I was at bliss, even if only for a moment, briefly recalling how I had almost allowed it to be a bad day—but there were no more bad days, I had decided. Everything was in synchronicity, and exactly as it had to be; everything was going along just the way it was supposed to, and I had nothing to worry about. All was in time with the motion of the great flow of life—then, just suddenly—thinking of such synchronicities, as I pulled out my phone to write in the moment— You can change your face But can't change your mind No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do 11:12. ‘FUCK.' I cocked my head in complete awe to the side ‘Hard flex, Dillon Francis.' It was still hard to compute that such a man had become my literal muse—and though I knew not the exact meaning of the word—I knew what it meant. It was fascinating to me, and astonishing that something so simple could in my state of once fragile and benign vulnerability, be used as a tool to help complete this hypnotism, whatever it was meant for. I wasn't exactly making music, or anything good really—and I felt like I was bleeding money and certainly not making my worth in dollars for all the effort and energy I was spending just getting to work at all, let alone to work out—but there was still this, though I could finally falter to being irreversibly in love with Sonny Moore, or at least who he might have once been ( or the idea of such, anyway—) I did very much think of Dillon quite fondly and quite repetitively through each and passsing day, and oftentimes in my dreamworld, quite uncontrollably and involuntarily, in whatever way I was, it was forever. It didn't seem to matter, and though I purged myself from actually becoming as obsessive as I had once been with Sonny, I simply left it alone; ‘It doesn't matter!' Chal's voice sometimes overcoming my own, in the way that I did now wholeheartedly believe that pretty much nothing mattered, especially my emotions or feelings, which I wished would disappear like the title of the album I had actually written and completed but never had the chance to release, and had just the night before eaten in record time 4 entire vegan cupcakes to myself, —even when I had at least thought to share with my coworkers—a feast which usually took between 24 hours and 3 to four days, if I was moderating correctly. But I hadn't been—I was over stressed from riding busses full of people who didn't care that as the natural empath I had always been, I became gross and dysfunctional as anyone else who rode the bus just off the Las Vegas strip between the hours of 8 PM and 8 AM. Gross. I successfully pretended not to know who deadmau5 wash and upon being asked what I was listening to on the bus, I simply replied ‘progressive house'—and just later that night, as my coworkers, most of whom were about 10 years younger than I was, clammoired about fame and famous Individuals; dead-mau-five came up randomly in conversation; to which I coyfully resigned from correcting the falsity that it once had “actually” been the correct way to prounounce the artist's name, and that he had “actually” changed it—and still, later on, when for the first time over the loudspeakers, a song by deadmau5 (besides the new kx5 track) came on, nobody but me could seem to recognize that it was him playing—and though I had heard the song by now at least hundreds of times, I couldn't name it…which embarrassed me, and I failed to even look upon the screen to fact-check or correct myself—it was deadmau5, it was good, and at least it wasn't Skrillex… —who had also, though just behind deadmau5, also “coincidentally” come up in the conversation—this time less sarcastically forging a “who the fuck is that?”—of course, only to be met with what had to be a good minute and a half of my gullible coworkers explaining to me who Skrillex was, as I shrugged and nodded unassuminglu as if I didn't want to shoot myself in the foot just to dance to the tune of my own funural music. (Whatever that means.) Back to Benny Benassi Are you sleeping? Ooh. I'm sorry. Back to the Diverging lateral pull down, st a weight that looked too heavy, but was actually almost too light. Whose job is that? Ehmm— Skrillex! Is that what he does? Is that what this is? —BABY, ID LOVE FOR YOU TO TOUCH ME BAAAAABAY— ALSO: THE US GOVERNMENT has gotten a new fleet of JEEPS. Who is this. [American flag automatic antenna extends from the back of the vehicle.] Ooh. What is that? WE GOT HER GO ARMY, BITCH! Why is the Army following me?! You can time travel! So! They can not. Oh. I can shapeshift, too—why didn't they follow me when I started doing that in public? They sent navy seals! They did?! When?! Flashback: SUPACREE is swimming when caught in a rogue wave, quickly transforming into a whale, before washing up on shore and transforming back into her human self, right before the eyes of the navy seals team. What the fuck. ABORT. WHAT?! She's right there! I SAID ABORT. MORPHEUS. What. I'm retired. I know, look— Don't call me— I need a pill! How did you get this number?! It's The Matrix. Touché. I know, huh. Don't call me. [hangs up] [she calls his other line, he picks up unwittingly ñ] Hello? I need a pill! You—have them!! Don't you?! No! What is “no”? I don't need the red pill, or the blue pill! Then I can't help you! You're the only one that can help! Have you tried Jesus? Jesús is busy! Listen to me! —Jesús is always listening— I need the purple pill. The what—what?! The purple pill! …you know what? …what? Dont—call me anymore. [hangs up] What the fuck! [redials] Call from: MOM Hey Mom— Hey, Morpheus. What the Fuck! You what the fuck! Help me! God Help You! WHERE's my MOTHER?! I AM GOD. WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY MOTHER —I Am your mother, Morpheus. And I just made your favorite: pecan pie—… … —without pecans. … … … Meet me at Fatastik. Uh…the swap meet? Near the Rugs. What?! —bring the pie! [hangs up] Damn, what's gonna happen now?! I don't know. Ask Dillon Francis. What does Dillon Francis have to do with this? I dunno. Apparently a lot. [shrugs] MEAHAHILE: DILLON FRANCIS screams uncontrollably. CUT TO: BEYONCE is a big fan. Oh wow, that's incredible. No, LITERALLY BEYONCÈ, mastering her shape shifting abilities has transformed herself into a giant fan. WOW. That is cool. (Literally.) Get it? SHUTUP. [CC in a high intensity workout-induced trance merges with the character DUFF as she locks her legs across the rotary torso machine. ] DUFF is paralyzed from the waist down after crash landing feet-first from her pod; She has landed in present day earth, first spotted by millions as a UFO; upon rescuing her from the fiery crash, recovering the remains of her futuristic vehicle raises questions from the whole world about her true origins and mission's purpose—however, stricken wirh Amnesia, she only recalls that her name is DUFF, and has very few memories preceding her discovery—it is clear that she is a human, and a high-ranking military trained space explorer—but remembers nothing of her own origins. It is suspected that she may indeed be a time traveler from the distant future. WOAH I know, huh. That's what's happening in that series?! Damn! I know, huh! Sometimes I surprise muself. And I'm not even listening to deadmau5. So what's Beyoncé got to do with this storyline? Something, I'm sure. Synesthesia. Oh—yeah, that. She's so pink! Don't be gross. I— whatever. duff. DUFF! DUFF!!! [DUFF is caught in a lucid dream; the original SUPACREE is in a coma after her failed suicide attempt—their worlds collide.] Beyoncé's voice looked to me as if butterflies had long streams of silk woven wings, fluttering eloquently in hues of fluorescent pink and painted shades of rose-tinted streaking blues, auroras of bubblegum entertaining with breezy mellow waves of yellow and flooding bursts of bright purple—a pure joy in my ear sight, which meant nothing to the world, but everything to me. Creating literal auroras I had only ever before seen in the frigid arctic night skies of Alaska, sometimes I simply had to close my eyes and breathe in deeply the fluid and sometimes glowing and velvety cascades—more so pronounced than the ones I had observed in finally linking kaskade's unique electronic sound to his name—probably because rather than having come from a synthesizer, it was Beyoncé's naturally unnatural voice—and by unnatural, I only meant that it was such a singularity that divinity itself had to have put her hands into allowing such a phenomenon to exist. I had indeed fallen In love with the talent and aura of this too-perfect southern belle—but one doesn't simply aspire to be Beyoncè at the ripe old age of 30; a lifetime of dedication to artistry could only result in such an immaculate perfection in performance—perfection I humbly honored, but tried my best not to crave. [CC, on the brink of being BLŪ but not having yet arrived in the true belief of her own accomplishments or potential. emotionally stuffs her face unforgivingly with Oreo cookies; a silent, friendly ghost, the ghost of the late great COOKIE MONSTA seats himself softly beside her on the bed. Another guardian Angel.] What up, Cookie Monster. I Am Cookie Monster— ugh— [Realizing she is once again confronted with a ghost DJ, after having been visited by Avicii and I_O now years earlier, but still an ever-present memory.] COOKIE MONSTA?! [He shrugs as she stuffs another cookie in her mouth, literally overflowing with cookie and reeling in the discomfort of double-stuffiness. Ughhhhh—I cant feel my face. I can't feel anything. Consider yourself lucky. I consider myself ‘dead' Yeah, me too. Well, you shouldn't. Says the ghost. Youre the gh0st. Oh yeah, huh… [he shrugs and nods] Huh. Yeah right. But it seemed like I would never make dubstep—working two jobs, riding the bus—and despite my sweet tooth, my shrinking waistline and quest for physical perfection in the peak of my absolute loneliness, distrust for the world, and disdain for the injustice of society. All it seemed like I did really have that was mine, was deadmau5 blasting through my ears at any given moment as my dirty little secret—Oreos, my synestetic facination with Beyoncé, and, of course, one of the best athletic clubs in the world at my disposl, given that I had the time or energy to use it. Altogether self-serving, señf-soothing, and best of all self loathing—navigating life had become more outwittinglu experiencing infinite death thsn not—an endless ego death in the confines of my own limitations and judgements. I had put myself in a shelf entirely—and now, I didn't know what I was writing for, but I was still writing. Even without making music, music seemed to make itself out of the words that could connect with my broken and tired spirit in whatever synchronization it took to type out a song, or a novel, or a suicide letter, or a screenplay—whatever it was. I didn't know. And… ‘It doesn't matter. COOKIE MONSTA fades away into the reminiscent whisper of a ghost, as CC falls asleep, hugging a pillow and still clutching an Oreo in one hand and her crystals in the other. The room spins as she fades into the dreamworld, lost in her self and the world within. Might be a saint, But the back doors open and The oven's on so, I won't close it, If it gets too warm, you know I'll want you to hold me I might be lonely I might be lonely I might be (((A))) S-s-s-superstar, Where are ye? Real nice car, A mazzarati you bought me High speed dodging the paparazzi I got to be lucky I got to be the lucky one We sure are lucky, aren't we Darling, you're sparking Park this thing Spark me up Let's party What are we? S-s-s-superstars, Yeah Red carpet party Set the alarm, No harming a full carbon body Yah You want this blonde fawning for your autograph? Or you want me? What are we— Let's party; Just us three Right here in the lobby Oh my god, That's just raunchy Stop to talk The audacity Or night at the odyssey Whichever one Haunts me less awfully C'mon! We don't follow the models! They follow me! What the Fuck Kind of husband Does this 1x1 = nothin The marriage was loveless But honest, I'd honor it over another, And that was the start of Another concept album FADE TO BLUE TO BE CONTINUED. Copyright 2022 The Festival Project All Rights Reserved

