Podcasts about whispered

Trigger warning: this series contains adult content not suitable for children or under the legal age of majority. Listener and reader discretion is advised as this broadcast and its selected readings and projected writings contain explicit language, provocative wordplay, profanity, open expression of suicidal ideation, discussion of evolved/ de-institutionalized theories concerning depression and mental health, race relations and colorism, socio-economic inequality, political injustice and media politicism, scientific hypothesis , modern philosophical ideals and spiritual explorations, crude humor and may include and contain pornographic content, references to fictionalized interpretation of public figures (fan-fiction), caricatures or references to pop culture, modern art, music, science and other entertainment references which may evoke biased emotion, inspire adverse reactions or discontentment, or discomfort. ⚠️ VIEWER, LISTENER, and READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. ⚠️ The views and opinions expressed by this series and its subsequent editions, additions, chapters, broadcasts, and publications are solely the writers' interpretations as expressed with artistic and entertainment purposes only. The artist reserves all rights to intellectual property maintained and produced by any and all publications of this series and is thereby protected under any applicable copyright law and/or trademark. All fictionalizations of persons living or dead are meant to be perceived as characterized and/or fictional (fan-fiction) are for entertainment purposes only, and are not to be perceived as real re-enactments, dramatizations of events past or present, media dialogues or agendas, or factual exchanges pertaining to and surrounding real-life circumstances. The dialogues and entires expressed in this project are in no way liable for any action, expression, disagreements, entitlements held by the reader at his or her/ their own discretion and therefore will not be held accountable for any actions by the reader on their own account due to perceptions which may have been inspired and/or provoked by these readings or any of their subsequent editions. —rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrfrrfrrrrfrrrfrrfrrrrr. [The Festival Project ™] You know what? Fuck this place. Fuck your color coded red lined fucking bullshit. New York is so visibly fucking racist it makes me want to hurl. I'm gonna kill you. Finally get out of that contract, did you? …no. I had worked out the full hour, but I was no less angry; I had even walked a couple miles and jogged a little—but I might have been even more mad. Aiagepalaqalerhelehee DIABoLICAL SONOFABITXH {Enter The Multiverse Legends: A Review} He— shot himself in the head. Hm. Did he mess up his face? What? If his face is alright I can reanimate him—no problem. But there's no point if he's got a hole in his face How are you gonna cover a hole in his head? He'll wear a hat. I think the whole point of white supremacy— Is to get blacks to have to do stereotypically black shit Like beg and steal. I've learned that People will set you up and corner you So that you have to do some shit They can later hold over your head. I've learned, after all this time— That the only way to win a rigged game — Is by cheating. People love setting people up. People love making it look like you're up to some dishonest shit— When it was dishonest to have set you up in the first place. People are sneaky. Life is politics as fuck. Everything is business. There's no kind of rules to the real disasters in life— I just discovered a new political issue I didn't even know existed Until I had to experience it Nutrition inequality. The quality of life one experiences with full balance nutrition, Which is kept out of the hands of the masses by the greedy and wealthy elite— The difference in the quality of life one faces When able to afford proper nutrition within the alignment of one's purpose. THIS is why I have people posted up outside of my apartment trying to kill me?! Probably. Don't come between a man and his business. Don't come between a man and his business. Don't come between a man and his– “prestidigitation” You are the ace, I am the m Diamond, I Am The Heart, I am the spade Did you do this on purpose? Space, that's an odd name. Another magician. —what else would you call this? I wouldn't. (To be honest, I didn't know what I was doing.) Well, there it goes. Well, this should be fun. I— Cut my throat To watch me live again Or leave me hanging here As morbidly as you desire To come inform me Of my royal nature, Yet undone by another Fortunate, in either aspect Where are you, now To tie the winters sleeve Upon my sleeping chambers, Whispered into hear thy neck My captor slowly soon awaiting So far a severity Hereby unsworn I lie to seek escape Though captured for nothing in the eye if beauty alone; Andamine, I am, I wait to be free oh! well. Sick to my stomach I plea for your waking A scarcity, Still slithers up my spine, The *gunshot* Vent, baby Keem