Podcasts about Wallowing

Importance of Mondays: Jeffery Scott Mitchell emphasizes the significance of Mondays in his life, viewing them as a pivotal day for motivation and a fresh start. He expresses gratitude for having a job that he respects, which serves as a strong motivator to begin his week positively. Wallowing and Detachment: Jeffery describes periods of “wallowing” … Continue reading

#315: Are you stuck in an emotional loop, unsure if you're feeling your feelings or just wallowing?In this episode, I dive into the difference between processing emotions and getting stuck in them. You'll learn why feeling your feelings is a radical act of self-respect and how it can transform your relationship with yourself, how to spot the signs of wallowing, and practical tools to shift into genuine emotional processing.Get full show notes, transcript, and more information here: https://beatrizalbina.com/315

In this episode of Wallowing in the Shallows, Rebecca and Tori dive into the final three episodes of Marvel's What If? We start off a bit off topic with the Fantastic Four teaser trailer. Rebecca schools Tori on the fifth dimension and Marvel Snap. Tori returns the favor with a lesson on "spaghetti" westerns. We debate moral ambiguity, discuss the ethics of observation, and sing a little Ethel Merman.Tori apologizes for her audio. New set-up didn't work too well.MusicApache Rock Instrumental by Sound Atelier licensed through Jamendo Music.The Epical Trailer: Music by Dmitrii Kolesnikov free on PixabaySound EffectsRecord Scratch: Sound Effect free on PixabaySlaps: Sound Effect by freesound_community from PixabaySourcesCollider | What Is a Spaghetti WesternWho Is Galactus? The Official Marvel Guide | MarvelNew Rockstars | Marvel What If Season 3 Breakdown!New Rockstars | Marvel What If Season 3 Ending Explained!Beta Ray Bill Powers, Enemies, History | MarvelScreenRant | Ironheart Villain The Hood PowersAmerican Memory Lane | Spaghetti Western: What Exactly Is It?Immigration to the United States, 1851-1900 | Rise of Industrial America, 1876-1900 | U.S. History Primary Source Timeline | Classroom Materials at the Library of Congress | Library of CongressCBR | What If? 1872 Ending ExplainedComic Book Movie | What If? 1872

In this episode of Wallowing in the Shallows, Rebecca and Tori chat about episodes 3, 4, and 5 of Marvel's animated series, What If? We're a bit confused over certain character actions and the pacing of the episodes, but love the mayhem and chaos in episode 4. MusicApache Rock Instrumental by Sound Atelier licensed through Jamendo Music.The Epical Trailer: Music by Dmitrii Kolesnikov free on PixabayRecord Scratch: Sound Effect free on PixabaySourcesMuspelheim - WikipediaVasily Karpov (Earth-616) | Marvel Database | Fandom

We all put up walls and armor ourselves when we get hurt. This armor is often necessary to get through the day and show up for our work. However, sometimes the strategies we use to cover up our wounds hold us back in life. In today's episode, Katie and Cat share why the wound is the way to true health and self-growth. Learn how to begin releasing your armor to uncover your true self! Ayurveda School is now in session! Start studying Ayurveda today with immediate access to our first three classes. Click here to learn more and register! This session was hosted by a dear friend of The Shakti School, Cat Pinfold, and was originally released on her podcast, The Spark Inside. In this episode about the wound is the way, you'll hear: ~ An invitation to study with us in Ayurveda School! ~ The unconscious, destructive ways we cover up our wounds ~ Wallowing in discomfort vs. building walls ~ How to identify the ways you armor yourself ~ Finding a place of non-judgment ~ The important role of the ego ~ Ways to balance the ego ~ Why the wound is the way to spiritual growth ~ Opening to pain without being consumed by it ~ Ayurvedic and Tantric practices to shed your armor ~ How to become more you ~ Get our free mini-course about Women's Wisdom and Ayurveda! Other resources mentioned in this episode: ~ Follow Cat on Instagram ~ Learn more about our Divine Feminine Ayurveda School ~ Follow The Shakti School on Instagram and Facebook ~ Katie's latest book, Glow-Worthy Get the full show notes here: www.TheShaktiSchool.com/podcast/

In this episode of the Tell Me Somethin' Good podcast, Clint talks about the impact of wallowing in the crud. When life throws us challenges, we face a choice: stay stuck in negativity or rise above it. Join Clint for the first of six powerful lessons from his Tell Me Somethin' Good! book as we uncover how to take control and move toward a more positive life. Check it out!! ---------- If you like the podcast, you'll love the Tell Me Somethin' Good! book. Check it out: Tell Me Somethin' Good! - https://www.tinyurl.com/yxcsg3sh ---------- Have Clint bring his message of positivity to your organization, either in person or virtually. Check out his Speaker Video   ---------- Follow me: Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/clintswindall Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/tmsg_clintswindall/ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/clintswindall2 YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/c/clintswindall LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/clint-swindall-csp-9047174/ ---------- Part of the Win Make Give Podcast Network  

New Year Resolution What A Dick I Was I'm Rethinking Resolutions – From Dickishness to Empowerment Hey, welcome back to the Personal Development Unplugged Podcast – your space to dive into the real stuff that makes life better. In today's episode, we're shaking things up and rethinking New Year's resolutions. Ever feel like you're being a total “dick” for ranting against the whole New Year's resolution thing? I know I have, and guess what – I'm here to apologize for it. I've always felt resolutions should be something we set any day of the year, not just on New Year's Eve. But hey, who am I to decide? For many, that quiet time between Christmas and New Year is the perfect chance to reflect and set goals. So let's embrace it! Now, here's the deal: Instead of falling into the trap of vague and painful resolutions (you know, stuff like “lose weight” or “quit bad habits”), how about we focus on the joy of change? Let's turn those “shoulds” into “wows” and set resolutions that excite us. How? By making them personal – focusing on what truly matters to you, not what everyone else thinks. Here's a quick exercise: Grab a notebook and jot down three things you'd like to change about yourself – physically, emotionally, or behaviorally. Now, take about ten minutes and brainstorm anything else you'd like to change or improve. Let your imagination run wild! When you're done, see if any of these new ideas replace the initial three you wrote down. Next, pick the one change that would make the biggest difference in your life. Ask yourself: What would this change allow me to do? How would it transform my life? What beliefs would support this change? Write those down and let yourself feel the excitement! Now comes the best part: What's the smallest step you can take toward this change? And, most importantly, schedule it. Small, consistent steps are what lead to the big transformations. Please share what you learn: https://personaldevelopmentunplugged.com/428-new-year-resolution-what-a-dick-i-was And don't worry – I'm here to help. If you need any support or have questions, reach out to me anytime at feedback@personaldevelopmentunplugged.com. Let's make these resolutions stick – and let's make changes that really matter. Together, we can make the world a brighter place, one small step at a time. Subscribe, share, and keep growing. Shine Brightly

In this episode of Wallowing in the Shallows, Rebecca and Tori dive into the bizarre world of Marvel's 'What If' series, discussing the first two episodes of season three. We explore references to other cinematic works, including 'Apocalypse Now,' and Joseph Conrad's 'Heart of Darkness'. We chat a bit about character portrayals, animation styles, and the overall narrative structure of the episodes.MusicApache Rock Instrumental by Sound Atelier licensed through Jamendo Music.The Epical Trailer: Music by Dmitrii Kolesnikov free on PixabaySound EffectRecord Scratch: Sound Effect free on PixabaySourcesBusby Berkeley - WikipediaScreenrant | What If? Season 3 Episode 1 Ending Explained; Easter EggsMasterclass | What Is Bollywood?Cosmopolitan | What If Agatha Harkness Went to Hollywood Episode RecapMarvel.com |Avengers Mech Strike 1 Has the Avengers in a Massive New FightWho Are The Mech Avengers In What If...? Season 3? Marvel Comics May Give Us A Clue

In this episode of Wallowing in the Shallows, Rebecca and Tori wallow in the classic Christmas film, 'The Bishop's Wife.' We discuss the film's portrayal of angels and the historical context of its release in 1947. We discuss the nuances of relationships portrayed in the film, the significance of Dudley's character, and fruit cocktail.MusicApache Rock Instrumental | by Sound Atelier; licensed from JamendoChristmas Tale | by Amaksi; royalty free from PixabaySourcesLesson of the widow's mite - WikipediaThe Bishop's Wife - WikipediaTen Things You Did Not Know About The Bishop's Wife | My Merry ChristmasUnder Every Tombstone: THE MITCHELL CHOIRBOYS - Bob MitchellFilm Commentary: "The Bishop's Wife" -- Realistic Christmas Sentiment - The Arts Fuse

In this episode of Wallowing in Shallows, Rebecca, Tori, Jeff, and Nancy, delve into The Mandalorian's season two episodes, 'The Believer' and 'The Rescue.' We touch on the themes of family, sacrifice, and the nature of rebellion versus piracy in the Star Wars universe. We delve into Darksaber lore, personal codes, and the bad a$$ness of several characters like Cara Dune, Fennec, and Moff Gideon. We absolutely love the season finale.MusicApache Rock Instrumental | by Sound Atelier; licensed from JamendoStar Wars Style March & Battle Music | Humanoide Media Music by Luis Humanoide from PixabayReaction ClippReview'd | December 18, 2020 | The Mandalorian - Season 2 Eps 8 Reaction | YouTubeSourcesOperating number | Wookieepedia | FandomScreenrant | Star Wars: Stormtroopers' TK NumbersScreenrant | Every Actor Who Plays The Mandalorian (& What They Do)Burnin Konn | Wookieepedia | FandomDarksaber | Wookieepedia | FandomPhase-III Dark Trooper | Wookieepedia | FandomGideon | Wookieepedia | FandomChapter 15: The Believer | Wookieepedia | FandomHow Did Bo-Katan Lose the Darksaber in The Mandalorian, Explained

In this episode of Wallowing in the Shallows, Rebecca and Tori, along with guests Nancy and Jeff, delve into the episodes 4-6 of The Mandalorian. We discuss how Mando is still learning how to parent the oh-so-impish, Grogu. We make lots of connections to other Star Wars properties and sci-fi megaflicks like Alien. We RIP James Earl Jones and Carl Weathers. We educate ourselves on important things such as a group of walruses is called a huddle.

In this episode of Wallowing in the Shallows, Rebecca and Tori dive into the Disney Plus movie 'Noelle.' We chat about character performances and production design while bemoaning the underutilization of talent and the heavy-handed product placement. However, we ultimately conclude that it is an enjoyable holiday watch, especially for families.'The First Noel' by Krzysztof Szymanski from PixabayReindeer sound effects: Maktub_ytv. 2023. "Reindeer Sound Effects." YouTube.SourcesShirley MacLaine - WikipediaPuffin - WikipediaScreenrant | Noelle 2019 Movie ReviewDisney+'s Noelle | Film ReviewNoelle movie review & film summary (2019) | Roger EbertHere's What We Learned from Anna Kendrick Herself on the Set of Noelle | Disney News

Get NordVPN 2-year plan PLUS 4 months extra here ➼ https://nordvpn.com/bluemoon - it's risk-free with Nord's 30-day money-back guarantee ========== What a week, huh? (Captain, it's Wednesday.) After a chastening experience in the games with Tottenham and Feyenoord, David Mooney is joined by One Football's Dan Burke and Football365's Sarah Winterburn to look at how Manchester City can stop the rot. It's Liverpool at Anfield on Sunday, so things aren't getting any easier any time soon - Neil Atkinson from The Anfield Wrap joins the show to discuss that game at the weekend, while we also hear from journalist and Nottingham Forest fan Nick Miller about the Wednesday night game coming up at the Etihad. Both the Liverpool and Forest games will be City's designated Rainbow Laces matches, so we also hear from a range of LGBTQ+ fans about their experiences at the football. Former City goalkeeper and now City fan Andie Worrall, who is a gay woman, and supporters Oli McCoole, who is bisexual and trans, and Sam White, who is a gay man, discuss attitudes in the Etihad and on social media. ========== To get more podcasts or to listen without the ads, join our Patreon. It's just £2 per month for all the extra content and you can get a 7-day free trial first: https://www.patreon.com/BlueMoonPodcast And why not gift a Patreon subscription to a friend or family member? More details: https://www.patreon.com/BlueMoonPodcast/gift

Tina Gilbertson's Constructive Wallowing

Hey, hello peeps. A short announcement from Wallowing in the Shallows. Our Buffy episode will be late this week. We had the mother of all windstorms here in the Pacific Northwest and we lost power and internet a couple of days ago. Of course, that meant we couldn't get the episode edited and uploaded. Now that power and internet are restored (thanks Seattle Power and Light for busting a##!), and once we get caught up with real-life things like cleaning out the fridge of spoiled goods and, oh, you know, paid work, we'll get the episode uploaded. Soon we'll be dropping our holiday episodes so check for those in December. And now all that's left to do is say bye.