LEGENDS: ENTER THE MULTIVERSE Fuck. What was it? It was a p— Well it was a *PR Lol. *PT cruiser Yeah, but it was— It was purple. It was a purple PT. Cruiser It was—but what else was it? Ugh. I forgot. Yeah, I bet. GOOGLE SEARCH shades of purple. Ooooh. PERIWINKLE. You fucking dumb ass. I mean, Jesus. How long has it been? At least a lifetime. No, past that. It was a perfect periwinkle PT cruiser. So, start there. ‘Start there' what? Everything since then, till now— For what? Enter The Multiverse. That show is still on?! YES. What day is it? Fuxk. What time is it? What—the fuck. What?! CUPCAKES AND A MUFFIN?! I don't care how fat I am. You're not fat. QUASIMOTO Can I just say, your ass is like —woah. CC/SUPACREE Oh, thank you. QUASIMOTO I mean like—DAAAAAAMN. CC/ SUPACREE OK. QUASIMOTO i mean like—what the FAAACK. CC/SUPACREE Yeah. thanks, bro. [an awkward silence] QUASIMOTO …Good job, though. [light fist bump] EARLIER: MORE CUPCAKES. NAH. OHH, OREOS?! Oreos are the G.O.A.T. I WANTED CUPCAKES. SHUT THE FUCK UP— Before that, at the gym: —do the butt machine again. Again?! Get the glutes. But I'm tired— GET THE GLUUUUUUUUTES. Calorie Deficit Calculator: -3423 Oh shit. Well how many calories did I eat? BEFORE: …chocolate chip cookies? NO— —CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIESzzxz— [CC/SUPACREE robotically and autonomously ditches her bicycle outside of sprouts, not giving a Fuck.] —s—noh! stop it! Stop controlling me! THEY ARE VEGAN. SO? STOP IT. Ooh, what's this. I don't know— get it. CC/SUPACREE stands awkwardly at the checkout with a varied selection of vegan baked goods. *beep* Yeaaaahh. So wait. SUPACREE is controlled by aliens? WE ARE GODS. Knock it OFF! [NEW ABILITY UNLOCKED: SUPASTRENTH ] Nice. Yeah dude. Watch this. The Legend of Supacree is the #1 MMORPG in the world; it is also happening in real-time, in multiple worlds within the multiversial constrict of the actual Omniverse. AGHHHHH In fact, nobody even plays GTA or call of duty anymore. YAH! [Random objects falling from the sky. ] SUPACREE Oh, nice. INSTANT MANIFESTATION. JUST POST THE FUCKING EPISODE ALRIGHT?! this bitch is fucking crazy. Watch this. Watch what? SHIA LABEOUF discovers The Legend Of Supacree franchise and becomes villainously obsessed with It, hatching a heinous and meniacal plan to hunt her down and capture her—tracking her every move and learning everything about her he can. Wtf. I don't know. Is he a villain? I don't know. I guess. I'M A SUPERVILLAIN. …He's a supervillain. I guess. Why?! I don't know. This is creeps. It is creeps. [lifts one eyebrow.] SUPACREEps. Scary monsters and supacreeps. Heh. NO, NO MUSICIANS. Heh. SHIA LABOUF is straight up gangster. HE'S CRAZY! [SHIA LAUGHING MANIACALLY.] Oh, wow– That dude is a straight up psychopath. You're a straight up psychopath. I'm not arguing. What is THIS part of the story? Well, son, you made it through. WOODY HARRELSON? WHAT. Woody Harrelson?! WHY? I don't know. He just fit the part. WHAT PART?! WHAT/! Nobody quite understands what's happening in ENTER THE MULTIVERSE, however, THE LEGEND OF SUPACREE has taken an incredible turning point, intersecting with the world of LEGENDS and THE SECRET LIFE OF SUNNI BLŪ/ THE SUITE LIFE OF SUNNI BLŪ. IT HAS? YES? WHERE? I WANNA DIE. OH! That's not SUPACREE! [CC HULK SMASHES her bike onto the rack on the bus. THE HULK, sitting just in front stares at her wide-eyed as she boards the bus over the rim of his sunglasses. Oh, maybe, nevermind. Wait! Is it THE HULK, or MARK RUFFALO? I don't know! I don't give a shit! Why are you even writing this? Uhhhhhhhh. [CC's brain is slowly melting as she rides the bus to work. THE HULK– OR IS IT MARK FUCKING RUFFALO!? I DON”T FUCKING CARE– THERE'S A DIFFERENCE WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE IT – DOESN”T– MATTER! ‘It doesn't matter.' Chal's words echoed in my head almost too loudly–as boldly blind and sometimes even dumb as he was, he was also wise, and as it turned out, right–it really didn't matter. Nothing mattered at all. I had gone through the motions of reaching out to him, to of course as expected learn that he and whatever her name was had gone their separate ways;I understood that would be the case nearly immediately back in Mazunte, but as he was insistent he would woo her–and persistent in doing so, that I thought maybe after all love– or what really turned out to be his obstinate lust would win the day–and yet, it hadn't; he was again single and on the prowl– and although at one point I had even lusted after him briefly, trailing behind him in nonchalant platonic carelessness as he obsessively followed another woman, had allowed me to become comfortable enough in the friendzone that i could just simply exist next to him; Now, again faced with homelessness and factoring in my inability to travel much further than south of the border, especially now knowing well how to travel throughout mexico and into Guatemala, I wondered truly if my own self-worth had really been lowered to the point of allowing myself to meet Chal in Guatemala–even full well knowing that he, too, preferred perfect and illy white to my dark skin and quite seemingly matronly features, and, knowing for myself that I wasn't hsi first choice– as he and I had of course met in Mazunte around the same time he had met whom he considered to be ‘his Goddess'-- albeit while on a topless beach and thus hynotized by her breasts. Men were hopeless. Then, here I was, waking up every other sleep cycle in the cold sweat of a wet dream, the subject of which I typically at least tried to keep deeply hidden in my subconscious psyche as secrets, although by now it seemed there really were none, and all that I knew and that I thought were known and seen by some other than myself–though somehow still holding true to my belied that there really was none other than myself–in my own broken and twisted world, alone and punished in the depths of mediocrity and shame. Woah. Riding the bus. There's nothing lower. There's walking. To the bus. Yah. And all the sick people. And all the crackheads. And all the–what are those? Demons [demon hacks.] Ugh, fucking–ugh. SHIA LABOUFF'S obsession with SUPACREE is helga petaki-meets Tom Cruise jumping on Oprah's couch. Oh, wait, we're back on that storyline? I mean– I don't know how to write this. Just write it. he's a villain, right? I mean, that suit. SHIA LA– FUCK. WHAT?! Worst last name EVER. Well, not ever– Wait, is he black?! –It sounds french. GOOGLE SEARCH: ‘How Jewish is Shia LaBeouf? ‘ –no, he's Cajun – That's french-black–wait— –what? Cajun AND Jewish? –Yeah– Jesus! JESUS What? (raises one eyebrow) SUPACREE strategizes a plan of attack. Attack for what? {ATTACK} YOUUUU INCEPTED ME!!! AGH! {COUNTER ATTACK} NOT ME! DISNEY! (DODGING COUNTER ATTACK} Yeah, Blame “Disney!” I JUST DID. Oh, yeah, right!! RAVEN SYMONÉ It was Disney. THEY OK'D THIS?! They bought Marvel! THEY OK'D EVERYTHING. —Even the SKRILLEX? Especially the Skrillex —Especially the Skrillex. AGHHHHHHHH—— ———-AAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!! SHIA LABEOUF VS SUPACREE: FIGHT!!!! Everything looks good— —everything looks good. Everything looks fine— —Everything looks fine. But wait— What? What about that guy? Oh My— —oh my… Is he gonna be alright? Is that guy —gonna be alright? Is that guy gonna be alright? Is—that guy gonna be alright? Is that guy gonna be alright Is that guy— Gonna be