hooligan, baby keem -The Melodic Blue, baby keem [The Festival Project ™ ] As it turns out, The assembly of the impenetrable ten, Also automatically stood as The most revolutionary Saturday a night Live Reunion Of all time. Why isn't Keenan in the impenetrable ten?! Yes, WHY. NON. NO. NONSENSE! Because! We don't have time for a negro spiritual every time something Mm—NO. Suspicious happens. This is suspicious. O boredom, I need metaphore for movement Disfigured m,n Centric and stil Consintrical, if you will Disasterous dreams art thou Eating shining m, What I need and Holy, only what I want Dear captor, Shining as the morning night I was, As slumber did fall upon us Waiting for the watching cry, Somehow seeking justice for intrepid Indigence —what, what did you say?! I said— —is that a word! Let's see! Post poster conformity— Oh, here we go again No borderline Or robot border patrol, Focus now in the motors, Run for you excellent cries Simply warn us, will you Everwaiting, perhaps For the fortune, until Stories of foragers Will you again Creep, calling, Temper, Justice For now, let's say All liberty is liberty does, As in the mind, let it rest As in the heart, let it flourish As in all hu/mankind Casts judgement, Upon each other, But meat, Not among the waking tide The realms you call upon And cry, at ask of will For wishes granted And prayers seen over I have an irrational fear of Jack o lanterns— Does that mean anything to you? No…should it? VO Suddenly there were Jack o lanterns everywhere. That's so weird, I never wrote that scene— it just kind of popped into my head, and then— I make thoughts To the shade of your love I can't seem to need anything Or want any longer But just to escape, To be free from all tragedy I don't understand… There's a light on, It appears, However— Hollow, And wicked looking It's barely even spring, And suddenly as I walk about, They seem to be appearing In my path, Amidst my dreams And everything i know is No one Everything I love is Gone And everyone around me seems to be Some kind of Wrong, Or fornicated, Tragedy, It seems, Another tragedy. These Demons. I should be working on project III And making coffee for the evening But I can barely breathe Awareness I can barely breathe I can barely even think of myself as anyone at all Actually (Anyone at all, actually) please Help me Please help me I hate all my lines in this movie. Then change them— Really? Or trade with someone else. Like, the whole character, or just— Just, the words. Just the words? Or, like, whatever. I can do that?! You can do—whatever you want. “Whatever you want?!” I'm an actor! So act, then! You put the words in my head; You were just the worst We are who we are, just Whole worlds apart You put the words in my mouth, On top of the scars, that's A whole broken heart I guess we are who we are A whole sky full of stars I still can't find my sparkle Just no reason to smile at all I guess we are who we are “You were put here just to be [redacted] mother, and then die.”, said the voice— Which was not my own, but some man's. I didn't believe that, at all—actually, But I had just sent my divorce papers in the mail, Attached with it the accounts of everything—almost everything, anyway, that had happened that had caused me to be such a distance from my son in the first place, as I had never intended to just leave him with his father, whose birthday was either the next day, or the day after—and it was almost funny to me that I couldn't remember which it was, as I realized that in the beginning, I had loved him so much that I had looked past all of the disasterous, ugly things— the phlegm on the walls, his lack of respect towards anyone, especially himself—but anyone at all— but first and foremost, especially myself, who I had finally learned to love before hand, and had finally learned to love again—at least, the best way any woman could love herself. The algorithm was playing serious mind games and tricks on my psyche again, and I wondered if I should just attempt the next two days sleeping —but it would mean that I would miss my deadline for project three, which I had intended to be released… The demonic energy again began to shift around me as I twiddled away writing—the traffic outside moved more rapidly, and doors in the hallway from my neighbors began to slam, and I knew without a doubt that he had tried to kill me using some kind of curse of black magic, but couldn't—somehow I had lived, but was still being made to suffer— and that whatever spells he had used had summoned something nasty into all of the creatures, humanoid and alike, that could be controlled without the will of God, who I thought might be lost, were it not for the songs that had come in the wake of begging for God itself to free me which was the nightmare, the curse it had become to have only fallen in love once, with the kind of man who could not. Now he had wished my doom onto me, which left me wounded and afraid, unsafe in any element or environment , plagued by coughing bodies and robotic slaves—none of which I assumed he hactiallh had the power