Steve's Playlist: Steve's Albums of the Year, 1987-2024 Mallory's Playlist: A Totally Unbiased Collection Of Questionable Bangers Steve Gergley is the author of two novels and two short story collections. His most recent novel, Episode 3328: Ian Sharp, will be published on January 27th, 2025, by Translucent Eyes Press. His other books include The Great Atlantic Highway & Other Stories (Malarkey Books '24), Skyscraper (West Vine Press '23), and A Quick Primer on Wallowing in Despair (Leftover Books '22). His short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Wigleaf, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Maudlin House, Passages North, Always Crashing, and others. He tweets @GergleySteve. His fiction can be found at: https://stevegergleyauthor.wordpress.com/. In addition to his own writing, he is also the editor of scaffold literary magazine. Check out past episodes of Textual Healing on our website: ⁠https://textualpodcast.com/⁠ Rate us on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/5wO60jFp7qv0FqbZQDELvL?si=011957cf712f4545 Rate us on Apple Podcasts:⁠https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/textual-healing-with-mallory-smart/id1531379844⁠ Follow us on Twitter: ⁠@PodHealing⁠ Take a look at Mallory's other work on her website: https://mallorysmart.com/⁠ beats by ⁠God'Aryan The website we discuss in the beginning that lets you see all kinds of different listening stats for your account on Spotify: https://statsforspotify.com Find out more at https://textual-healing.pinecast.co

Steve Gergley is the author of two novels and two short story collections. His most recent novel, Episode 3328: Ian Sharp, will be published on January 25th, 2025, by Translucent Eyes Press. His other books include The Great Atlantic Highway & Other Stories (Malarkey Books '24), Skyscraper (West Vine Press '23), and A Quick Primer on Wallowing in Despair (Leftover Books '22). His short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Wigleaf, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Maudlin House, Passages North, Always Crashing, and others. He tweets @GergleySteve. His fiction can be found at: https://stevegergleyauthor.wordpress.com/. In addition to his own writing, he is also the editor of scaffold literary magazine. Check out past episodes of Textual Healing on our website: ⁠https://textualpodcast.com/⁠ Rate us on Apple Podcasts:⁠https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/textual-healing-with-mallory-smart/id1531379844⁠ Follow us on Twitter: ⁠@PodHealing⁠ Take a look at Mallory's other work on her website: https://mallorysmart.com/⁠ beats by ⁠God'Aryan

Content Advisory: This episode of Wallowing in the Shallows includes discussion of mass shootings and attempted murder. Listener discretion is advised. If you need help, you can contact the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline, by dialing 988. Calls are free and confidential.Rebecca and Tori chat about Earshot. We do have a longish discussion about school violence, including some history into the 1800s. We also discuss the food babysitters fed us, the definition of a mulligan, Pierce Brosnan, and Othello.SourcesList of school shootings in the United States (2000–present) - WikipediaList of school shootings in the United States (before 2000) - WikipediaThe Washington Post | School Shootings DatabaseInteresting Literature | Shakespeare: Othello Summary/AnalysisAstaroth - Goetic Demon | Mythology.netCogito, ergo sum - WikipediaEarshot | Buffyverse Wiki | FandomEnoch Brown school massacre - WikipediaFrench and Indian War - WikipediaCBR | This Episode of Buffy Shows How to Pull Off an Effective Plot Twist

Singer-Songwriter Christian Wallowing Bull and indie band Inland Isle recently released new songs "A Single Bird Upon Her Cheek" and "Fruitloops." In advance of their co-headlining show on, Friday, Nov. 1 at the Virginian Saloon both acts joined us in the studio to chat about the new releases, the stories behind them and to perform a couple of songs.

Join Jonathan Rice for the Tuesday edition of TTP as your #PittsburghPirates California woes continued against the Padres. It's Talk the Plank and Let's Go Bucs!!! @FansFirstSN Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Send us a Text Message.I'm coming to you after just arriving home from my month-long trip to Panama, blending remote work with family vacation. I thought I would share the mixed reactions we received about our adventure and relate this to how organizations often face skepticism when trying new ideas. The main theme revolves around the concept of how thoughts become our reality and how our beliefs drive our actions towards achieving goals. I'm touching on the think-feel-do cycle, illustrating it with inspiring examples like athlete Anna Hall's use of affirmations to qualify for the Olympics. I also share a cautionary tale from a local restaurant in my neighborhood that failed due to poor marketing strategies, highlighting the importance of proactive customer engagement. Through these stories, I emphasize the power of positive thinking and visualization in overcoming challenges and achieving success. If you're ready to become the hero of your cause rather than being stuck in resignation, this episode is for you.Topics:How your thoughts become your reality and can positively or negatively influence growth, funding, and visibility.The think-feel-do cycle and how this cognitive-behavioral concept affects goal achievement.How to use affirmations and visualizations to achieve your goals (inspired by olympian, Anna Hall)Two of the biggest lies you can tell yourself when it comes to being loud in your marketing The power of doing just one thing for your cause every day and how this creates more inspired action Putting your biggest fans and supporters at the forefront of your decision making for your organization Getting away from resignation and frustration and centering yourself as the hero of your causeFor a full list of links and resources mentioned in this episode, click here.Connect with Christina on Instagram: @splendidconsulting >> Free Class on August 20th

Guilt serves a purpose in prompting repentance, but after repentance, guilt should be released as God's forgiveness is complete. Wallowing in guilt refuses God's healing. To move forward, commit to do the next right thing, and produce fruit in keeping with repentance and embrace the joy of salvation.

This is the first part of our conversation. The full episode and the complete archive of Subversive episodes, including exclusive episodes and my writing, are available on Substack. You can also subscribe to the podcast sans writing on Patreon for a bit less. This is how the show is financed and grows, so I appreciate every contribution! Please subscribe at: ⁠https://www.alexkaschuta.com/⁠ ⁠  / aksubversive⁠   We speak about how the impact of personal aesthetics on mental health and self-perception is significant, about how our convenience-oriented culture and the rise of athleisure have led to a decline in personal aesthetics and a lack of social pressure to dress well, about how men need to care about their aesthetics not only for their own well-being but also as a positive influence on their children. We also address how women play a role in influencing their partner's style, customization and tailoring, making progress, feeling good, and looking good; having kids can help shift focus away from wallowing and towards taking responsibility and finding joy in the present moment and much more. O.W Root is a menswear expert, a Twitter poster @NecktieSalvage, and a writer on Substack at https://necktiesalvage.substack.com/ Chapters for the full conversation. 00:00 The Impact of Personal Aesthetics on Mental Health 02:25 The Power of Dressing with Intention 04:02 The Decline of Personal Aesthetics in a Convenience-Oriented Culture 05:30 The Importance of Men's Style for Self-Perception and Parenting 07:08 The Degeneration of Culture and the Loss of Personal Style 11:49 Trends, Customization, and Tailoring 14:18 Making Progress in Personal Style 43:23 The Absurdity of Normalcy in the Age of Extremes 48:28 Embracing Imperfection and Living with Direction 52:13 Overcoming the Fear of Making Mistakes 54:48 Shifting Focus from Wallowing to Taking Responsibility 01:01:39 Riding the Wave of Life and Finding Joy in the Present

Content AdvisoryThis episode of Wallowing in the Shallows includes discussion of intimate partner violence. Listener discretion is advised. If you need help, you can contact the National Domestic Violence hotline at 1.800.799.SAFE (7233), text START to 88788, or chat online with an advocate at https://www.thehotline.org.Rebecca and Tori chat about Beauty and the Beasts. We discuss Rebecca's 8th grade reading list, learn about William Congreve, and break down the things we really dislike about the episode.William Congreve - WikipediaStatistics on Dating Abuse and Teen Violence

Hey valued listener, this is Tori, one of your hosts for Wallowing in the Shallows. We won't be dropping a Buffy episode this week as we take off for the 4th of July and focus on getting the next episode of The Acolyte out. Tune in next week for Buffy Season 3 Episode 4 along with a couple of bonus episodes. Enjoy your holiday!

Become a Patron of Textual Healing: https://www.patreon.com/textualhealing Steve Gergley is the author of The Great Atlantic Highway & Other Stories (Malarkey Books '24), There Are Some Floors Missing (Bullshit Lit '24), Skyscraper (West Vine Press '23), and A Quick Primer on Wallowing in Despair (Leftover Books '22). His short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Pithead Chapel, Maudlin House, Passages North, Hobart, Always Crashing, and others. He tweets @GergleySteve. His fiction can be found at: https://stevegergleyauthor.wordpress.com/. In addition to his own writing, he is also the editor of scaffold literary magazine. Twitter: @GergleySteve Author Website: https://stevegergleyauthor.wordpress.com/ Link to Spotify Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1UAxnpUOjTEYQk0sohhSBS?si=7eae822e226840b6 Links to New Short Story Collection: https://malarkeybooks.com/store/greatatlantichighway https://asterismbooks.com/product/the-great-atlantic-highway-and-other-stories https://bookshop.org/p/books/the-great-atlantic-highway-other-stories-steve-gergley/21330040?ean=9798990324091 https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-great-atlantic-highway-other-stories-steve-gergley/1145095340?ean=9798990324091 https://www.amazon.com/Great-Atlantic-Highway-Other-Stories-ebook/dp/B0CY43F4NH/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&dib_tag=se&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.mPoN8F1L6RPzLLX9G_9pA5HLGmZy9i8LhINj1Jl2FRjGjHj071QN20LucGBJIEps.EqW-2HNp8whueZVFDFqpPv8PH39hYG6-y_HDrRvFnUc&qid=1712318340&sr=1-2 Check out past episodes of Textual Healing on our website: https://textualpodcast.com/ Rate us on Apple Podcasts: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/textual-healing-with-mallory-smart/id1531379844 Follow us on Twitter: @PodHealing Take a look at Mallory's other work on her website: https://mallorysmart.com/ beats by God'Aryan