alright? Is that guy gonna be alright?? Is that guy gonna be alright?! Is that guy gonna be alright m? Everything looks good— —everything looks fine Looks good— But what about that guy? …I don't know about that guy. Is he alright? Yo. Yooo. Stop writing songs about Skrillex. ((I literally can't.)) What?! It doesn't have to be about Skrillex! It could be about anybody! Here, they call with disco balls Stars in my eyes, but stars do fall First true love dies hard after all, No star shines bright as morning comes —(for) Sonny …I didn't write that. CUT TO: CC writes automagically between sets of heavy lifting. IMAGINARY FRIENDS, PART III DEADMAU5!!!! okay—one more—then cupcakes— Cupcakes? No cupcakes! I WANT CUPCAKES. Uh—No way! YES WAY. Mmm—no I'm sick of this diet! I'm not on a diet! I eat! You eat GRASS. I'm a vegan. This shit sucks. I told you, grass tastes bad. RICK?! (I also want cupcakes. ) Mmkay—ohh. You said that was the last one. No, more more. NO “one more” But I like this one—and it has the right amount of weights on it already—see? Jesús Christ He's not here. (Yes I am). Why the Fuxk. I also want cupcakes Okay, one more No “one more” The power of Christ compels ye! … Is that how that works? No. Maybe. (((Yes.))) AGHHH. The celebrities of Hollywood are gang stalking SUPACREE Can we— No. But I didn't even get to ask the question. The answer is no. THE CELEBRITIES OF HOLLYWOOD, after assembling with the Bampheramphs and Morherfuckers, have formed a supergroup tasked with bringing SUPACREE to THE HOLLYWOOD PEOPLE—so far, they have cunningly out-bested and outwitted THE US GOVERNMENT, including but not limited to THE FEDS, THE CIA, THE FBI and THE SECRET SERVICE. REALLY? I GUESS. HOW?! — DRAKE snoops on SUPACREE as she writes working half heartedly at THE NECK MACHINE with peaking curiosity, peaking over the time of his sunglasses. Whats it called. “Nautilus 4 way neck “ BPM: you're a jerk Do the Drake Do the Drake Do the Drake Work that neck Work that— Neck, Becky Work that neck, Work that neck Do the— “new note: Purchase ‘Honestly, nevermind' I had worked an entre month at LVAC before the circus went underway; Not a single drop of Skrillex had ever been played over the loudspeakers at any moment, for any of the time I had been employed there, nor had it burdened me any of the other time I had spent bettering myself within what I once cherished as sacred walls–now the illusion shattered, as nowhere I could seem to run – even the rural coastal jungle of Mexico-was far enough to escape the clammerings of something I quite honestly very much still loved, but wouldn't allow myself to enjoy— Or maybe, now, couldn't. BANGARANG. ‘Fuck this shit.' I wanted to move, but didn't—I wanted leave, and probably should have, but wouldn't. I just sat there through it as my coworker, standing at about 5'4 ½ in a pair of tight black skinny jeans sang along and bounced rhymically. What the fuck. Then, as it had just been earlier that I was thinking of Sonny himself, and how, be it that any of my premonitions were actually accurate and true as I had once thought them to be, there would perhaps come a day that I regretted not listening to his works, just as one regrets not spending time with a loved one before their passing not giving enough attention to the little things, the tiny details, the time they had missed, but never missed without missing their loved one until it was too late. Then again, for me, any time in the then- present was too late, as I had only been followed, taunted, and ridiculed, openly humiliated and embarrassed, and never really paid directly for anything I had done, whether it did have to do with Skrillex or otherwise –and so I had made it more than a point to distance myself from it, anything having to do with it, or him, or anything really, music related—of course besides relying heavily on deadmau5 just for my own existence–that is, willingness wake up, move about the world and its endless, pointless constructs, and even so, completing a worthwhile workout with enough satisfaction that I could allow myself to leave the building–and now, with my commute taking up a grand total of 4 hours of my entire day—I didn't have the time or the energy to stay late into the days and even afternoons as I had before, or to arrive early as I had in the days and weeks before; Now this job was amounting to nothing at all, and I was surely less than breaking even. Whats the worry? You've got 20 minutes to write a story! Don't be sorry Mind your orders. You're a war chief Marry me, Oh pretty please— I plead to you, just sing for me Just think of me as a Never ending fantasy, At the very least When you bury me —and you buried me alive, Just for the look of things What makes us even Slitting wrists Or splitting things unevenly (Either thing benefits me, And my penis, I think.) Make me famous— She said Hate me or debate me, I have everything I need And I have everything you have, But I can leave, All with my dreams intact I do believe You think I'm evil Either way, unnecessary Why would I sit down and write a story— When you just did it for me? Why would I pledge sllwgence to old glory She's ignoring me; Why would I change my name to satisfy your needs When mine sit idly by waiting Why would I dream of you, When you dream of me I have all I need, You have all of me in the other room While you watch cartoons wirh your lady I hate anime and now I hate you to, But I'm so stupid, Nothing soothes my moods, Except playing your tunes, Or music Whoop De Fucking do Would you Marry Me? He said (He never did, he just let her—) She said, I do And now they're doomed I built a tomb for two The bride and groom In music Two by two And used by Tuesday Music I presume To the beautiful Music I presume For the usual Music I presume For those who —- SHIA LABEOUF JUST DO IT. That is not how the end of the song goes. No, but this is how the end of the episode goes. Really!? How? [CC stares lifelessly forward out of the front window of the double decker bus; a man dressed in all blue catches her attention—another telepathic shapeshifter.] You brought…an umbrella? I told you there was a shit storm coming. Oh, nooh. Where's yours? I— don't care? That's right you don't. I don't. That's good you don't. I really don't. You don't give a Fuck, or a shit. I—don't give a fuck or a sh—wait— DILLON FRANCIS? I'm good at what I do. What do you DO? THIS. “A Silent Partner” Oh. I like that. That has all kinds of insinuations. Doesnt it? Hermph. Youre a creep. A Supacreep. PAUSE ITS MISTER MAGOOoOOOOOOOooO0oO. No, it's the IRS. Fuck. HOLY SHIT SUNNI. WHAT. HOW DO YOU OWE 100,000 IN BACK TAXES?! Student loan debt. WHAT. THAT DOESNT MAKE ANY SENSE. Yes it does. HOW. Calm down Marci —MY ÑAME IS— [Sunnī Blū subdues her instantly with one if Supacree's mysterious rave weapons] Sit down, please. …what is that? You like it? Yeah. [she gives her another dose of strange vapor, she relaxes even further.] See. Yeah. Now that you're happy— —am i “happy” ? [she gives her another relaxing dose] —are you Happy? Yeah. Ok. So. I never filed my taxes because I had so much student loan debt, I would never get a tax return because the stupid government would just take it away. …They're so stupid. It's s supercomputer. Huh. The government is a supercomputer—it's a giant—unfeeling— Huh? Nevermind; But Sunni— Yes, Manuel— You finally got my name right! Yeah. I did. —but you're rich now— I'm very rich. Yes. So then (hiccups) it doesn't matter if the stupid government computer takes your tax return away, cause you're—rich. Yeah! Rich people don't pay taxes dummy! Shhhhhhhh…be happy. [sunni sighs and takes a large huff themselves of the mysterious vapor, however still quite visibly insetttled. MEANWHILE, (IN A PARALLEL DIMENSION) FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUCKING—FUCKSAUCE Ooh—fuckity fucksauce?! FUCK! Haven't tried that one. Is it purple too!? SHUTTHEFUCK—UP. Ooh. It must be really hot. Let me try. Hello, Dillon Francis. Oh, no. Ha. Did you fuck my best friend? …I didn't know you…had any friends. I don't now. [he hangs his head.] ALSO MEANWHILE: (IN ANOTHER PARALLEL) DIPLO, in a villainous rage nearly murders DILLON FRANCIS, stealing his portal gun and a vast supply of his magic to track down SUPACREE and all of her living incarnations. Is this along the same timeline as Shia La— Fuck this dude's last name for real. For real _!