to control, but of a greater force which shielded itself to consume me, and mimick his energy with the attempt to allow that my own mind would bring about my death, the fury and pain which it must have been to lose what I had found myself to always be, a good woman— My exit had humiliated him, damaged his pride, and bruised his twisted ego enough so that he wished I would siffer such an ill fate—however, as I had finally learned to know and breathe, that all the damage and control done to me, he would now fall prey to in his own will to destroy me. —all that seeks to harm me will therefore harm only itself; And all who seek to destroy me will be destroyed in doing so. Amen. I don't know how hard he hit you, this time, but he really fucked you up. Yeah, I guess. Fuck, I lost that whole Tom Hanks Movie No, it's still there.. No, it's gone—everything's gone! HELLO? HELLO?! CAN YOU HEAR ME? It's dead. She's gone. —Portal closes— Oh no! No! This is ‘situational'— “A Situational Comedy” So, what's the situation. …I Am. Ok. Wait— No! Hold on a second! Nevermind— Comedy is born from tragedy, right? Sometimes. Uh oh But WAIT— No, Billy, not now. *billie?! Right. Idk. There are other types of comedy, I guess. Look at this. YO! It's THAT guy again! Yo. That's that guy, and his eyes. Strange. Yeah, I don't— I don't get it, is this like a— SIRE. You don't belong here, I assure you. DENNIS LEARY UGH. Can I GO now?! I'm afraid not— You've just made captain. Okay, now you're famous. No way— Hey! No— HEY NO. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Now I know too well, The well of tears on my guitar She's got a body like one Oh her curves But I just wonder what it like to be loved By stars Socialites and superstars They're Gods, you know How high up they are Above us And he lives in an ascended dimension, But he insists, he says Her transcendence is upon us He said Your transcendence is upon us He says these things, And then just vanishes So she gets up promptly Warms up yesterday's coffee Looks around in her coffin And wonders What for I just Wonder what it's like to be loved by stars Without double r's, you know I've got scars But it's mostly just Teardrops, and soft kisses On my guitar Cause, oh, Oli, I ain't got nobody— And nobody holds me Like I hold Oli (Could have been Ali, But of course— I had already lost that one A whole well of tears, I lost At his departure And a whole well more When I actually lost him I almost miss Having someone to talk to About anything and everything But I've got Oli And God now I've got Oli And Oli (oli) Is all that I've got Besides God That's the only contact In my Phone book No more double Ls And double entendres; No more double rs At all Just scars now No more metaphors. Honest is radical I like them cynical I should have clinical insanity by now But I'm only just an artist You can't help But can only harm that And if it hurts hard enough I'll put art on my walls Become permanent Storybooks all over my arms now My coat of arms now I've run Ten point 5 miles In the last 3 days; But if I rest today Will a motorcycle gang Have a parade outside of my window, To drive me crazy? I hope it rains, So they can't play these games with my head And the seeds that I planted So deep become daisies I still don't remember The way he rearranged me But these days I make my name sound So the way He can never say it Just imitates The way I hate myself I should be dating But expressions are Atrocious If I fall asleep— Who knows I may get Stolen That tends to happen So I'm All the way up And I'm swollen in ways That I hate to say “I love you” Love me back Or say it harder That's my martyrdom Come off the cross, for a moment, Would you for us? And bend over Or bow, if you will? If I did, Would you still call me wicked Or just a Good witch Since I'm a woman, I just couldn't be Jesus, Who you asked for once And always Who you asked for some To save you from your Credit reports And consorts Or some sort of Nonsense [famous last words] God don't speak much English, She says God don't speak much these days We were Always Telepathic That was way back then When Oedipus Rex Was on the Guest list I was standing at the coat check, asking Why I must take off my hat When entering the service To the bouncer, he says “That's just politics” I said, That's just politics We both said, What's the difference Then we all laughed —then we all just laughed and laughed Exchange is my favorite exchange Where my favorite exchanges Have happened for centuries Of engagements Endeared species, And races pieces haven't tasted the same Since I haven't had them Animal products And animal planet I found this hat on Discovery channel Did you want it? I can't stand it So I had to have it back I just had to use the bathroom I just had to disconnect From [] See— I don't even have to put the words in Cause a name is just words When that's a man You just can't have And that's the worse When that's a man And you can't have him What a habit. Silky rabbit. Now he's the Ace. All In A Day's Work I've never died before. Oh… that is terrifying. It