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

I GOT YOU NOW, MOTHERFUCKER. Oh my God! It's Pat Kirkpatrick! Oh great, so he's some sort of Diety, I guess. Lesson 1: Continuity. Lesson 2: Continuity, Lesson 3: Continuity —isn't that all just— Continuity. yessssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss—- I'm a DJ, BITCH. YO, LESSON ONE: You're not the professor. I'm the GURU. This the dojo! Uh. No. You're not. I AM. Where's Jimmy Fallon? Yo, FUCK JIMMY FALLON, alright. He's possessed— What?! Oh NO. Who possessed him?! My ex husband. I'M THE SENSEI NOW. SENRAO fuck. Where the fuck is this kid? Dead. DEAD? Mm. Presumably. Mmhmm. wtf, who are you? Woke up with Dillon Francis in my head— “I'm my only friend” I don't even like that song, it just gets stuck in my head. Apparently Emma Watson wants to know what to do in the festival project. I still don't know. My ex went to Golden Corral to cheat on me, then got sick from pizza; I got some kind of job at a weird party place for kids; the dude was weird and only hired non bianary people and dudes; I left to help my friends who were getting married with car trouble. Lol Emma Watson though, was like— “Okay, what do I do?” I was like, I don't know. Then I woke up. EMMA WATSON Okay, what do I do? I was starting to develop scabs in my ears from alternating between headphones and earplugs, which couldn't have been good—I needed to work, and was disasterously fat, however, toned, and I assumed that the extra weight had come from muscle. My legs were smooth, and all of the clothes I had picked up along my walk fit—all extra smalls and smalls, which included even a tiny bralette I was certain would fit when picking it up, and it did—I only wondered what the world might be like after a panniculectomy—though my thighs seemed massive and I was certainly bloated, opting for less running and more lifting until my energy recovered, I was still anywhere between a size 4 and 5, sometimes a 6–which did kind of rather shamed me in all of the ways that it could—6 was much greater than 2–and those praised as the ‘world's most beautiful women' were anywhere between 00 and 2; I wasn't sure where I was going to move my thighs or my arse to, but I was determined to be celebrity skinny—even without the added bonus of actually being a celebrity, and however oddly enough with the star studded dreams I had been having, there seemed somehow still some kind of hope, though even if in the next life, that I would become into a world of my dreams. It was the anniversary of my son's death—he would have now been 9, and I often was drawn to remember him walking about New York—seeing beautiful children about with long hair, and beautiful brown skin, with eyes like mine, moon shaped and dark…I began to softly weep as I remembered how beautiful he was, and that I had no pictures of him at all. It was better that way, really—the hurt that had come from holding on was too great—and yet, subtle reminders, in the way that sometimes, however music would just come to me, there was my boy; he loved my guitar, and the sound of my voice as I would sing, and had even once, just before his death, tried to sing along, as I clamored about the house, singing Seven + Mary—which he seemed to like enough that he found the need to make his way over to the table to get my attention, and sing with me. Back in my current reality, the overall bored of the shower running and my demon neighbors slamming things around angrily as if something was wrong, shaking the building brought me back to the monotonous world, morning coffee over the toilet quite remincent of Lyndon B. Johnson, the morning sifting through my Google documents for Emma Watson and John Slattery part of my morning report— and though I was due in the gym, there was nothing I wanted less than to go anybody or see anything at all—everything was just a reminder of my apparent “living hand to mouth”, and the more I kept on dreaming and writing of these people, the more grandiose and and delusional I felt—I had just been blindsided in court by my ex's attempt to discredit my ask for a protective order against him by using my mental health in the wake of his physical violence and our sons death, against me in such a way that the victory, the judge's granting of my protection against him, was still pyrrhic in such a way that I didn't feel so much protected, as he had lodged his way into my dreams once more just to cheat on me—though however had been twarted in doing so, by some particularly sour Golden Corral pizza, and the young girl accompanying him quite receptive to the speech I had given her on karmic justice. Strangely enough, the dream almost appeared as in my favor, that things were changing, and yet—I still didn't like to see him or think of him at all, and luckily enough, it was Emma Watson who had intercepted this sort of nightmare with the conjecture that I should keep writing, however with an American accent, which only forced me to wonder, if perhaps, too she had become some sort of Cosmic Avenger—or even so, as written, was JK Rowling in disguise as the actress playing her own character, some kind of magician's practitioner —who had herself been for some time one of my living spirit guides since childhood—finding as I grew older for us to be more alike than not, especially as a writer. I stepped into the shower, still writing, and without the amount of coffee I really needed to move more quickly, but still in some sort of stupor— ‘I should probably get out of here.' Another day trapped indoors would simply be unhealthy, however I hadn't the slightest idea where I might go. Wherever it was, I would take my guitar—and at the very least—I knew which direction Manhattan was, anyway. ‘Fuck, I gotta find that episode with the earthquake…' BEFORE: ugh , where to begin? Let's just start with– LADY GAGA aka GAGA has been tasked with strategically marking the grid with Various entrance and exit points; a job which she has tak quite seriously, and honorably. Okay, moving forward . You're not going to expand on that? No, next thing. HARRY POTTER, HERMIONE GRANGER Wait– What. Wouldn't it be HERMIONE WEASELEY Did they not get a divorce? I heard that. That just sounds dumb, I'm not writing that. That is dumb.. Anyway. HARRY POTTER, HERMI– Fuck it. HARRY, HERMIONE, AND RON have accidentally shifted dimensions and into the bodies of their real-life counterpart, DANIEL RADCLIFFE, EMMA WATSON, AND RUPERT GRINT Oh damn. I finally found something cool for Emma Watson to do. That is cool. SUPACREE I need you to read all these, and watch all this. SUPACREE leaves the three magicless, frietenghned, and shocked– –flabbergasted– what . They're English, they should be flabbergasted. [They are Flabbergassted] Wait, go back? I can't. I Have a hard time writing action scenes why ? Cause i'm not getting any. Lol : (Holy shit, that is probably why tho.) Erase. WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT? It wasn't good. HOW DO YOU KNOW?! *shrugs* !?!- ::||pause. ok . So that dude from Drake and Josh is in all these episodes, but we only get one Harry Potter Episode? …He seems less busy. –Don't forget Jimmy Fallon. Yeah, I still don't get that. Neither do I? Why is he even in this? [Watching Saturday Night Live} JIMMY FALLON! Why Is he even in This? ? ? AAAAANNNDRD—WE'RE BACK. Fuck it, next thing. gaga Yeus. What are you doing? Hm. Mm…working on something. If I stand quietly at the door, and await you; Will you come to me, And and open it, to let me in To see the gate you keep Let's read between the lines; You weep for me and deep into my dreams Then see me in the streets, and think “It cannot be the she for me; Maybe, if she were pretty.” Don't look into my eyes (I despise you! I delicately delight you Despite the never having time to Now I'm desperate just to find you In a life I left behind And drew a line though RATATA & TATTATA I wrote this story years ago. Are you going to listen to the album? I already did that. YOU GOTTA LISTEN TO THE NO. And I don't expect Skrillex to listen to this, either. It's over. It's over It's over It's over. I LOOOOOOVE HER TIMMY TURNERS NEW BALANCE TENNIS SHOES TAP SWIFTLY ACROSS THE PAVEMENT AS HE RUNS FOR HIS LIFE Well, that is a good place to start—thanks Emma Watson. Captain. Oh shit, what's SHE like? I don't know, isn't she like, irl an American diplomat? Uhhh—aren't you? No. Now hurry, we gotta do this before Jimmy Fallon shows up and [JIMMY FALLON SHOWS UP] Ugh. Why is he even in this? What is this? I don't know. It's “Poetry” An album. A couple of movies. Some TV shows. Will this suffice? I don't know… Enter that one scene here with John Slattery? Which scene with John Slattery? You're right. I have been writing for John Slattery a lot. Bipolar disprder and other multidimensional preceptory functions could more likely be reclassified from a disease to a hypersensitivity to energy which one does not identify as belonging to oneself, which therefore counteracts within the mind's ability to alter or project and/or maintain balance in one's mood, as certain energies may be ‘absorbed' empathically or observed as a negative or draining energy; An elevated sense or shift due to the overstimulation of energy which the subject may receive as ‘“positive”, or shifting the mood undesirably by the overstimulation of negative sources, sounds, or persons within the subject's realm foreign, undesirable, or unwanted within one's field of energy—a heightened sense of awareness or vibrational field which inhibits or limits the ability to contain or transmute such energies. It is, within its own sense, a sort of elevated mechanism for survival, ie a superpower, given the subjects placement within the proper environment, within the functional vibration of the subjects natural mood or state, whereas, lows may be the subjects own sensitivity to numerous outer sources of negative or prone to certain toxicities to his or her natural state, and highs whereas certain higher vibrational energies result in the conglomerate evolution of such energies as a newer form So, bipolar, you think? I think I don't know what I am, and nobody does—so nothing you give me will ever really fix me, because I was never really broken, or Or? Or I was broken rightfully so in that I should have been treated as a trauma victim, and not the subject of some cruel experimentation as an attempt to assasinate whatever force of nature is actually keeping me alive in the only survival mechanism it's been naturally given to battle the psychopathic standards and expectations of today's society. Fine, very well then. Why is this J. slatts again Cause, I've got a beautiful vocality for narration. Fine, I'll work on that character next, I guess. What?! John Slattery is in this! YES. I guess I have to watch it, then. Collect the actors, again! AGENTS. Ufffghh. MANAGERS Fucking Christ. JOHN SLATTERY (as himself) “I'll do it, “, I said, “but there better be money attached to this project” [Jimmy Fallon enters] JOHN SLATTERY There he is! The man of the hour. JIMMY FALLON This is—probably going to take longer than an hour, I'm betting. JOHN SLATTERY Come, sit. [He sits at the had of a long table] JIHN SLATTERY (CONT'D) I don't know what you did, you fucking idiot, but you did it. JIMMY FALLON Tell me what I did again. CUT TO: [unseen, on the opposite side of the room] Oh shit, that's him; Are you sure? No, that's Patrick. WhT's the difference?! [Like, an entire generational gap of innuendos and pop culture reference.] JOHN SLATTERY Your presence is appreciated. This meeting is now officially in session. {Enter The Multiverse: LEGENDS} [the festival project What is this? Is this Scotch? No! It's apple cider vinegar! Does the trick. I heard you were a Method-ist. No, apparently I'm “the medicine man” It's nearly team But feels like night Nearly forgot what this was like Too many sunny days, no friends Wasted yesterday latent, Impatient creative Heavy workload But you know the rules Overcast clouds say stay, It's a workday Every day is a work day But it ll seems worthless Almost, Amazon, Ten dollars Cold, corrupt and almost Out of water I should be smarter than to call the code I should be smarter then to call him over Going nowhere but up Calling a number, four Number four The hypnotists wish lists What happens at number ten Calling a number up Four days of water left I should have left him as The protagonists, of supporting roles Now number one is number four And number four is often gone The storyline and plot is Two, three— too heavy. Three-two-three Walk away 310, cam the number Hollywood is calling, New York has hospitality, though One, two— Walk away Three, four catch the code Hollywood, turn around New York's got hospitality, though How's Tokyo sound when November rolls around How's Paris now, that were Marlboros on parliament How it all come down Then it all comes down To the three two one Four's nowhere, now I had woken up with an overall feeling that something was wrong—I had overshot my 3 AM target time by 6 hours, realizing of course that I was a day ahead, and that the construction—more drilling and hammering, was out on hold thanks to an apparent oncoming rain, which hadn't come yet— my wavering mental state was apparent in the mess I had left in my room, clothes strewn across the floor and atop the bed, but at least otherwise clean—I had slept dressed, or at least half dressed, a protection stone lodged in my bra, as the necklace I had worn for my son had become somewhat damaged in some way—it was no longer protective, but had somehow defected; probably in the way that his father bearing over him, allowed the stone some sort of portal to be able to invade my dreams with nightmarish hauntings, and I instead opted to keep the necklace aafelu tucked away, until I would be able to give it to him as I had planned. But still, it seemed that the intention of his father was to ruin my life, and see to it so that I may never do well enough to visit my son, and it seemed no matter how hard I tried I would not miss the band. (A magician's hands) I've been watching TV i doubled back, low battery In battery park, I could watch the sun rising I'm so full of worry Of money I wonder What for, is my worth Kelly Clarkson was the cutest thing ever—and sung so freely like a bird like I wished that I could—I remember breaking down in my car after just missing the cut off for entering her show, back in LA—more than likely over the fact that I would be missing a paycheck, rather than missing the show anyway— and I had almost thought to cancel my tickets for the View, had I not been lured by the blue hues of both their outfits—and though I hadn't meant particularly to be associated with the color blue at all, most people associated my name with the color anyway, as I hadn't intended. Nothing was really intended, it had just happened. Whoopie Goldberg's fabulous denim cape forced me to wonder what I might wear the next day, had I decided to actually go—the colors of my closet mostly black and quite drab, and the denim dress I had acquired as a cleaning person the year before becoming a tired go-to when I needed to look nice. I almost wanted to wear my new Michael Kors stilettos, but was saving them for an actual party, an interview somewhere classy, or worse—my first date—as the anniversary of my cellibacy drew closer by the minute, and my need to continue my reproduction however with someone more fitting began to be the most harrowing thing on my mind, beside possibly returning to a homeless shelter, which I would not allow to happen. My exit strategy was simple, actually—in that if given an eviction notice for whatever reason—my neighbors seemed particularly afflicted as my former boss and lovers, roommates, and others I had become close to in this strange and seemingly cursed world with that thing I could only call a demon, since I didn't know what it was, and I was afraid they'd continue to report smoke coming from my apartment, although now I had been forced to switch to a diffuser with essential oils, taking a chunk out of what I considered my severance pay from The House of Illumination, which had indeed lived up to its namesake—the lesson had been quick, in that working for such a man, whoever he was or at least pretending to be, had taken me off my path, and had begun to dishevel my personal energy so much so that I had actually dropped my wallet—it had been so long since making such a mistake that I knew indeed that something was wrong, however, but needed the money so badly that it didn't matter—and besides, nothing could be so horrible as was my mother sometimes, growing up—and I had given Natural all that he needed to hurt me in telling the story of my own weight loss journey. Telling, and in return, Natrual was showing that I had given the world the perfect excuse to continue trying to kill me—that perhaps, my time had passed anyway. Kelly Clarkson looked incredible—the last I had seen, she was pleasantly plump, but never bad looking—now, she was. Incredibly veluptumous, and as she stated that she stood at merely 5'3, I was suprised once again that all of the TV people looked either taller or shorter on camera, and wondered what I might look like— I was almost stuck thin about 4 days into a water fast, but appeared and felt large otherwise, and most recently had been more tired and fatigued that ever, outraged that I had been dismissed from my only income in months over nothing, and that the income from anything else I was doing would simply not come at all if I could never wrap my mind around even trying to have it be seen by the right minds, with the right eyes, at the right time—and yet there was another force of evil, seeming always to stop me from the essence of true creation—this thing which had taken away my musical expression almost entirely by now, my sensibility wavering and all of my slayed projects, stagnant. I was craving oats, and had even pre-prepared some, blending them in my magic bullet so that they would be easier to digest—and since Natural had made the suggestion that my BMI was to blame for my lack of focus and attention to detail, it had more been the combination of losing my wallet, having to deal with the public transit, constantly being reminded that Tula, a light skinned African was the music industry's new it-girl, and of course, that my son, now 7, was morbidly obese, probably somewhere discarded like junk under a cloud of cigarette smoke, head deep in a video game and surrounded by idiots—and that no matter how hard I tried to make the money to see him, something awful would happen so that I couldn't, and it became clear that his father's story—whereas I had simply and for no reason “lost my mind” and had abandoned my child, was the story he had told to all those around him, who believed him—that I was the villain in his story, and my son the tool he used to create a sympathetic picture of a loving and struggling father, though now he might have actually been trying, the damage was done; he had sent my son away unable to care for him to my mother, and in the time he was given alone, of course, created another child—all of which of course I wanted, in hopes that the one he had chosen for his new family would have some sort of love an appreciation for my own son, enough to have created a step mother, but alas, was some underwhelming someone with nothing to offer but her own struggle—and I wanted nothing to do but to be gone from this drama, however my own blood had been caught up in it enough so that I could feel it, knowing that at just 7, my son was as sick as I once was, depressed and miserable as the child of a narcicist becomes once the damage is done. I was only eating blended foods, and had become obsessed with being stick thin—celebrity fit, which is how I had found the video at all, my love of Whoopi Goldberg and Kelly Clarkson creating a quick draw, a star studded combination I could not resist, though I wasn't resisting much—I had drifted back into the realms of television and film, my first loves—or rather, my first conscious endeavor, as I had been attracted to the piano from a toddler and learned to play around three, therein my is being my first love, however with a mother like mine and a life like ours, there truly never was one thing I could ever just ‘do', as anything I loved would soon be subjected to be taken away for some reason or another, whether it was a messy room, or just a mood swing—whether or not I wanted to watch lifetime and be best friends, even after a day of being yelled at and scolded