%]_€ Is it on the same timeline? I mean, that's insane—SUPACREE is being stalked— —Hunted— Hunted by not one—but TWO super-buff celebrities— Hey, to be fair—I didn't know Shia La— Whatever— Whatever. I didn't know he was that buff. Who expected this?! Literally no one ever. How did this happen?! CUT TO: What if I threw myself in front of a school bus!? That would be the 16th time you've died, since you committed suicide So is that 16, or 17? Does it matter? I thought it was 10 to get to Skrillex. I thought we weren't trying to get to Skrillex I thought we never left. We never left. Fuck. You've got to run. It's not a race. He's very fast. What if he's spent as much time in the gym as you have? Huh. What if he's spent as much time in the studio as you have in the gym? That's it. That is it. This album is really. Golden. Golden? Really? Probably. Ive never seen gold before— Oh— Look. Look. What would they even tell the kids? “Some of you will grow up to amount to nothing and, and out of those some of you, at least one of you might just have the guts to throw yourself in front of a speeding vehicle which represents the very institution which disregarded your existence entirely in the first place.” Oh. That's…a lot for a bus full of kids. Not high schoolers. Benny Benassi (and the biz) was the word of God today. Tell me what your spirit says Show me what you pray Teach me every single part I'll be your guide You are a prisoner Looking for to be. Like heroin through a junkie's veins, the song poured through my Hesh 3's like the golden waters of a sacred fountain of wisdom; it made me reflect on the everythingness of all at once, and I was at bliss, even if only for a moment, briefly recalling how I had almost allowed it to be a bad day—but there were no more bad days, I had decided. Everything was in synchronicity, and exactly as it had to be; everything was going along just the way it was supposed to, and I had nothing to worry about. All was in time with the motion of the great flow of life—then, just suddenly—thinking of such synchronicities, as I pulled out my phone to write in the moment— You can change your face But can't change your mind No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do 11:12. ‘FUCK.' I cocked my head in complete awe to the side ‘Hard flex, Dillon Francis.' It was still hard to compute that such a man had become my literal muse—and though I knew not the exact meaning of the word—I knew what it meant. It was fascinating to me, and astonishing that something so simple could in my state of once fragile and benign vulnerability, be used as a tool to help complete this hypnotism, whatever it was meant for. I wasn't exactly making music, or anything good really—and I felt like I was bleeding money and certainly not making my worth in dollars for all the effort and energy I was spending just getting to work at all, let alone to work out—but there was still this, though I could finally falter to being irreversibly in love with Sonny Moore, or at least who he might have once been ( or the idea of such, anyway—) I did very much think of Dillon quite fondly and quite repetitively through each and passsing day, and oftentimes in my dreamworld, quite uncontrollably and involuntarily, in whatever way I was, it was forever. It didn't seem to matter, and though I purged myself from actually becoming as obsessive as I had once been with Sonny, I simply left it alone; ‘It doesn't matter!' Chal's voice sometimes overcoming my own, in the way that I did now wholeheartedly believe that pretty much nothing mattered, especially my emotions or feelings, which I wished would disappear like the title of the album I had actually written and completed but never had the chance to release, and had just the night before eaten in record time 4 entire vegan cupcakes to myself, —even when I had at least thought to share with my coworkers—a feast which usually took between 24 hours and 3 to four days, if I was moderating correctly. But I hadn't been—I was over stressed from riding busses full of people who didn't care that as the natural empath I had always been, I became gross and dysfunctional as anyone else who rode the bus just off the Las Vegas strip between the hours of 8 PM and 8 AM. Gross. I successfully pretended not to know who deadmau5 wash and upon being asked what I was listening to on the bus, I simply replied ‘progressive house'—and just later that night, as my coworkers, most of whom were about 10 years younger than I was, clammoired about fame and famous Individuals; dead-mau-five came up randomly in conversation; to which I coyfully resigned from correcting the falsity that it once had “actually” been the correct way to prounounce the artist's name, and that he had “actually” changed it—and still, later on, when for the first time over the loudspeakers, a song by deadmau5 (besides the new kx5 track) came on, nobody but me could seem to recognize that it was him playing—and though I had heard the song by now at least hundreds of times, I couldn't name it…which embarrassed me, and I failed to even look upon the screen to fact-check or correct myself—it was deadmau5, it was good, and at least it wasn't Skrillex… —who had also, though just behind deadmau5, also “coincidentally” come up in the conversation—this time less sarcastically forging a “who the fuck is that?”