sounds terrible. It's really not that bad. Why are you not writing this down? I just need a moment… It's really not that bad… I die all the time. I get sensory overload At Trader Joe's Look at the colors The clothes, This sure isn't queensborough Escalators for shopping carts I get it Manhattan I'll take my half BLVCK ass to the projects Where my kind are I don't belong here , God you're intolerant I like this part of town But I'm way too brown And I dropped my crown at the market I should be jealous of everyone But I have learned my place I've been a slave since Hollywood I lost my son to the devil Now I pay child support And terrorist follow me coughing I'm wrong just for being born ! You could start a war from it If that's what you wanted I'm a people watcher people watcher About to board the people mover People mover Slip, Here's the tell Slip, here's the tell I should have a bell around my neck I think she wanted a picture with papa I'm playin my own paparazzi Look mom, I bought a sarcophagus There go them niggas with coughs again I been watching em Got binoculars I got oculus, for my oculars Look how hot he is, make me ovulate Man I gotta love it, Cause they love to hate Fucking racist crazies Have it your way I paid for it with my soul You hate but I love to love Somebody just got me fuckes up I don't have a book to run off of Shut up, honey. Now we're all up here Monkey in the middle Cause the middle one is weaker It's getting deeper and deeper Like the sinkhole that my sink is Let it sink in I've been syncing my secrets with demons In dreams sequences It's just a reparative injustice Kamasutra for your wondering words and stuff You can have it It's ruined anyway m Look at all this trash Look at all these classless classes Classwars, Racists. Everybody hates us The Asians, Latinx's The other niggas What being black is I'll write it in cursive It's just a curse, here So you can have it I'm moving to Heaven I'm packing my boxes I'm getting a cat, too! His name is Agustus He's a big one And I love him I just wanted a hug or a husband Instead I got nothing to trying my hardest And got for a bargain at target some coffee For being a targeted body All on an algorithm I guess I'm just useless. A dumb nigger demon Did I just offend you? Then you shouldn't be reading this either I wrote it for pleasure (Or pain) On the one Or the two Or the one Or the two I could do a lot with this $20. I could spend it all on Fuck all of you I'm moving to Heaven Where the heart it She's not harmless She's a terrorist— And I'll kill her, too Look how right she is Look how white she is, Huh Regardless of color It's a race war Lil biiiiitzzz Yooo, fuck New York. In every hole. In every crevice. Fuck this place. It's racist— Not just cause I'm black. Like statistically. It took a whole ass apartment elsesrch to feature this out. I was like “I wanna live in Manhattan” Everyone was like “NOOOOOOOO—-“ Haha “Nooo, no.” I was like “Why not?” The blacks were like: HAHA The whites were like— *COUGHS OBNOXIOUSLY* New York is so racist. It is statistically the most diverse—and most segregated city in the nation At the same time. WHAT. How do you even DO that? But it's true, at this point, the black people are like—fuck this, we'll just stay over here, and over here. And the rich whites are like YES. KEEP THAT SHIT, OVER THERE. Cause if you've ever been to the ghetto. It's some SHIT, It is NOT COOL. I finally got my ‘night card' back. Had it revoked in california . I was almost a whole valley girl. I still eat exclusively at Whole Foods. Trader Joe's. But NO. Now i live in the hood. It's fucking disgusting. I can say ‘nigga' again. Cause it's NIGGAS. Lots of niggas. I'm telling you. It's night and day! The white folks trains smell like bleach— Ammonia. The black folks train smell like a McDonald's. WHAT. Or just— Vomit. I can actually count the number of times just— Vomit—- On the train. Or. Dookie. Yes. Human feces. But I'm ready to go to midtown and it's like the train that goes around Disneyland. Families! People singing! Hey—cotton candy!! —and I didn't have to pick it! Haha! Fuck New York. Racist ass HOLE. I thought surely the next presidential election was one or two years out, but the racial tensions which had been rising became even more pronounced, as I realized that November was theboncoming time—and that they hostility between the whites and the blacks had once again been a result as the oncoming war, fueled onward—that the hatred, disgust, and general aggression of the whites had been of course, in the midsts of yet another Trump-fueled political upheaval, and I wondered why and how at all I had been caught in such a world that existed in form of man, of course, now proven himself to be the weaker sex, and yet in that of dominance, as was arranged in such an unholy war, to be the helm of power by sheer greed— now it seemed that these attacks were indeed political terrorism, and that these motorcyclists, my placement close to the ground level, and my neighbor's clammorings were specific attacks, after my identity had been