for one reason or another—as my mother often seemed to forget ever being cruel after being so, often saying “I would never…” to whatever she had done, a narcissist's mark, in denying actions and words that had only ever been witnessed between the other party and God. I had blended the ancient seed oat bend into a porridge with agave and sautéed apples and pears with cinnamon, and though I felt awful eating more than once, was struggling enough with this bout of depression which working at Temple of Illumination so briefly had caused that it didn't matter at all—coffee was simply not enough, and my Amazon package which would deliver my vitamin supplements and whatever else I had ordered—things I had gotten into the habit of pocketing at the Whole Foods market during my homelessness, but in trying to recover from the spiritually twisted and evil place the homeless system had put me through, I had, with all my might, been insistent on purchasing everything I had needed—and even though it was indeed wrong of the white supremacists movement to have been true health and nutrition almost unattainable to the common workforce, my food stamps never enough to actually supplement a full month of food—whole food veganism which would allow me to train for at least an hour a day to sustain clean energy, and of course, water in order to stay hydrated in doing so — I was getting better at keeping what I needed in stock, but almost always needed to run to a food bank at least once a week, hoping that I would collect there things I actually could eat, rather than processed junk my body no longer saw as food at all. I peeled a mandarin into the watered down oats mixture and was worried that the dried cranberries I would pour over the top would be too much sugar, but I almost didn't care; I was on the verge of tears, and some evil, penetrating force had been altering my sleep patterns, my heartbeat, and my dreams—there was some group of motorcyclists who for months had been circling at any given time, and though some might have been able to ignore the roaring and awful vibrations of such, I could not—these motorists seemed to rip through my heart and up my spine like a serrated knife, a gesture that indeed noted that it was some evil or devilish, demonic force, as when in relax and meditation I often pondered with his, these striking forces would come, often creating a wave of fear, anxiety, and worry—terrorism, by definition, and disturbance of the peace, it was—but nobody seemed to care that it was pain for me, in fact, the more I began to wonder what or why it was, the more it became clear that this was intention to hurt or kill me, whether by an organization of some sort, or simply the force of evil itself against the divine I had become, not with intention at all, but in seeking my own freedom from such a world as cruel and unjust as I had come. My neighbors had lodged an impressive amount of complaints against me for smudging—and it was 36 complaints before I had even been made aware that my neighbors were trying to get rid of me; not once had a note been left on my door, or had I been approached by them In the hallway to ask that I not use smudge—then again, sometimes as whites were, they were more concerned about themselves and their dogs than whatever might have been the cause of such heavy saging occurring—the motorcycles at all hours tearing through my heart, the slamming doors, the sound of their televisions or voices penetrating through my walls— the unwelcoming energy which at all times I was surrounded by, and though I loved New York, 3 stories above the ground floor and on the border of queens was simply not far enough away from the Godlessness of the cursed and usually dark others, whom could not understand the conciousness I had drawn from the long fasts, prayers, and summonings I had done in order to free myself from the force that had done away with me to begin with—my deep love for the man with whom I had fathered my sons, and a daughter, the two of the three were gone, though I had seen so that if I had not lost my daughter and my son, I would probably still be with their father, in attempting to give them a family—another poor, single, black woman and mother, I was now willing to be to my son, but was not; I had forgiven his father, however, it seemed some sort of curse he had done in my departure was still in effect, the demons he had called onto me not called off—and even in the reflection of my own self and flaws upon entetering such a relationship—the other things had been inherited from him; the homelessness, the toxicity and mismanagement of energy—however, my lack of control over time, I realized early on, had been inherited from my mother, who was more like my ex husband and her own abusive father than I ever was. I wanted bread, but could not dare; J[r was 6 ft tall, and for some reason, that bothered me more than anything else I had learned about him, for some bizzarre reason almost suddenly obsessed with the public figure, though at first the dollar project had been more of a game than the actual idea, and the festival project itself was at all but a halt, as I wanted and needed desperately to comb through my documents at once, but could never seem to— the metaphors of Natural's Basement drawing upon me as I realized that perhaps, I was too emotional about its contents to properly sort through them—atop this concern, was the concern that my body, though fitting quite nicely into an extra extra small pair of racer lined jockey style workout leggings, was still too large to be though of as ideal—ideal, which for a man 6 feet apparently was, according to Ali and the others, and though I had pretty much always hated Fallon from early on, always breaking fourth wall and blowing my mind coming from such a strong theatre background that someone like that could have ever been awarded a coveted spot on such a legendary show, it had been gathered somewhere that his audition was flawless, however—his second audition, according to Tina Fey, who I loved, maybe even more after learning that she had been given such a unique name, and had won almost every award I could possibly think to covet, although however much a writer I was, an actor and comic I was not, in that I had given up my own craft years before being fat or being black was ever in style—and now that it was, I had no reason to believe that at 31, while Tyla was 22, as was Billie Ellish, I had any business in even trying to make it in entertainment— I began preparing to die almost as readily as ever, deciding upon eviction, rather than fighting it and returning to the intake shelter in the Bronx to start the process again, I would simply jump either off my own building, hoping 12 stories would be enough to actually cause death, rather than just parilization, or find my way to the end of the platform at which the train moved most quickly in preparation to stop at the station, which I had nicknamed “the Jumping Point”—also the name of a pop up dance music club I had summoned up once, actually thinking that something, something at all would bring me close enough to success to actually become the dance music tycoon and entrepreneur that I wanted, however—as my hair again grew into a shoveled mess atop my skull, only hidden by a hit which the view wouldn't allow as an audience member, the only thing which might have kept me from going at all, besides my lack of knowing what to wear or just the daunting crises of having no money at all almost a shameful mark across my face— my nails for nearly a year undone, and of course— everything I knew that needed to be done, almost stuck and unable to move forward, my divorce papers included, another mark of the devil, as I had already done the paperwork 3 times, spending atrocious amounts of money in the process, of course, for all of them to be sent back, for some reason or another, and the case to still be opened without being shut—and at least it was opened… As tears began to well up into my eyeballs, in thinking perhaps I truly was cursed, that the law was for whatever reason on all of my abuser's sides, and that I was doomed to become lost in this endless cycle of loss and pain for some reason or another, that became the task at hand—to, for what was either the third or fourth actual time, file for divorce, and to be rid of my abuser for good, the fate of my son at the crossroads of my wealth, or even better yet, at the very least securing a job, where I was no longer haunted by the massive work I had done on the festival project, or by, as I had once been, followed by some Jimmy Fallon doppleganger— an experience I had nearly forgotten. However, as I reflected upon all of the jobs I had in the years I was homeless, they all had one thing in common—horrible bosses, doppelgängers of people I loved or had written about—and toxic working conditions, in addition to extremely low wages and unconscious coworkers, with the exception of few, whom I kept in my heart and still loved—did I love Jimmy Fallon? As a fan, or an admirer of his portfolio, his presence to me simply only existing in clips and montages from the confines of my memory of all that I could draw from him—an impossible suitor, I found myself to be more in admiration and awe of his work as a comic, a host, his apparent professionalism and stage presence, all of which none surrounding him could doubted and which had given birth to my own re-entry into screenwriting anything besides enter the multiverse/and yet I wondered//what for, besides as to stand as a perfect example of what would and could draw the masses and stand as an acceptable and inexplicable mark for perfection—a television personality, all of which stood to be hidden in such, a person, none whom could ever know behind the likes of such, a camera, an audience, and the propagation of the ideas and words of the media would want to portray in such programming as to remain in control in one way or another, of the audience's minds, and therefore, the viewers hearts, and souls—commanding a presence within the collective consciousness, dependent of course on said viewer's own ability to draw from those things, what was actually being said and done. That, in itself, was The Illuminati in its process. Alright, so—a Jimmy Fallon is an extremely powerful magician, right? Obviously. So he must have talismans, somewhere, then—right? Yeah, I guess, but— I certainly wasn't willing to look. Look, I already know what he likes. Geez, how long have you had his eyes? Long time. I'm gonna get in so much trouble. You are trouble. What is the point of this redaction ? It's just acting! It's just acting! Look, whatever I just did with Fallon, just put him in The Winner's Circle, okay? I'll never see that dude again. Thank God it's over. Synesthesia Attack! AHHHHHHHHH. Well, sorry Jimmy— Thank your parents; They're geniuses. Stay away from me, your crazy bitch! Okay. ‍♀️ FUCK! There it is again! What?! Too deep, too deep! This is deep, boss— I don't know what I just read. Medicine man Would you give me a hand with this I need some medicine quick (Cause I can't with this) Medicine man Need a can of some laugher I heard that's the medicine Medicine man Medicine man could you give me a Hand with this man It's just damages I need some aspirin But imm I'm better off dead Than over the counter It's just damages Something like that Rip Minnie ripperton I knew you were gone But not that gone Not gone like that I just had to know, Now I'm 9 years old But I can't do the math Not at all, Not at all I'm so over it, actually My goals are abandoned I can't trust the man in the television I haven't remembered an image this Disasterous since It was my family picture Without me in it! Damn! Fuck, Now I gotta finish this whole maya rudolph timeline this shit just keeps getting deeper and deeper. Hey. You. What the fuck, man. Come here. No! Yes, Maya! Yes! Mm. Vanilla ice cream is sounding Like The best. Just plain, regular— Just “vanilla” Just vanilla bean—ice cream. Uh. Uh. Woah Where the fuck are we Where the hell are we Where are we GOING Woah, What does the man with the van do Domino sugar Kellogg When you get off the All the good days are gone And I've sent you on right back But I will still love you I was just thinking of that thing You never said But I will still love you When you get off the ground level Just for a minute and Find yourself a revolving door Only to find That the world revolves around you And if all the world's a stage, Then all the world is full of actors And all the trains are out of order And all the walk is out of water You're just another Meant to suffer So you did again And you did this again And you did it On camera Cause if you asked, Then they would have said no anyway And if it was a hall pass I wouldn't have been as flattered To have Never Even left the apartment I asked for something new And what do you know How does God do, On the day of the dead Cause That's where I went Every chair costs and thing, You know Every couch costs a fortune And you would have been On the couch, still Cause you can't get a job With the punches he dealt you Who designed 111 Murray? I see what you're on about All out of automotive Misery and mystical mistresses Misdirection, misrepresentations and. —mister you're into some sinister shit, But I pictured it different Consider it rhythm your interest is simmering in Glistening instances dancing as angels in my headaches Dressed as construction workers Any difference it makes it's latent, Simple Listen into signals intercepting into intermission Admissions of omissions and redactions Oh to be your forever The Masterful mystic is at it again Fly Peter Pan, Fly! Go Jimmy-O, Go! Get Carson, Get! Alright, this dude has the coolest job in the world. Nice. He must have died. (With a lisp) He's on ice cream. What. Yep. Yesth. Watch out It's the bad touch With the good guy And a late night On a long couch Try the dad jokes And the slap stick That's a good job And a big dick Oops What a career, For a carrier pigeon [You can't be serious with this, esh] This cant be infinite, is it? But it is Forget to explain it all Over the ante, that Oh God, For the sake of the art Dear God, Nancy— You're the luckiest lady alive The guy The dimples The eyes The life The style The slide Can I die, yet? Can I just lay down and cry yet? I might, It's way after midnight I like the sound of a bullet touch A stolen cheek The subtle rush of a Sudden fling The market price Of a custom ring, The song I wrote Or the poems you sing So please don't leave the TV On You're sleeping with a blonde I've got my mind on dying mine bright as The title 1985 to idol eyes On American idol Calm the cold down Stalk the mirror Here and here Both clear and near Is here and Bearr, But everywhere else is just— Suicidal. (I don't want your dick, I just want your job.) Now, Call Carson up Says The curse in reverse Is Osmosis Joneing To watch this show Not to know you Go home Or go figure Go gold If the goal was just Taylor Then I'll see you later Amen Don't forget to pray away the day You've just created Hand to mouth Here's a heavenly house And the mouse just shaking Take down the stairs It's starting to scare me The dare On the heron, heroin Heroine mare for the Mayor Okay, here's the player The game is This disfigured imbicile, Ignorant Indians Indifferent indegenous Genius, without a friend Or penis, Without a name of Species to befriend In pieces Once again, I said I loved him So it makes sense if it is A glimpse at the pictures A get together with friends A spectacular special, And get this Creative intelligence Intellect, individual inception Attention deficit and Genetic attraction Damn, That's a handsome man Now, how can I have that? The Title— The title of show As if That demographic Would laugh At a black man I must be Cause trust me My pants don't come in Half sizes It must be a sign from the heavens I've just had my time done with and over It's done Suddenly, I was angry… Don't eat in bed. Don't tell me what to do. (I really don't like eating in bed…) Fuck it, it's too late. Not at myself, not at Jimmy Fallon— but angry. The astonishing part about it was, I didn't even know why. Well, first of all, I just sat through an hour and a half special, and I have realized that I am not a fan of this guy. No? No. I like his face. Huh. He's the right body type. Wait. Good hair. Uh huh. Long, weird nostrils. What. That is a nice nose. Yeah. It's aviary. I get that. And— Wait. What is it? Was I just— I was a very sad, very fat very broken 18-year-old girl. Oh great, this again. Always this. A married man. How could you? I couldn't! Didn't I made that clear! What. He seems happy. Yeah, on TV. He looks fine That's his job. —and goddammit, he's good at it? —and goddammit, he's good at it! 14 Faces, Lewis Del Mar Okay, it's pretty safe to say that is not just one guy. -Su. Come on, Jim. Why?! What?! I can't! My parents! These are not your parents! What?! What do you mean?! I'll explain later— —what?! Look! That's my mom— And that's my dad! That is not correct. Oh, I get it— What. What happened. So he's like— An old soul, right? Kind of. Yes. Not that old. Old, though. Suddenly, the anger turned to sadness, and tears welled up in my eyes— No, don't you dare shed a tear over that man. What are you? Once, an obedient lap dog, Now poised and poached over me, A gargoyle, though picturesque and statuesque As if drawn from an angel, The guardian of the night, Who watches over my heart, Calms the raging rivers of my wishes, Set boats to my dreams, Blows wind to my sail, A bassinet of hope Really dog, Jimmy Fallon? I don't know. I don't know. It was too late, I was already in love— But at a safe enough distance that it had become, in its own way, a guardianship of sorts—and it had run deep enough cut, but not scar, and even perhaps bumped up enough against my heart to bruise, but not be broken; I would have to let it run its course, and as it would, I would for show go everywhere I could within that realm; I simply could not be trusted, in my own mind, not to bond with such that had found me in the dreamworld. In the spiritual realms of such remained only as hidden as they each had been, out of sight, but ne'er out of touch, or out of mind. A strange but hearty love, a burden, as were the others—and so I knew it was good, but mine alone, left to wilt, withered and weathered as the time drew on. A quilted touch, a wandering whisper To glassy eyes and hunted hearts A crossbow, arrows sigh and wonder The target marked, a sign of stone Bewildered, the beast of burden Fury, upon the alter Aware, agape, agahst Above you, Wallowing in holy grave and matrimony Sermon psalm, clary sage Simple words, Semper, the sound I suffer not to know you; A kindness Dog's paw atop a stolen mantle Pray you, I Hear now, this; To love is but a service I shall keep to own a desire, So shed upon the willow, to weep Forgiveness, over ye Cherished gentleman DAMN. Who the FUCK are you. Wordless warrior, Come now, The hour of desire strikes with night And hallow tide, The idol, Set to barrow, Barron wonder— Seek now your truth; I give not one but two Of all you prey, Of Ayer, amber, Silver, set upon a stone Casket of crowns, preach thee Pray you I, gathered now These in here, We are above, That is also below you I'm gonna need some time with you. Great. Now I have to be perfect. So be perfect then. Fine. Great wind, Fall upon us; So sweet with will that I, Ye, a mere stone, might stand What. Jimmy Fallon?! I… Yeah! ‍♀️ DEADMAU5 It's okay. I can handle it. [JIMMY FALLON GETS SCRAPED.] F*CK. I GOT YOU NOW, MOTHERFUCKER. Oh my God! It's Pat Kirkpatrick! Oh great, so he's some sort of Diety, I guess. Lesson 1: Continuity. Lesson 2: Continuity, Lesson 3: Continuity —isn't that all just— Continuity. yessssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss—- I'm a DJ, BITCH. YO, LESSON ONE: You're not the professor. I'm the GURU. This the dojo! Uh. No. You're not. I AM. Where's Jimmy Fallon? Yo, FUCK JIMMY FALLON, alright. He's possessed— What?! Oh NO. Who possessed him?! My ex husband. I'M THE SENSEI NOW. SENRAO fuck. Where the fuck is this kid? Dead. DEAD? Mm. Presumably. Mmhmm. wtf, who are you? Woke up with Dillon Francis in my head— “I'm my only friend” I don't even like that song, it just gets stuck in my head. Apparently Emma Watson wants to know what to do in the festival project. I still don't know. My ex went to Golden Corral to cheat on me, then got sick from pizza; I got some kind of job at a weird party place for kids; the