—of course, only to be met with what had to be a good minute and a half of my gullible coworkers explaining to me who Skrillex was, as I shrugged and nodded unassuminglu as if I didn't want to shoot myself in the foot just to dance to the tune of my own funural music. (Whatever that means.) Back to Benny Benassi Are you sleeping? Ooh. I'm sorry. Back to the Diverging lateral pull down, st a weight that looked too heavy, but was actually almost too light. Whose job is that? Ehmm— Skrillex! Is that what he does? Is that what this is? —BABY, ID LOVE FOR YOU TO TOUCH ME BAAAAABAY— ALSO: THE US GOVERNMENT has gotten a new fleet of JEEPS. Who is this. [American flag automatic antenna extends from the back of the vehicle.] Ooh. What is that? WE GOT HER GO ARMY, BITCH! Why is the Army following me?! You can time travel! So! They can not. Oh. I can shapeshift, too—why didn't they follow me when I started doing that in public? They sent navy seals! They did?! When?! Flashback: SUPACREE is swimming when caught in a rogue wave, quickly transforming into a whale, before washing up on shore and transforming back into her human self, right before the eyes of the navy seals team. What the fuck. ABORT. WHAT?! She's right there! I SAID ABORT. MORPHEUS. What. I'm retired. I know, look— Don't call me— I need a pill! How did you get this number?! It's The Matrix. Touché. I know, huh. Don't call me. [hangs up] [she calls his other line, he picks up unwittingly ñ] Hello? I need a pill! You—have them!! Don't you?! No! What is “no”? I don't need the red pill, or the blue pill! Then I can't help you! You're the only one that can help! Have you tried Jesus? Jesús is busy! Listen to me! —Jesús is always listening— I need the purple pill. The what—what?! The purple pill! …you know what? …what? Dont—call me anymore. [hangs up] What the fuck! [redials] Call from: MOM Hey Mom— Hey, Morpheus. What the Fuck! You what the fuck! Help me! God Help You! WHERE's my MOTHER?! I AM GOD. WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY MOTHER —I Am your mother, Morpheus. And I just made your favorite: pecan pie—… … —without pecans. … … … Meet me at Fatastik. Uh…the swap meet? Near the Rugs. What?! —bring the pie! [hangs up] Damn, what's gonna happen now?! I don't know. Ask Dillon Francis. What does Dillon Francis have to do with this? I dunno. Apparently a lot. [shrugs] MEAHAHILE: DILLON FRANCIS screams uncontrollably. CUT TO: BEYONCE is a big fan. Oh wow, that's incredible. No, LITERALLY BEYONCÈ, mastering her shape shifting abilities has transformed herself into a giant fan. WOW. That is cool. (Literally.) Get it? SHUTUP. [CC in a high intensity workout-induced trance merges with the character DUFF as she locks her legs across the rotary torso machine. ] DUFF is paralyzed from the waist down after crash landing feet-first from her pod; She has landed in present day earth, first spotted by millions as a UFO; upon rescuing her from the fiery crash, recovering the remains of her futuristic vehicle raises questions from the whole world about her true origins and mission's purpose—however, stricken wirh Amnesia, she only recalls that her name is DUFF, and has very few memories preceding her discovery—it is clear that she is a human, and a high-ranking military trained space explorer—but remembers nothing of her own origins. It is suspected that she may indeed be a time traveler from the distant future. WOAH I know, huh. That's what's happening in that series?! Damn! I know, huh! Sometimes I surprise muself. And I'm not even listening to deadmau5. So what's Beyoncé got to do with this storyline? Something, I'm sure. Synesthesia. Oh—yeah, that. She's so pink! Don't be gross. I— whatever. duff. DUFF! DUFF!!! [DUFF is caught in a lucid dream; the original SUPACREE is in a coma after her failed suicide attempt—their worlds collide.] Beyoncé's voice looked to me as if butterflies had long streams of silk woven wings, fluttering eloquently in hues of fluorescent pink and painted shades of rose-tinted streaking blues, auroras of bubblegum entertaining with breezy mellow waves of yellow and flooding bursts of bright purple—a pure joy in my ear sight, which meant nothing to the world, but everything to me. Creating literal auroras I had only ever before seen in the frigid arctic night skies of Alaska, sometimes I simply had to close my eyes and breathe in deeply the fluid and sometimes glowing and velvety cascades—more so pronounced than the ones I had observed in finally linking kaskade's unique electronic sound to his name—probably because rather than having come from a synthesizer, it was Beyoncé's naturally unnatural voice—and by unnatural, I only meant that it was such a singularity that divinity itself had to have put her hands into allowing such a phenomenon to exist. I had indeed fallen In love with the talent and aura of this too-perfect southern belle—but one doesn't simply aspire to be Beyoncè at the ripe old age of 30; a lifetime of dedication to artistry could only result in such an immaculate perfection in performance—perfection I humbly honored, but tried my best not to crave. [CC, on the brink of being BLŪ but not having yet arrived in the true belief of her own accomplishments or potential. emotionally stuffs her face unforgivingly with Oreo cookies; a silent, friendly ghost, the ghost of the late great COOKIE MONSTA seats himself softly beside her on the bed. Another guardian Angel.] What up, Cookie Monster. I Am Cookie Monster— ugh— [Realizing she is once again confronted with a ghost DJ, after having been visited by Avicii and I_O now years earlier, but still an ever-present memory.] COOKIE MONSTA?! [He shrugs as she stuffs another cookie in her mouth, literally overflowing with cookie and reeling in the discomfort of double-stuffiness. Ughhhhh—I cant feel my face. I can't feel anything. Consider yourself lucky. I consider myself ‘dead' Yeah, me too. Well, you shouldn't. Says the ghost. Youre the gh0st. Oh yeah, huh… [he shrugs and nods] Huh. Yeah right. But it seemed like I would never make dubstep—working two jobs, riding the bus—and despite my sweet tooth, my shrinking waistline and quest for physical perfection in the peak of my absolute loneliness, distrust for the world, and disdain for the injustice of society. All it seemed like I did really have that was mine, was deadmau5 blasting through my ears at any given moment as my dirty little secret—Oreos, my synestetic facination with Beyoncé, and, of course, one of the best athletic clubs in the world at my disposl, given that I had the time or energy to use it. Altogether self-serving, señf-soothing, and best of all self loathing—navigating life had become more outwittinglu experiencing infinite death thsn not—an endless ego death in the confines of my own limitations and judgements. I had put myself in a shelf entirely—and now, I didn't know what I was writing for, but I was still writing. Even without making music, music seemed to make itself out of the words that could connect with my broken and tired spirit in whatever synchronization it took to type out a song, or a novel, or a suicide letter, or a screenplay—whatever it was. I didn't know. And… ‘It doesn't matter. COOKIE MONSTA fades away into the reminiscent whisper of a ghost, as CC falls asleep, hugging a pillow and still clutching an Oreo in one hand and her crystals in the other. The room spins as she fades into the dreamworld, lost in her self and the world within. Might be a saint, But the back doors open and The oven's on so, I won't close it, If it gets too warm, you know I'll want you to hold me I might be lonely I might be lonely I might be (((A))) S-s-s-superstar, Where are ye? Real nice car, A mazzarati you bought me High speed dodging the paparazzi I got to be lucky I got to be the lucky one We sure are lucky, aren't we Darling, you're sparking Park this thing Spark me up Let's party What are we? S-s-s-superstars, Yeah Red carpet party Set the alarm, No harming a full carbon body Yah You want this blonde fawning for your autograph? Or you want me? What are we— Let's party; Just us three Right here in the lobby Oh my god, That's just raunchy Stop to talk The audacity Or night at the odyssey Whichever one Haunts me less awfully C'mon! We don't follow the models! They follow me! What the Fuck Kind of husband Does this 1x1 = nothin The marriage was loveless But honest, I'd honor it over another, And that was the start of Another concept album FADE TO BLUE TO BE CONTINUED. Copyright 2022 The Festival Project

Punto de Vista - La conversión de Shia LaBouf (miércoles, 31 de agosto de 2022)

Punto de Vista - La conversión de Shia LaBouf 31 de agosto de 2022

Punto de Vista - La conversión de Shia LaBouf 31 de agosto de 2022

Punto de Vista - La conversión de Shia LaBouf 31 de agosto de 2022

RtT's official Sponsor: https://praylatin.com https://www.charitymobile.com/rtt.php https://www.devoutdecals.com/ https://www.blessedbegodboutique.com Sources: https://www.returntotradition.org Contact Me: Email: return2catholictradition@gmail.com Support My Work: Patreon https://www.patreon.com/AnthonyStine SubscribeStar https://www.subscribestar.net/return-to-tradition Buy Me A Coffee https://www.buymeacoffee.com/AnthonyStine Physical Mail: Anthony Stine PO Box 3048 Shawnee, OK 74802 Follow me on the following social media: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCbgdypwXSo0GzWSVTaiMPJg https://www.facebook.com/ReturnToCatholicTradition/ https://twitter.com/pontificatormax https://www.minds.com/PiusXIII https://gloria.tv/Return%20To%20Tradition mewe.com/i/anthonystine Back Up https://www.bitchute.com/channel/9wK5iFcen7Wt/ anchonr.fm/anthony-stine +JMJ+ --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/anthony-stine/support

Today on "Catholic Drive Time": Catholic Drive Time - 877-757-9424 Date – Friday, August 26, 2022 INTRO – Why are Salman Rushdie Book Sales Surging? Robert Spencer joins us! AND St. Padre Pio converts Shia LaBeouf??? ALSO –Dave Palmer – Back to the Father – Can we Merit anything from God? Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg told Joe Rogan that Facebook limited distribution of the Hunter Biden laptop story based on a general request from the FBI. The Department of Homeland Security has officially terminated plans for the "disinformation board.” Consumer's Research accuses Uber of using “woke” abortion activism as cover for the transportation company's “horrifying” track record of sexual assaults. For the second time in two days, Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene, R-Ga., has reported she was the target of a "SWATTING" attack. Join Email list! GRNonline.com/CDT GRN to 42828 What's Concerning Us – Shia LaBeouf converts to Catholicism after studying for 'Padre Pio' movie Shia LaBouf – near suicide, abuse accusations, 11:59 – (Audience Participation) Affects me deeply - explaining the TLM in a way I was unable to do 49:40 – Accent – just studying TLM – the way into Pio was the Mass... an emotional experience – felt that faking an accent would have taken him out of the moment and felt fake. 1:11:20 – Mel Gibson – DON'T GET IT WRONG! Guest Seg. Why are Salman Rushdie Book Sales Surging? Robert Spencer joins us! Who is Salman Rushdie? What is his book “Satanic Verses?” Why did it trigger a Fatwa? Young mother dies after husband set her on fire for refusing abortion 2nd Guest Seg. Dave Palmer – Back to the Father - Joe Social Media IG: @TheCatholicHack Twitter: @Catholic_Hack Facebook: Joe McClane YouTube: Joe McClane Adrian Social Media IG: @ffonze Twitter: @AdrianFonze Facebook: Adrian Fonseca YouTube: Adrian Fonseca YouTube: Catholic Conversations Rudy Social Media IG: @ydursolrac Youtube: Glad Trad Podcast Visit our website to learn more about us, find a local GRN radio station, a schedule of our programming and so much more. http://grnonline.com/

Bullseye: Cowboy Bebop, Wheel of TimeBomb: Ghosted, 

It is just Aidan again, because when we recorded the first time for this weeks episode, it was awful. Shia LaBouf, Megan Fux, I mean Fox, our opinion of fun, and too many more topics to count. You're Welcome.

WELCOME TO GEMINI SEASON, BABES! This the first in our series on astrological seasons. In astrology, a season refers to the sign that the sun is in. Every month, Cal and Serita explore the season that we're in, the characteristics of that sign. and two iconic people born in that season. This week, we're talking about two Geminis that couldn't be more different: Shia Labouf and Laverne Cox.

Your Uncle Sean Don P Is back for another week & here to give you a weekly update on things going on..topics include : Why Bobby Shmurda & Rowdy Rebel should be celebrated ,6ix9ine Doc proves why he is a horrible human , Sia breaks down Shia Labouf abuse , Why Ted Cruz hates Texas , Did Drake cause the Kanye/Kim Divorce? YaYa Mayweather At It Again , Lil Uzi & JT engaged? & Much More ... --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/family-time-with-uncle-sean-don-p/support

Cyberpunk who's to blame and Shia Labouf drama. --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/angelinalisa1/support

Hollywood's former iconic couple Brad Pitt & Jennifer Aniston were shown in a flirty clip that's making it's rounds on the internet! A bunch of all-star celebrities got together virtually to go over a quick read of the 1982 classic movie, "Fast times At Ridgemont High." In the video, you'll see the other cast members chuckling or doing their own thing (look at Shia and Ray Liotta for a good laugh.) The entire cast full of major celebrities reading is all to support charities, "CORE" and "Reform" who are helping alleviate the impact of the Coronavirus pandemic. The event was hosted by comedian Dane Cook and the cast featured: Jennifer Aniston, Dane Cook, Morgan Freeman, Henry Golding, Jimmy Kimmel, Shia LaBouf, John Legend, Ray Liotta, Matthew McConaughey, Sean Penn, Brad Pitt & Julie Roberts!! Can you imagine?!! Listen to John Legend speak on his experience being on the most star-studded zoom call ever!