dude was weird and only hired non bianarynpeople and dudes; I left to help my friends who were getting married with car trouble. Lol Emma Watson though, was like— “Okay, what do I do?” I was like, I don't know. Then I woke up. I was starting to develop scabs in my ears from alternating between headphones and earplugs, which couldn't have been good—I needed to work, and was disasterously fat, however, toned, and I assumed that the extra weight had come from muscle. My legs were smooth, and all of the clothes I had picked up along my walk fit—all extra smalls and smalls, which included even a tiny bralette I was certain would fit, and it did—I only wondered what the world might be like after a panniculectomy—though my thighs seemed massive and I was certainly bloated, opting for less running and more lifting until my energy recovered, I was still anywhere between a size 4 and 5, sometimes a 6–which did kind of rather shame me in all of the ways that it could—6 was much greater than 2–and those praised as the world's most beautiful women were anywhere between 00 and 2; I wasn't sure where I was going to move my thighs or my arse to, but I was determined to be celebrity skinny—even without the added bonus of actually being a celebrity, and however oddly enough with the star studded dreams I had been having, there seemed somehow still some kind of hope, though even if in the next life, that I would become into a world of my dreams. It was the anniversary of my son's death—he would have now been 9, and I often was drawn to remember him walking about New York—seeing beautiful children about with long hair, and beautiful brown skin, with eyes like mine, moon shaped and dark…I began to softly weep as I remembered how beautiful he was, and that I had no pictures of him at all. It was better that way, really—the hurt that had come from holding on was too great—and yet, subtle reminders, in the way that sometimes, however music would just come to me, there was my boy; he loved my guitar, and the sound of my voice as I would sing, and had even once, just before his death, tried to sing along, as I clamored about the house, singing Seven + Mary—which he seemed to like enough that he found the need to make his way over to the table to get my attention, and sing with me. Back in my current reality, the overall bored of the shower running and my demon neighbors slamming things around angrily as if something was wrong, shaking the building brought me back to the monotonous world, morning coffee over the toilet quite remincent of Lyndon B. Johnson, the morning sifting through my Google documents for Emma Watson and John Slattery part of my morning report— and though I was due in the gym, there was nothing I wanted less than to go anybody or see anything at all—everything was just a reminder of my apparent “living hand to mouth”, and the more I kept on dreaming and writing of these people, the more grandiose and and delusional I felt—I had just been blindsided in court by my ex's attempt to discredit my ask for a protective order against him by using my mental health in the wake of his physical violence and our sons death, against me in such a way that the victory, the judge's granting of my protection against him, was still pyrrhic in such a way that I didn't feel so much protected, as he had lodged his way into my dreams once more just to cheat on me—though however had been twarted in doing so, by some particularly sour Golden Corral pizza, and the young girl accompanying him quite receptive to the speech I had given her on karmic justice. Strangely enough, the dream almost appeared as in my favor, that things were changing, and yet—I still didn't like to see him or think of him at all, and luckily enough, it was Emma Watson who had intercepted this sort of nightmare with the conjecture that I should keep writing, however with an American accent, which only forced me to wonder, if perhaps, too she had become some sort of Cosmic Avenger—or even so, as written, was JK Rowling in disguise as the actress playing her own character, some kind of magician's practitioner —who had herself been for some time one of my living spirit guides since childhood—finding as I grew older for us to be more alike than not, especially as a writer. I stepped into the shower, still writing, and without the amount of coffee I really needed to move more quickly, but still in some sort of stupor— ‘I should probably get out of here.' Another day trapped indoors would simply be unhealthy, however I hadn't the slightest idea where I might go. Wherever it was, I would take my guitar—and at the very least—I knew which direction Manhattan was, anyway. ‘Fuck, I gotta find that episode with the earthquake…' BEFORE: ugh , where to begin? Let's just start with– LADY GAGA aka GAGA has been tasked with strategically marking the grid with Various entrance and exit points; a job which she has tak quite seriously, and honorably. Okay, moving forward . You're not going to expand on that? No, next thing. HARRY POTTER, HERMIONE GRANGER Wait– What. Wouldn't it be HERMIONE WEASELEY Did they not get a divorce? I heard that. That just sounds dumb, I'm not writing that. That is dumb.. Anyway. HARRY POTTER, HERMI– Fuck it. HARRY, HERMIONE, AND RON have accidentally shifted dimensions and into the bodies of their real-life counterpart, DANIEL RADCLIFFE, EMMA WATSON, AND RUPERT GRINT Oh damn. I finally found something cool for Emma Watson to do. That is cool. SUPACREE I need you to read all these, and watch all this. SUPACREE leaves the three magicless, frietenghned, and shocked– –flabbergasted– what . They're English, they should be flabbergasted. [They are Flabbergassted] Wait, go back? I can't. I Have a hard time writing action scenes why ? Cause i'm not getting any. Lol : (Holy shit, that is probably why tho.) Erase. WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT? It wasn't good. HOW DO YOU KNOW?! *shrugs* !?!- ::||pause. ok . So that dude from Drake and Josh is in all these episodes, but we only get one Harry Potter Episode? …He seems less busy. –Don't forget Jimmy Fallon. Yeah, I still don't get that. Neither do I? Why is he even in this? [Watching Saturday Night Live} JIMMY FALLON! Why Is he even in This? ? ? Fuck it, next thing. gaga Yeus. What are you doing? Hm. Mm…working on something. If I stand quietly at the door, and await you; Will you come to me, And and open it, to let me in To see the gate you keep Let's read between the lines; You weep for me and deep into my dreams Then see me in the streets, and think “It cannot be the she for me; Maybe, if she were pretty.” Don't look into my eyes (I despise you! I delicately delight you Despite the never having time to Now I'm desperate just to find you In a life I left behind And drew a line though RATATA & TATTATA I wrote this story years ago. Are you going to listen to the album? I already did that. YOU GOTTA LISTEN TO THE NO. And I don't expect Skrillex to listen to this, either. It's over. It's over It's over It's over. I LOOOOOOVE HER TIMMY TURNERS NEW BALANCE TENNIS SHOES TAP SWIFTLY ACROSS THE PAVEMENT AS HE RUNS FOR HIS LIFE Well, that is a good place to start—thanks Emma Watson. Captain. Oh shit, what's SHE like? I don't know, isn't she like, irl an American diplomat? Uhhh—aren't you? No. Now hurry, we gotta do this before Jimmy Fallon shows up and [JIMMY FALLON SHOWS UP] Ugh. Why is he even in this? What is this? I don't know. It's “Poetry” An album. A couple of movies. Some TV shows. Will this suffice? I don't know… Enter that one scene here with John Slattery? Which scene with John Slattery? You're right. I have been writing for John Slattery a lot. Bipolar disprder and other multidimensional preceptory functions could more likely be reclassified from a disease to a hypersensitivity to energy which one does not identify as belonging to oneself, which therefore counteracts within the mind's ability to alter or project and/or maintain balance in one's mood, as certain energies may be ‘absorbed' empathically or observed as a negative or draining energy; An elevated sense or shift due to the overstimulation of energy which the subject may receive as ‘“positive”, or shifting the mood undesirably by the overstimulation of negative sources, sounds, or persons within the subject's realm foreign, undesirable, or unwanted within one's field of energy—a heightened sense of awareness or vibrational field which inhibits or limits the ability to contain or transmute such energies. It is, within its own sense, a sort of elevated mechanism for survival, ie a superpower, given the subjects placement within the proper environment, within the functional vibration of the subjects natural mood or state, whereas, lows may be the subjects own sensitivity to numerous outer sources of negative or prone to certain toxicities to his or her natural state, and highs whereas certain higher vibrational energies result in the conglomerate evolution of such energies as a newer form So, bipolar, you think? I think I don't know what I am, and nobody does—so nothing you give me will ever really fix me, because I was never really broken, or Or? Or I was broken rightfully so in that I should have been treated as a trauma victim, and not the subject of some cruel experimentation as an attempt to assasinate whatever force of nature is actually keeping me alive in the only survival mechanism it's been naturally given to battle the psychopathic standards and expectations of today's society. Fine, very well then. Why is this J. slatts again Cause, I've got a beautiful vocality for narration. Fine, I'll work on that character next, I guess. What?! John Slattery is in this! YES. I guess I have to watch it, then. Collect the actors, again! AGENTS. Ufffghh. MANAGERS Fucking Christ. JOHN SLATTERY (as himself) “I'll do it, “, I said, “but there better be money attached to this project” [Jimmy Fallon enters] JOHN SLATTERY There he is! The man of the hour. JIMMY FALLON This is—probably going to take longer than an hour, I'm betting. JOHN SLATTERY Come, sit. [He sits at the had of a long table] JIHN SLATTERY (CONT'D) I don't know what you did, you fucking idiot, but you did it. JIMMY FALLON Tell me what I did again. CUT TO: [unseen, on the opposite side of the room] Oh shit, that's him; Are you sure? No, that's Patrick. WhT's the difference?! [Like, an entire generational gap of innuendos and pop culture reference.] JOHN SLATTERY Your presence is appreciated. This meeting is now officially in session. {Enter The Multiverse: LEGENDS} [the festival project What is this? Is this Scotch? No! It's apple cider vinegar! Does the trick. I heard you were a Method-ist. No, apparently I'm “the medicine man” It's nearly team But feels like night Nearly forgot what this was like Too many sunny days, no friends Wasted yesterday latent, Impatient creative Heavy workload But you know the rules Overcast clouds say stay, It's a workday Every day is a work day But it ll seems worthless Almost, Amazon, Ten dollars Cold, corrupt and almost Out of water I should be smarter than to call the code I should be smarter then to call him over Going nowhere but up Calling a number, four Number four The hypnotists wish lists What happens at number ten Calling a number up Four days of water left I should have left him as The protagonists, of supporting roles Now number one is number four And number four is often gone The storyline and plot is Two, three— too heavy. Three-two-three Walk away 310, cam the number Hollywood is calling, New York has hospitality, though One, two— Walk away Three, four catch the code Hollywood, turn around New York's got hospitality, though How's Tokyo sound when November rolls around How's Paris now, that were Marlboros on parliament How it all come down Then it all comes down To the three two one Four's nowhere, now I had woken up with an overall feeling that something was wrong—I had overshot my 3 AM target time by 6 hours, realizing of course that I was a day ahead, and that the construction—more drilling and hammering, was out on hold thanks to an apparent oncoming rain, which hadn't come yet— my wavering mental state was apparent in the mess I had left in my room, clothes strewn across the floor and atop the bed, but at least otherwise clean—I had slept dressed, or at least half dressed, a protection stone lodged in my bra, as the necklace I had worn for my son had become somewhat damaged in some way—it was no longer protective, but had somehow defected; probably in the way that his father bearing over him, allowed the stone some sort of portal to be able to invade my dreams with nightmarish hauntings, and I instead opted to keep the necklace aafelu tucked away, until I would be able to give it to him as I had planned. But still, it seemed that the intention of his father was to ruin my life, and see to it so that I may never do well enough to visit my son, and it seemed no matter how hard I tried I would not miss the band. (A magician's hands) I've been watching TV i doubled back, low battery In battery park, I could watch the sun rising I'm so full of worry Of money I wonder What for, is my worth Kelly Clarkson was the cutest thing ever—and sung so freely like a bird like I wished that I could—I remember breaking down in my car after just missing the cut off for entering her show, back in LA—more than likely over the fact that I would be missing a paycheck, rather than missing the show anyway— and I had almost thought to cancel my tickets for the View, had I not been lured by the blue hues of both their outfits—and though I hadn't meant particularly to be associated with the color blue at all, most people associated my name with the color anyway, as I hadn't intended. Nothing was really intended, it had just happened. Whoopie Goldberg's fabulous denim cape forced me to wonder what I might wear the next day, had I decided to actually go—the colors of my closet mostly black and quite drab, and the denim dress I had acquired as a cleaning person the year before becoming a tired go-to when I needed to look nice. I almost wanted to wear my new Michael Kors stilettos, but was saving them for an actual party, an interview somewhere classy, or worse—my first date—as the anniversary of my cellibacy drew closer by the minute, and my need to continue my reproduction however with someone more fitting began to be the most harrowing thing on my mind, beside possibly returning to a homeless shelter, which I would not allow to happen. My exit strategy was simple, actually—in that if given an eviction notice for whatever reason—my neighbors seemed particularly afflicted as my former boss and lovers, roommates, and others I had become close to in this strange and seemingly cursed world with that thing I could only call a demon, since I didn't know what it was, and I was afraid they'd continue to report smoke coming from my apartment, although now I had been forced to switch to a diffuser with essential oils, taking a chunk out of what I considered my severance pay from The House of Illumination, which had indeed lived up to its namesake—the lesson had been quick, in that working for such a man, whoever he was or at least pretending to be, had taken me off my path, and had begun to dishevel my personal energy so much so that I had actually dropped my wallet—it had been so long since making such a mistake that I knew indeed that something was wrong, however, but needed the money so badly that it didn't matter—and besides, nothing could be so horrible as was my mother sometimes, growing up—and I had given Natural all that he needed to hurt me in telling the story of my own weight loss journey. Telling, and in return, Natrual was showing that I had given the world the perfect excuse to continue trying to kill me—that perhaps, my time had passed anyway. Kelly Clarkson looked incredible—the last I had seen, she was pleasantly plump, but never bad looking—now, she was. Incredibly veluptumous, and as she stated that she stood at merely 5'3, I was suprised once again that all of the TV people looked either taller or shorter on camera, and wondered what I might look like— I was almost stuck thin about 4 days into a water fast, but appeared and felt large otherwise, and most recently had been more tired and fatigued that ever, outraged that I had been dismissed from my only income in months over nothing, and that the income from anything else I was doing would simply not come at all if I could never wrap my mind around even trying to have it be seen by the right minds, with the right eyes, at the right time—and yet there was another force of evil, seeming always to stop me from the essence of true creation—this thing which had taken away my musical expression almost entirely by now, my sensibility wavering and all of my slayed projects, stagnant. I was craving oats, and had even pre-prepared some, blending them in my magic bullet so that they would be easier to digest—and since Natural had made the suggestion that my BMI was to blame for my lack of focus and attention to detail, it had more been the combination of losing my wallet, having to deal with the public transit, constantly being reminded that Tula, a light skinned African was the music industry's new it-girl, and of course, that my son, now 7, was morbidly obese, probably somewhere discarded like junk under a cloud of cigarette smoke, head deep in a video game and surrounded by idiots—and that no matter how hard I tried to make the money to see him, something awful would happen so that I couldn't, and it became clear that his father's story—whereas I had simply and for no reason “lost my mind” and had abandoned my child, was the story he had told to all those around him, who believed him—that I was the villain in his story, and my son the tool he used to create a sympathetic picture of a loving and struggling father, though now he might have actually been trying, the damage was done; he had sent my son away unable to care for him to my mother, and in the time he was given alone, of course, created another child—all of which of course I wanted, in hopes that the one he had chosen for his new family would have some sort of love an appreciation for my own son, enough to have created a step mother, but alas, was some underwhelming someone with nothing to offer but her own struggle—and I wanted nothing to do but to be gone from this drama, however my own blood had been caught up in it enough so that I could feel it, knowing that at just 7, my son was as sick as I once was, depressed and miserable as the child of a narcicist becomes once the damage is done. I was only eating blended foods, and had become obsessed with being stick thin—celebrity fit, which is how I had found the video at all, my love of Whoopi Goldberg and Kelly Clarkson creating a quick draw, a star studded combination I could not resist, though I wasn't resisting much—I had drifted back into the realms of television and film, my first loves—or rather, my first conscious endeavor, as I had been attracted to the piano from a toddler and learned to play around three, therein my is being my first love, however with a mother like mine and a life like ours, there truly never was one thing I could ever just ‘do', as anything I loved would soon be subjected to be taken away for some reason or another, whether it was a messy room, or just a mood swing—whether or not I wanted to watch lifetime and be best friends, even after a day of being yelled at and scolded for one reason or another—as my mother often seemed to forget ever being cruel after being so, often saying “I would never…” to whatever she had done, a narcissist's mark, in denying actions and words that had only ever been witnessed between the other party and God. I had blended the ancient seed oat bend into a porridge with agave and sautéed apples and pears with cinnamon, and though I felt awful eating more than once, was struggling enough with this bout of depression which working at Temple of Illumination so briefly had caused that it didn't matter at all—coffee was simply not enough, and my Amazon package which would deliver my vitamin supplements and whatever else I had ordered—things I had gotten into the habit of pocketing at the Whole Foods market during my homelessness, but in trying to recover from the spiritually twisted and evil place the homeless system had put me through, I had, with all my might, been insistent on purchasing everything I had needed—and even though it was indeed wrong of the white supremacists movement to have been true health and nutrition al