Make sure to give us a rating and review! Follow us on Instagram @ Wherethefckarethepopcornbags Maybe even go to our website for some reason? Music: Handsome People by Birocratic | https://birocratic.bandcamp.comMusic promoted by https://www.free-stock-music.comCreative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported Licensehttps://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en_US Send us feedback at Wherethembagz@gmail.com

On this episode Actress Cheyenne Rae Hernandez joins me to talk about her life experiences and her path to acting. We preview her new film The Tax Collector where she co-stars with a star studded cast that includes Shia Labouf and George Lopez. Talk of fighting and Russian boxing may come up.....

We're BAAAAACK!   Welcome to Episode 16! Where the heck have we been?! Read on...   In this episode:   Connor starts school! Connor gets behind! Connor has to remember what school effort is like! And that is why we have been absent. Decided to hold off on the podcast until he could get his work and school schedule and tasks streamlined. Didn't need a podcast to get in the way. But sailing waters are smoother, so here we are! Our Geek Question of the Day for this episode is a Connor Special: Is money a super power? Connor falls on the 'yes' side of the aisle, but Sean - who is clearly right in this debate - emphatically explains why 'no' is the correct answer! Where do you fall on this? What say you? Finally, for our Roll for Credits segment, we dive into the 2015 movie, Thirst. (What's with all the one-word movie titles lately?) Imagine if the movie Predator, or Alien, was mashed up with Shia Labouf's 2003 movie, Holes. Now, imagine if the Alien, a velociraptor, and the T-800 got it on and had a baby! There's your monster, folks! Great cinematography, so-so acting, and a wholly forgettable movie. Feel free to listen in and hear why...   Pretty short episode this week as we try to get out podcasting sea legs back under us....   And as always, several chickens were chased, though none were harmed in this episode.    Thanks for listening, and hit us up on twitter for your thoughts on the episode! You can find us all over the place. We know all the Twitters! Gene Pool Variety Hour on Twitter at @GPVarietyHour...   Sean: Headgamer on XBox Live @headgamer on Twitter @headamer on Mixer @head_gamer on Twitch   Connor: QuillMiester on Xbox Live @QuillMiester on Twitter @QuillMiester on Mixer @QuillMiester on Twitch   Until next time... Stay nerdy my friends!

In this episode, the B&D crew dabble into the world of WRESTLING!!!! We are joined by a guest host, Chris Casey! And our very special guest, Skrilla The Great! Skrilla is a wrestler with Georgia Independent Professional Wrestling(GIPW). In this sit down, we discuss his time before and with GIPW, his time as a musician and when he bailed on Camdon back in the day on a show. He also gives us a little bit about a film he was in "The Peanut Butter Falcon" that features Shia LaBouf, Dakota Johnson, Yealwolf, Mick Foley, and many more! *FOLLOW US ON SOCIAL MEDIA* IG: @babblindabblin Twitter: @babblindabblin facebook.com/babblindabblin SKRILLA THE GREAT IG: @skrilladelphia5 facebook.com/skrilladelphia --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/babblindabblin/message

Lets talk about Greta Thunberg, virtue signaling, Pete Davidson's NDA's, filthy comedy, Louie's drunk masturbation, SJW's (me), prison reform, beer guy, the paris accord, going to stand up comedy shows with family, gingerbread houses, and Shia Labouf

This week’s episode was a mistake. Shia, we’re sorry. -EP Paul

This Week In Dork, Wife Dork discusses a rewatch of Planes, Trains and Automobiles. Mouth Dork hangs out with Leonard and Jessie Maltin in Winchester.  Disco discusses Shia Labouf’s Honey Boy. This week’s REVIEWcast is for the 1st 3 chapters of The Mandalorian.  Follow the podcast @ITMODcast on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook. Don’t forget to leave a review or comment.  And as always, thank you for listening.

On this episode of DID YOU EVEN WATCH IT? we discuss Transformers: Revenge of the FallenDID YOU EVEN WATCH IT? is a PODCAST by three brothers and a best Mate, where we talk about one of our biggest passions, movies. In particular, movies that are seen by critics and/or fans as flops/failures/average that we enjoyed or simply movies that we don't think have gotten the notoriety or praise that they deserve. Each week we will pick a different movie to discuss and talk about things we love about the movie, the actors, favourite scenes, quotes, behind the scenes trivia and even parts of the movies that didn't make sense or could have been done better. Maybe we find listeners that agree with us and maybe even change people's minds on some movies or think we are crazy for loving these movies.

On this episode, Maui tackles the Xylophone, Ed Sheeran, Donald Trump & Ukraine, performance art, Shia LaBouf, Robert De Niro, Grade 9 certificates and a whole lot more! —— *Please rate and review MAW — 5 Stars for cultural purposes, let’s grow this Bunsen burner. You can also listen to MAW on Spotify, Google podcasts, Stitcher, TuneIn or your favorite podcast app... MAW is literally everywhere! MAW is an XO thing, so show Love: xoroyalty.net

Feel the rhythm, feel the rhyme .... get on up, it's Podcast time! Arie and Jamie and back in the place to be, your ears. This week, we're talking the Blac Chyna and Rob Kardashian mess, the sheer brilliance of Donald Trump Jr, Mayweather and McGregor going at it on the mics, and Shia LaBouf needing to lay off the sauce. Then we put you on to the new Dormtainment show (Snap!) & Demi Lovato's new single, plus a couple of legendary picks for "I can't wait y'all". Uppercut the play button! Tweet the show & follow us @WholeNotherPod Jamie: @tweetsNshoes Arie: @OfficialReview Song sample/back beat: Jadakiss - We Gon' Make It Break: Breakfast Freestyle - Dormtainment Outtro: Rob Cantor - Actual Cannibal Shia LaBeouf

Here is the 61st episode of the Leo B. Gyllenhaal Podcast! This episode Sir Leo Archibald and Great Musical a.k.a. Pusha K a.k.a Joaquin Pennyworth are back to discuss 'Spider-Man: Homecoming', Shia Labouf getting in trouble again, a theory about how Eazy-E really got AIDS and more. Also, congratulations to Jake Gyllenhaal for being the winner of the "Actor Counter" award. He is now 9 - 14, Michael B. Jordan is 10 - 12 - 1 and Leonardo DiCaprio is 3 - 19 -1 . But anyways, let your ears take a listen as they STILL work through the kinks and some severe rust (even a year later. they must be commended for their consistency). And as always, don't forget to expect more unpreparedness, getting off topic, saying names incorrectly and constantly saying "um", "yeah" and "ya know" between sentences. But don't let that scare you. You should still listen and laugh with them or at them. Listen and then comment with your thoughts and/or suggestions on how we can improve or anything you would like for us to talk about. For more episodes, visit iseemovies.wordpress.com Follow the blog on Twitter @iseemovies93 iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/leo-b.-gyllenhaal-podcast/id1195123947?mt=2

Hey heyy, it's Episode 2 of Bad Pop Rising. This is a big one. A really big, huge one. Like long, like too long. Whatever, stop complaining ok? I'm not a box of fucking avocados. In this episode's Ramble On section, we discuss Spider Man and Venom (this was recorded before Tom Hardy was cast as Eddie Brock and I still feel hate what Sony is doing), the first IT trailer, Stranger Things, Justice League and the DCEU (this was recorded before the horrible news of Zack Snyder's family tragedy; I still feel exactly the same way about how this movie looks but we of course wish Zack Snyder and his family the best during this tough time).  We discuss Game of Thrones from 27:45 to 47:40, then at 48:00 we dig into Logan and Rogue One: A Star Wars story at 1:50:43. Like I said, this is long. Deal with it.  Also at one point we talk about Shia LaBouf for some reason. Email us on BadPopRising@gmail.com and leave us an iTunes review, we'd love to hear from you, especially if you give us 5 stars.   Cheers to Sean Heather for creating the most badass logo we could have asked for!!