Don't be so afraid of getting stuck in wallowing, or victim-mode, that you stay even more stuck avoiding your feelings, or wounds.The world has trained many of us to avoid feeling our uncomfortable feelings. To think something has gone wrong if negative feelings are there for “too long.”As if there is some “right” or “wrong” way to do feelings.There is no right or wrong way to do feelings.We're going to talk about real concepts that come up regularly with real clients, that are common stumbling blocks for people wanting to train their brain out of a porn habit.And how you might be so concerned with not being stuck as a victim (or stuck in wallowing), that you actually might be staying stuck longer. Doing it the slower way.How to not stay stuck. How to address the real issues within you more powerfully and efficiently.Listen to full episode now. And click below now for access to this high-value, high-impact free video training.START WITH THIS: Access Free Webinar Training (click here) Check out Danny's Instagram here: @dannypoelmancoachingReady to work with Danny? Schedule a free consultation here: Work With MeWebsite: https://www.dannypoelman.com Danny Poelman is a certified life coach and helps guys stop looking at pornography (and be happy about it) and make their real life so good that porn becomes irrelevant. He created this podcast to help those who are struggling with porn in their marriage and lives, and who know deep down there's something "more" for them if they just learn the skill of doing life porn free.

Welcome to this episode, where I am sharing with you a chapter from my new book DON'T DIE UNHAPPY. This chapter is all about the misery-inducing activity called: WALLOWING ON LIFE'S REGRETS.FYI: Don't Die Unhappy is NOT your traditional self-help book.In this book, I won't be preaching about the power of happiness, though of course, it's lovely when we experience joy in life.I also won't be insisting that you should feel happy all the time - which, heads up, is an IMPOSSIBLE ask.Instead, I'll be sharing a simple plan to help you avoid living a miserable life.Rather than telling you all the things you “should” do to be happy, you will learn what you can eliminate quickly and simply, in order not to feel so miserable in life.Ironically, these subtractions will result in ADDITIONS and a positive surplus in your life.Embrace my suggestions to increase your chances of NOT DYING UNHAPPY. You will find the secret to a simpler, less miserable life inside this book todayYOUR NEXT STEP:Purchase DON'T DIE UNHAPPY > HereDownload your 5 x FREE COACHING GUIDES HEREThis Inspiring Life Podcast episode with your host Frances Vidakovic will give you all the best coaching strategies to help you achieve your goals and live a more intentional life today.On this podcast we dig deeper into topics such as mindset, parenting, time management, intentional living, improving relationships, raising kids and teens, goal setting, personal development, following your purpose, how to stop self-sabotage, growing a business and so much more.So if you want to know all the best and simplest ways to manage your mindset, time and life better this is the podcast for you. On Inspiring Mom Life, you will find all the best life coaching strategies to help you live your one wildly beautiful and precious life without regret.  Learn more at InspiringMomLife.com/helpCOACHINGCheck out THE DREAMING TO DOING COACHING EXPERIENCE hereCOURSES> Check Out All My COURSES Here> YOUR INVISIBLE CROWN is HERE> YOUR MAGIC WAND is HERE> Dream Big My Life CEO Planner is HERESTAY IN TOUCH> Let's Be Friends On Instagram Here

Most of us have periods in our lives where it feels like everything is a shit show. You feel like the universe is conspiring against you and no one is on your team. Even when people do try to help by offering advice, it annoys the crap out of you. Then, on top of it all, you feel wrong in your feelings because you think you should be able to rise above it. Society says to buck up and be positive! When life happens and you start going down the rabbit hole, it's ok to stay there for a moment, but you do not want to get stuck there. Wallowing for weeks (or longer) is a victim pattern you need to look at because YOU are the one keeping yourself there. Your active participation in your life matters. When you blame other people, or the universe, for what's happening, you stay buried in that hole. In this week's podcast I share my personal experience with loss and my husband's illness. During the last 18 months I have been challenged to surrender and find happiness even while surrounded by tragedy. It is not easy, but you can choose to accept what's going on, take responsibility for your part, feel what's happening and move the heck forward. It really is a choice, and I'll show you what worked for me. WISDOM NUGGET (#wisdomnugget) You can be an action-taking victim, or you can decide to be an action-taking authentic human being who is happy.

Triathlon training should be structured, but we're all about keeping the fun alive. Today, we talk about weaving them together to make the process more enjoyable and effective. We put a lot of pressure on ourselves to show up green in Training Peaks, but aren't a bunch of oranges and yellows better than a week of red? Do we move to change our mood or change our mood to move? There's a lot of power in having a solid outline and moving a little off script. How to recognize what's the best decision for today. Is your workout appropriately challenging for your mental and physical state? Who wins, the human or athlete? Plus, Mike's soup can analogy.    Topics:    Plunge addiction Putting pressure on ourselves Racing a ton vs. once or twice a year Structure vs. Routine Outlines with room to go off script Not having a plan is a plan What is right for you? What is reasonable today? Sometimes it's not doable Forcing yourself to learn as you go No one likes micro managers Soup Can analogy Go through a thought process Appropriately challenging Move before mood or mood before move? Human vs. Athlete Orange and yellow or a week of red?? Wallowing in shame and disconnected Own your own journey Final Four predictions    Coaching Inquiries Mike Tarrolly - CrushingIron@gmail.com Robbie Bruce - C26Coach@gmail.com www.c26triathlon.com

Lords: * Jeff * http://dopeassvideogames.com/ * Tyriq * https://fourbitfriday.itch.io/ Topics: * The shame of not remembering any good jokes for kids and having to write jokes on the spot for impatient children * What's your favorite genre to consume that you have no interest in making (or think you'd suck at?) * High Sidin' * https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5INAxH1HD7s * Poetry * https://poets.org/poem/poetry * Every mammal has a fish Microtopics: * Line of sight for the fog of war. * Plugging unplugging. * How to keep looking at TikTok when your phone is destroyed. * Telling your kid that Youtube broke. * Youtube videos that teach your child how to give a thumbs up. * Having more kids because it pays for itself. * Why did the princess have no dresses? * Explaining to a four year old about the $20 Sack Pyramid. * Weaning yourself off of saying /s by saying "wocka wocka" instead. * Teaching your kids better standards for comedy. * Snow White did this and then Belle was there and Ariel was there with her human legs. * The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen but for making pie. * Looking up knock knock jokes online. * Your kid finding your secret hoard of popsicle sticks and realizing you didn't just make all those jokes up from your head. * Things you want to have made but don't want to make * Trying to surprise yourself with your own level design. * Wallowing in the stuckness. * Whether game developers know when they're making a bad game. * Playtested the shit out of a game because you enjoy playtesting so much. * Questionable hip hop. * Thrashy hyperpop. * Full-time access to a green screen and what it does to your head. * Comedy FMV games. * Making a career out of making bad art except it's funny and having to live with yourself. * Approachable game projects. * Pivoting from making an action RPG to making a Vampire Survivors clone in the space of a weekend. * Making a bunch of efforts and they're all terrible. * Whispering into a distortion pedal. * Putting your vocals through a bunch of effects pedals because your lyrics are terrible. * Enjoying an art creation process until you get too self conscious and ruin it. * Wallowing in the stuckness. * Making art and never showing it to anybody. * A twin stick shooter that's just for me. * Game Heads. * Onlookers getting hyphy. * "Side Show" by 415. * Back when Oakland was in the 415 area code. * Turning tight ones. * Turning brodies in an intersection while commuters look at your 15-inch subwoofers. * Rogue car events. * Game: the Games and Music Experience. * A lowrider with the entirely wrong number of switches. * Whether Boots Riley and Too Short still live in Oakland. * Aspirational trailer music choices. * Car Stealth: drive around a corner and hide. * Missing Rock Band but not missing it enough to install Fortnite. * Initiating taunts in Fortnite by strumming the guitar controller. * The immovable critic twinkling his skin. * Imaginary gardens with real toads in them. * Poetry with a diss track vibe to it. * Good going, dumbass, you got into poetry. * Whether poetry should rhyme. * Discriminating against business documents. * Putting a poem on genius.com and adding a "wocka wocka" annotation after every joke. * Spending an hour searching for animal names followed by "fish" * Which fish have the thickest bones? * Buffalo Fish Wings. * A fish that is way too big and shaped like the letter D. * Is Beyonce a Nicki Minaj friends?? * Grandma's big bowl of worsties. * Energy drinks that make you want to disassemble a clock radio. * Drinking C4. * The guy you know who always has at least three Red Bulls on him at all times. * Bringing home a one-of-a-kind Monet even though you know your roommate is a Monet fiend and will eat it immediately. * The Master P of devouring Kit Kats. * The Queen of Bites and Sips. * Your duty to eat snacks before they go bad. * Eating one marshmallow right now. * The shitposty garbage that made Twitter fun. * Here's some pants pooping jokes, wocka wocka.

Stamford Chidge & Jonathan Kydd are joined by Alex Churchill to catch up on the Chelsea news and look ahead to Sunday's Carabao Cup Final against Liverpool.In part one we disuss Liam Twomey's article in The Athletic which asks the question "Can Chelsea afford to win the Carabao Cup?" and JK gives us his summary of today's Presser.In part two we preview Sunday's Carabao Cup Final against Liverpool kicking off with Chidge's team selection. We discuss if this final will be déjà vu from the 2005 Carling Cup Final? Will Chelsea be repeating History, not Wallowing in it? How important would winning it be? Our luck has to change having lost 6 out of our last 7 Wembley finals. We also discuss the Liverpool Love in; can Poch shake the loser mentality? Who are the bigger underdogs? And how's it going to go along with our predictions, before wrapping up with 'They Played for Both'.Don't forget to sign up to our EXCLUSIVE NordVPN Deal ➼ https://nordvpn.com/chelseafancast Try it risk-free Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Another insightful gem by Charles Simeon-

Your success as a mom coach is a marathon, not a sprint, but it's equally important that you find and celebrate the little and big success as soon as possible on this twisty, turn-y but so worth it career path. I'm going to share with you ways that you can set yourself up for success in your coaching biz as speedy as possible. How I'm doing this for all of my followers is offering a string of mini-courses this year to help moms who are building their mom coaching biz do it from the ground up and in super bite-sized by impactful ways. The ways also will see you creating clients, and money, in your biz, much speedier than if you're winging it or overthinking your first steps over and over again.   In this week's podcast episode you'll hear:   Leaning on your email list - start emailing - will put you behind the steering wheel, and gas pedal 0f moving forward toward your income goals as a coach. How sounding like a broken record might sound like a glitch to your ears but to your followers it shows consistency. Here's how to do it! Can't get to a destination without a map. Sometimes you need to get a little artsy to get clear on what success feels like to you and how to invite more of that feeling in what marketing your services like a pro. Bonus Speedy Success tip - quickly pulling yourself out of a Debbie Downer mindset with a snap of the finger so you don't wallow. Wallowing's a massive speed bump!   Featured on the podcast: Mom Coaches Getting Clients Bootcamp - a two week ecourse to set up your coaching biz for the fast track to a marathon style success. Find Your Coaching Niche - the ultimate guide to choosing and owning your area of expertise so you can stand out and be in demand. Your First 1000 Subscribers - grow your email list (and list of potential clients) on turbo speed. Create a Vision Board for Your Coaching Biz - make the vision and then manifest it in these practical and mildly woo ways. The 2023 Black Friday Sale - All the above courses plus an audit at a 45% discount until Sunday, November 26th.   Like the show? Leave a review here. And a great way to not miss an episode is to subscribe to the show while you're at it.      

Being fresh, fit and energized is VERY underrated. Today we look at a common loop triathletes get themselves in when they are not paying heed to the truth of nature. This is the time of year to build habits that work for you next year, and frankly all the time. There's nothing more powerful than looking forward to training and today we look at ways to get there. Training for 3 sports all year long isn't the right formula for everyone. Frankly, it can seem overwhelming and today we look at why focusing on what feels right and good will help build your overall goal, which is fitness. We've said it before, but having a well-trained, fit, and energized 70.3 athlete is much better than an overtrained full athlete. If you love this sport and want to be in for the long haul, keep this in mind: Being overtired is overrated. The best track is a slow and steady burn. Topics: This time of year Nature doesn't lie Fitness is fitness Stress is stress Wallowing in the past Transcend and include The weight of stress Gaining fitness or gaining tiredness Craving structure Global life stress Coach the person, training the athlete Right now it's all about enjoying it Single sport focus What gets you the best results? Wanting to be perfect 30 minute runs Hopping on the bike and not knowing Removing the stress of not being good at all 3 sports Year round swim, bike, and run Rounding out the entire athlete Overtired is overrated Poster child for under training Long or sort game? Promote recovery Wire yourself in a way that teaches consistency, recovery and restraint Time for 40 but not 20? Everything matters, but do it slowly Recognizing progress That extra 2 miles can crush you Bing fresh, fit, and energized is very underrated Getting better returns on your race A slow and steady burn   Coaching Inquiries Mike Tarrolly - CrushingIron@gmail.com Robbie Bruce - C26Coach@gmail.com www.c26triathlon.com

In hour one, Miami Dolphins S Jevon Holland joins the show live from Hollywood Kia to discuss the message to the team from Head Coach Mike McDaniel and DC Vic Fangio after the loss to Buffalo on Sunday. Plus, why he was upset with his play after watching the film and his experience at Niagara Falls. 