Hello guys and gals! Thanks for tuning in to this week's episode with fellow Long Beach comedian, Robert Zoref (@RobertZoref) We talk about the highs and lows of open mic comedy, the day he met Todd Barry and Joe Rogan, playing bass in a Misfits cover band, a movie starring Shia Labouf and Joseph Gorden Levitt, performing in front of 500 people, and I rip off another celebrity interview from a Sept 2016 interview with Gene Simmons. PLEASE RATE AND SUBSCRIBE WHERE EVER YOU GET PODCASTS.  FOLLOW ME ON SOCIAL MEDIA @THISCOMICSLIFE & @THEDSTORIES EMAIL- THISCOMICSLIFEPOD@GMAIL.COM  THEME MUSIC FROM ERIC DAINO   --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/this-comics-life/message Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/this-comics-life/support

Roman Polanski is coming back to the states? Shia Labouf goes crazy on a bartender in LA. Pepsi gets backlash after their last commercial. Pornhub just got a whole lot safer and dueling just became a thing again... We're also on youtube!

In this episode we discuss Jay Z removing his catalog from Spotify and Apple Music, Pearl Jam's Jeff Ament wears a t-shirt at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame of bands that have yet to be inducted to the Hall of Fame, the new DREAMCAR music, Britney Spears shuts down Isreal, Shia LaBouf's new movie sells 3 tickets in the U.K., Spotify is adding a 2-week wait for new music to free users, a new conspiracy theory involving Tupac's death, and Christian Bale playing Dick Cheney in a new biopic.  

Back in the states.... Corpsman Greg joins me. We talk about the details of Trump's executive orders, and the long history of how California has become sanctuary city crazy. Also talked about interesting case of an underage Trans female. We played some good audio from the women's march and Shia LaBouf, and a man has an 19 inch penis that's all foreskin. Music: White Stripes/"Girl, you have no faith in medicine."

This episode JMack & MOLA1 are in the basement. We talk about J.Cole's new album "4 Your Eyez Only", Shia Labouf's diss track and we play a new game we like to call "Rap Roulette". Welcome back! Episode Playlist: Notorious BIG - “10 Crack Commandments” Remix Nipsey Hussle ft. Freeway & Cuzzy Capone - " Fucc Em'" Brass Tracks ft. Sinatra & Alexander Lewis - “Let Me Put This Cup Down” Koda The Friend - "Sunny Day Music" --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app

This episode JMack & MOLA1 are in the basement.  We talk about J.Cole’s new album “4 Your Eyez Only”, Shia Labouf’s diss track and we play a new game we like to call “Rap Roulette”.  Welcome back! Episode Playlist: Notorious BIG – “10 Crack Commandments” Remix Nipsey Hussle ft. Freeway & Cuzzy Capone – “Fucc Em” Brass Tracks ft. Sinatra & Alexander Lewis – “Let Me Put This Cup Down” Koda The Friend – “Sunny Day Music”

This episode JMack & MOLA1 are in the basement. We talk about J.Cole's new album "4 Your Eyez Only", Shia Labouf's diss track and we play a new game we like to call "Rap Roulette". Welcome back! Episode Playlist: Notorious BIG - “10 Crack Commandments” Remix Nipsey Hussle ft. Freeway & Cuzzy Capone - " Fucc Em'" Brass Tracks ft. Sinatra & Alexander Lewis - “Let Me Put This Cup Down” Koda The Friend - "Sunny Day Music" --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app

This episode JMack & MOLA1 are in the basement. We talk about J.Cole's new album "4 Your Eyez Only", Shia Labouf's diss track and we play a new game we like to call "Rap Roulette". Welcome back! Episode Playlist: Notorious BIG - “10 Crack Commandments” Remix Nipsey Hussle ft. Freeway & Cuzzy Capone - " Fucc Em'" Brass Tracks ft. Sinatra & Alexander Lewis - “Let Me Put This Cup Down” Koda The Friend - "Sunny Day Music"

Join hosts Britton Rozzelle and Logan Lilly as they discuss the latest in nerdy news from video games, to movies and comics. In this episode, the duo cover The Game Awards, Star Wars, and Walking Dead

In der neuesten Ausgabe von Nightcrow gehen Jens und Christoph auf die Schattenseiten des Ruhmes ein. Was bewegte Shia Labouf auf der Berlinale mit einer Papiertuete auf dem Kopf herumzulaufen und die Pressekonferenz bereits nach einer Folge schon zu verlassen? Ist der Druck zu hoch in Hollywood? Auf dies und mehr gehen wir in der neuesten Ausgabe ein. Dazu widmen wir uns Kinostarts und den Filmen Robocop 2014, Nicht mein Tag, Stromberg der Film, Wolf of Wall Street, Pirates of the Caribbean 2, Das Handbuch des jungen Giftmischers und Thor 1. Dies alles in der bisher laengsten Ausgabe von Nightcrow.

Today I’ll be breaking down the Guardians of the galaxy trailer, some movie news including casting for the new Terminator reboot. And In the new “What the Poop?“ segment we talk about what Shia Labouf is doing with his life. We’ll talk some tv news including Fox’s big casting for Gotham and some more news from a galaxy far far away. Plus, I’ll make you feel horrible about yourself if you’re not watching Arrow. Click Below to listen Click Here

The guys are still buzzing over their C2E2 experiences. Yoko got rolled for his iPhone, and nearly lost his life at the hands of WWF wrestler Virgil Art and Franco talk about fellow creator encnounters, meeting Shia Labouf and their artist alley line being longer than Val Kilmer's (true story) . Finally Garry Marshall shows up with a bunch of movie and TV pitches, and explains why Corky from Life Goes On can generate dozens of good story ideas.

We're knee deep in the hoopla as Taylor and Taffy wax poetic on emusic.com, the latest 4th of July festivities, a lovely story of Taylor's youth that's suitable for small children (or not), The artistry of the band Starship, A happening which forever will be known as "The Deviled Egg Bukkake Incident," Nutritional information on spunk, the ingenue known as Shia LaBouf, an update on Rodan, Road Rules (the first season), Tank's new tank, Drum Riley and his new digs, an update on the MySpace challenge, St. Pete Pride....and a goal for next year, A challenge for a fellow podcast team, and PiMC's official entries for QCastCT's name change.... Love us, love our foolishness. Music: Brain Bukit: Run Rabbit/The Chase. blog: www.podismycopilot.com email: podismycopilot@gmail.com myspace: www.myspace.com/podismycopilot frappr: www.frappr.com/podismycopilot

The first big weekend for college football, the guys chat about Purdue, IU, Notre Dame, the SEC’s stinky first weekend, plus local high school football rankings. The Cubs welcome back #18, the local Cubs are in the playoffs for the first time in 3 years, tennis balls are flying, and Corey gives a thumbs up to a Shia LaBouf movie.