HAVE SOME DIGNITY | Mindset Mastery w/ Host A.Z. Araujo When facing hardships, you must continue to build the virtue of self-importance and value. Your dignity is all about recognizing your own worth.   When you allow external circumstances to beat you down, it can diminish your self-respect and make you doubt your own adequacy, ultimately hindering your success and leaving you trapped in self-pity.   Even if you're not seeing immediate results, you must trust the process. You are building skill sets and the capacity to be able to overcome. Don't second-guess yourself or lose your dignity.   Wallowing in self-pity doesn't serve any purpose. Upholding a standard of dignity is essential. Remember, there's something better waiting for you on the other side if you keep doing what's right. It's only when you lose faith, abandon your dignity, and stop believing in the process that everything unravels.   Having self-dignity means understanding that no matter the hardships, you will carry yourself with pride and self-respect. You will lead yourself through the tough times, while trusting the process and remaining aligned with your goals.     QUESTIONS TO CONSIDER: How can you improve yourself today? What are the steps you can take today? Why is maintaining your dignity important in the face of adversity? What does it mean to uphold a standard of dignity in your life?   NOTABLE QUOTES: "We can't wallow in self-pity; we serve no one when you do that." "Having self-dignity means understanding that, no matter the hardships, you will carry yourself with pride and self-respect." "Trust the process and stay aligned with your goals."   Visit our website @ https://badassagents.com/home Follow A.Z. Araujo on: Instagram @azaraujo1 Twitter @azaraujo2 Facebook @ azaraujo1 TikTok @azaraujo1

When we get caught up working towards shit, it becomes really easy to forget that THESE ARE THE DAYS OF OUR LIVES. You can feel all the anxiety in the world but it's not gonna change that tomorrow is coming, but on the other hand, you can feel all the peace in the world, and tomorrow is still gonna come. Wallowing about the past, does not change it - just like stressing about the future can't either. Stay conscious of the here and now, in this very moment + pay attention to how much of that is not actually stressful when you're involved in it, fully.  Have you been really listening to me now? Or have you been planning ahead with what's next for your day? No shade, either way - but I'm curious if your brain tends to wander as much as mine. I feel like I'm the queen of multi-tasking but I am also well aware of the reality that the more PRESENT i am in a moment, the more I tend to appreciate it + remember it in the future. Not to say you have to be grateful and positive to enjoy life, but it is to say - you'll increase your likelihood of gratitude and positivity if you learn how to stay conscious in the moments you do have to be grateful for.  Life can become a series of chores if you let it.GET AN OCCASIONAL PERSONAL EMAIL FROM ME: www.makeyourdamnbedpodcast.comTUNE IN ON INSTAGRAM FOR COOL CONTENT: www.instagram.com/mydbpodcastOR BE A REAL GEM + TUNE IN ON PATREON: www.patreon.com/MYDBpodcastOR WATCH ON YOUTUBE: www.youtube.com/juliemerica The opinions expressed by Julie Merica and Make Your Damn Bed Podcast are intended for entertainment purposes only. Make Your Damn Bed podcast is not intended or implied to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis or treatment. Get bonus content on PatreonSupport this show http://supporter.acast.com/make-your-damn-bed. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

SH*T HAPPENS | Mindset Mastery with Host AZ Araujo   Shit is going to happen. The key is how you get through it. You have a choice: either wallow in it and let it consume your mind, thoughts, emotions, and actions, or have faith that everything is happening for a reason. Wallowing in those problems will only distract you from what you're meant to create. When issues occur, you must move through it. When deals fall through or don't pan out as you anticipated, you move through it. That's just another thing you have to overcome. Remember, when aiming for a bigger goal, bigger obstacles are bound to come. Stay committed and condition yourself to win. It might come with its fair share of challenges, but you have to overcome them. Stay the course and keep moving forward, regardless of the hurdles you face.   QUESTIONS TO CONSIDER: How do you maintain faith and motivation when facing challenges? What are some strategies you use to overcome obstacles and stay focused on your goals? Can you recall a specific instance when you successfully moved through a difficult situation, and what did you learn from it?   NOTABLE QUOTES: "When issues occur, you must move through it." "Shit is going to happen; how are you going to get through it?" "Stay the course."   Visit our website @ https://badassagents.com/home Follow A.Z. Araujo on: Instagram @azaraujo1 Twitter @azaraujo2 Facebook @ azaraujo1 TikTok @azaraujo1

we went to the pits & everyone there knew you!!!join the conversation every monday.shop our merch: sephyandwing.co.ukspeak your mind on the @sephyandwing instagram. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Arthur Schwartz was the restaurant critic and executive food editor of the New York Daily News for 18 years. Perhaps what he's best known for is as a chameleon—he's successfully worked in radio, print media, cookbook publishing, TV, and teaching. Today Arthur talks about Wallowing in Tomatoes.

I should be clear... I don't struggle with this. The stories I share about my pride in this episode are a complete rarity. Almost never happens. ​I also don't struggle with lying... :D  (Just kidding :) I need this learning as much as anyone... which is why I'm excited to share what God is teaching me! ---- "My spouse needs to change..."  "[He is / She is] doing so many bad things...so many..." "There's nothing I can do unless [he / she] changes..."   I knew this was a disempowering mindset that I saw often. But it wasn't until this week when God confronted me with my pride, that I learned that "self-pity" is the sin of pride.    Ouch. But true.   (I learned this through the book by R. T. Kendall's The Power of Humility. I highly recommend it.) Wallowing in your pain isn't God's way.    "But I don't deserve to be treated like this!" I hear you.   Job didn't deserve his suffering either.  His suffering was profound.  Maybe yours is too.   Job started out strong. Even when others encouraged him to deny God's goodness, he stayed faithful to God and honored His faithfulness regardless. But eventually, he succumbed to self-pity, he was severely corrected for his wallowing in self-pity.   I hope you and I will heed what God said to Job. And that we would respond the way Job did to His correction.     I encourage you to lean into His discipline.  He is a good Father who disciplines His children.   God is kind to bring us to repentance. And don't worry... I needed this episode too. Let's draw near to God. Lay down our pride and acknowledge and seek Him as Lord and King.   Love,  Belah   PS - We'd love to help you with your marriage, go to delightyourmarriage.com/cc for a free Clarity Call.    PPS - If you're wondering how healthy your marriage is right now to give you insights on what needs to change and the first steps in how to with free resources... go to delightyourmarriage.com/health to take the Marital Health Assessment.    From another recent graduate: Before the men's program: "Struggles - Arguing, lack of trust, loss of peace frequently, little laughter, lack of joy, lack of fun. I was worried that if I didn't change, my wife might leave me after the kids leave for college. After:"Getting compliments and thanks from my wife (I would get them so so rarely). My wife hugging and kissing me and being playful. Holding hands and walking together when outside in public. Peace at home, laughter between us and with kids. We are in love again." Final thoughts: "It's the best life changing thing that happened to me. Its changed my view about my wife, about women, it helped me change to understand my wife and women better, helped with my relationship with my kids, my mother and sister. My relationship with my mom and sis was very bad, it's improving now. Trying to use the CIRQUE, No arguments, gratefulness, compliments at work and other relationships. It's worth a million bucks!!!!" Glory to God! We'd love to help you too! Find out more on a free Clarity Call: http://delightyourmarriage.com/cc

Gabrielle is a woman wearing many hats: author, actress, dancer, and director. But more notably, you might know her from her viral TikTok where she recalls the many traumas she's been (dancing) through, from her father's sudden death, to her divorce, and her “Eat, Pray, Love”-esque journey. In this episode there's no dancing involved, but she tells her whole life story from the heartbreaks to the healing process, as well as how she manages to keep her heart open despite everything she's been through.00:00:00 00:01:21 Introducing Gabrielle 00:01:51 Gabrielle's Fucked Up Netflix Story 00:05:04 Finding Trust Instead of Wallowing 00:07:36 The Greater Heartbreak 00:09:27 Eat, Pray… FML? 00:15:06 Patterns in Attraction and Teaching Moments 00:20:32 Relinquishing Fear 00:25:08 “Healing” and Being “Whole” 00:33:54 The Tortured Artist 00:38:48 The Role of Forgiveness 00:50:57 Self-Acceptance in Pregnancy and Body Love 01:02:33Where to Find GabrielleA Fucked-Up Netflix StoryGabrielle's story is one you might only find on a Netflix show. At a young age, she witnessed her father's death. At eighteen, she lost her high school sweetheart to a car accident. During her two-year marriage, her now ex-husband had an affair with a 19-year old for six months, and the man she dated after that left her just a few days before their trip to Europe. Devastated and alone, she decided to push through with the trip by herself that eventually turned into a self-love healing journey that would change her life and get her a best-selling book.Her Healing JourneyDespite everything she's been through, Gabrielle credits her mom for being a role model in her healing amidst the trauma in her life. Even with the fear of abandonment, she was left with two options: eventually she can either choose victimhood and let the tragedy define her, or use it as a springboard to grow, learn, and become a better human being. At the end of the day, what was wallowing all day going to do for her? She knew at that moment that whatever the trip was going to bring was going to be a huge healing journey for her, thus her healing journey began and paved the way for good things to come to her lifeThe Road to ForgivenessGabrielle believes that you don't have to forgive anyone if you don't want to, but she believes that not forgiving someone only hurts you more. When you're going around with a certain type of energy, you're going to attract that energy into your life. You don't forgive people for them—doesn't matter if they deserve it or how long it's been, but you forgive people because you want to elevate yourself and vibrate on a higher level to attract and manifest good things in your life.Links and ResourcesInstagramTikTokAmazon: "Eat, Pray, #FML"Amazon: "Fuck Off, I'm Healing"EatPrayFML.comApple Podcast: FML TalkMeta-DescriptionAuthor, actress, dancer, and director Gabrielle Stone spills the tea on her life story that got her viral on TikTok and her journey towards self-healing and self love.Support the show

A big takeaway from the 2023 Wyoming International Film Festival was hearing Christian Wallowing Bull's music performed live. I've been listening to his music non stop ever since. Christian joins me today to talk about his artistic process. Be sure to check out his website at ChristianWallowingBull.com where you can find videos and streaming links. Thanks for listening! Kyler --- Episode Links: www.ChristianWallowingBull.com IG: @christianwallowingbull --- SLD Podcast Info: www.saltlakedirt.com Radio Broadcast every Monday on KPCR 101.9 FM Santa Cruz - 6PM - 8PM PST Listen on APPLE Podcasts Listen on SPOTIFY Instagram: @saltlakedirt

A life-changing event like a divorce can bring anger and resentment within us. But sometimes, we don't know what to do with these feelings. You might sweep them under the rug or find yourself expressing them in unhealthy ways. Verbally saying “I've let it go” isn't exactly true if these 10 signs are still happening to you. The good news, though: When you choose to move forward, you CAN get through this! Tune in to this episode on 10 Signs You're Still Stuck In Anger Key points covered in this episode:   ✔️ Do you still have lingering resentment? Check-in with yourself if you're carrying this heaviness inside you.   ✔️ Stop playing the blame game. I always say that pointing fingers at the other is like drinking poison and expecting the other to die.  ✔️ Are you putting off your healing journey? The shortcut to getting to the other side is deeply feeling the emotions.  ✔️ Struggling to let go keeps you stuck. Focusing on the bad times is only evidence of why your marriage fell apart. Shift and put your energy on the positive.  ✔️ Getting triggered easily is also a sign. Our families and friends sometimes are the recipient of our outbursts. Do your best to be better.  ✔️ Disengage with negative self-talk. Low self-confidence and self-esteem will only worsen your deep-seated anger. ✔️  Do you still have trust issues? Ensure that you're healed and have a clean slate before getting into a new relationship. ✔️  Only you can push yourself forward. Wallowing in your sadness is therapeutic. But don't stay there forever. No one will save you but YOU! ✔️  You no longer need to withdraw emotionally. You might still be afraid of people's pestering questions about your divorce. Process your feelings first before getting out there. ✔️  Anger breeds stagnancy. Putting your energy into this negative emotion hinders you from pursuing the things that bring you joy. Are you looking to find more strategies and tips for moving through your anger? Join my free online event, Rising Through The Ashes, on June 12!

I've gotten a lot of questions about the difference between welcoming what arises and wallowing in what arises. In this episode, we'll explore how welcoming is rooted in curiosity and not knowing what we're exploring.Welcoming is “dumb”, while wallowing tends to be “smart”. We wallow in something (anxiety, depression, sadness), meaning we're feeling what we The post EP244: Welcoming versus wallowing appeared first on Dr. Amy Johnson.

Click here to download your FREE guide to 100x YOUR EFFICIENCY IN 10 EASY STEPS: https://bit.ly/3F8qOJLBuild IRONCLAD discipline in this FREE workshop: https://bit.ly/3RUnYuxOn Today's Episode:Experiencing the highest level of success also means experiencing as many failures as it takes to reach your goals. It may be uncomfortable, but making mistakes and failing is part of the game. Wallowing in the disappointment we can all feel after failing something, does not take you any closer to succeeding. Tom is sharing the perspective he's developed and refined to become the entrepreneur that he is. Becoming capable of executing at elite levels of success comes with every failure and mistake you make along the way. Failure will teach you all that you need to know to succeed, but you have to be willing to make the mistakes without sitting in disappointment.“Success is the ability to go from failure to failure to failure, without a loss of enthusiasm.” - Winston ChurchillSHOW NOTES:0:00 | Introduction0:30 | Failure & Disappointment5:56 | Flexible Goals & Pathways10:53 | Passionate Career15:40 | Mistakes Teach Lessons18:12 | Luck Requires SkillQUOTES:“Failure is not proof that you're a loser. Failure is the process by which you become better [...] when you fail, why would you beat yourself up over it? It's the nature of progress itself, there is no way to get better without failing.” [3:06]“Don't allow yourself to get bogged down in a path, which should be easily discarded, but don't give up easily on a mission, which should be far more firm.” [10:37]“If you want to achieve anything significant in your life, you have to understand that it's a game of attrition, [...] Most people quit. It isn't that the people that end up winning never fail. It's that they didn't quit when they failed.” [11:14]Follow Tom Bilyeu:Website: https://impacttheory.com/Twitter: https://twitter.com/TomBilyeuFacebook: https://www.facebook.com/tombilyeuInstagram: https://www.instagram.com/tombilyeu/