varied to be that of the same in which I had once held political ambition, now none of which I assumed mattered at all. Perhaps I needed something more certain than a 12 story jump or suicide by train, and wondered as to whether it would be easy enough to kill myself bh self inflicted gunshot—a sure thing for certain, as love has been lost in the way of money at all. At that party…or rather, kind of—after. That acid that never hit Beyoncé I don't feel it. Man, I'm a terrible influence(r) Just take it. Nah, I'm good— PUSSY. -_- Give me three. K. —suddenly hits BEYONCÉ. BEYONCÉ …I got this. [BEYONCE] however, does not Ohh, shit. — “got this.” A very stranded, very sober Johnny depp stumbles upon what appears to be a college frat party, where the only thing they have is light beer, and nobody even recognizes him as a celebrity, because the attendees are all gen z What's even after gen z? The fucking apocalypse. Anyway. The acid hits Beyoncé on her way to make coffee, which extends the trip from the living room to the kitchen infinitely. Multidimensional Anne Hathaway hulks the fuck out and saves the day by ruining everything, which actually fixes everything— and *spoiler* helps Jesus to remain as the king of kings at beer pong. Lol In the late 90s in New York City, the keystone cast of Saturday night live learns of each other's formerly sexret psychic abilities, and uses the radio technologies of Rockefeller plaza to develop a research center for the telepathically gifted, eventually discovering and perfecting time travel. Supacree (the kid version) appears in and out of her ideal and desired realities, baffling ‘the Hollywood people' and later ‘the New York people', becoming the legendary central figure of the Illuminati, as the original timepiece — a pyramid shaped extra terrestrial vehicle which contains an ascended hyper consciousness, which I can't remember how it goes, did the supacree leave to find the Skrillex, or was it the other way around? I think it was both ways at some point, but the whole thing was this, just in case I never wrote it but just saw— These space god (humanoid evolved) are some kind of scientists/ doctors— there are four timepieces, each representing an era upon our planet; earth, which is distant but sacred— these four time pieces each depart their given “docs” in time to appear on earth at specific Fuck this is hard to explain Times in history, at which the first worlds, or previous human eras were known to have been destroyed— these time pieces travel through time space with the full record of these events in order to alert the current human era of its imminent doom, as an attempt to prevent such disasterous events, typically war, which will lead to the annihilation of the human species; these Gods, one male and one female, a king and queen, a married couple are the rules of the humankind, technically worshiped as a whole as one God, with whom the human design was modeled after, however, the true source of all things is the cosmos, known and unknown, in its totality—neither man or woman, but the force of creation. Anyway, what else is happening Oh. All of the celebrities are stuck in— [the festival project] in some way, shape, or form until its creator finishes it—and though it in itself is infinite, its 'finishing' notates its eventual production, which lol. That never going to happen. Because. Let's face it. I'm scared of …rich people. Yeah, sure. Yeah. I'm scared of The effect of the race war, which has been to pit the white woman against the black woman, which allows and maintains the continuation of war mongering male dominance over the entire planet, which remains as a destructive force of greed, racism, and inequality. So why try? [EDITS] CONAN O'BRIEN Alright. If she hit Fallon, she's gonna come for one of us next. No, Conan—that's not how this works. WHAT—where did you come from!? When did you get here? JAY LENO This goes deeper than all of you can understand. WHAT the FUCK, man! When did you-/ —when did he get here? How did you do that?! How did you do that?! What are you, like, the same guy? Are you not all the same guy? [they shrug simultaneously and kind of just agree] Listen at this. Okay then. The enemy of your friend is my enemy. Oh…kay—and the enemy of my enemy—is my friend— That is correct. —so we're all friends here. That's right. Some special forces? Which forces? How special? [JENNIFER LOPEZ is still JENNY FROM THE BLOCK] Do I look like a fool to you? Uh— OOPS [a pre-fame Jennifer Lopez receives a drop full of diamonds instead of the usual; she has been granted access into the Illuminati, and becomes an overnight success.] This feels heavier than usual. Same as always. Hm. Are you sure. Yep. Hey, you're not the regular guy. Regular guy died. That makes sense. JENNIFER ANNISTON is inside of Ū Okay, grosss Not like that [lifting max weight] Okay. That was cool. Wow. Yeah, sure whatever. I am strong Yeah yeah, okay. Are you sure you want to be my size? Yep. JIMMY FALLON/SKRILLEX (we don't know actually which at this point) is also trapped inside of Ū Okay, gross! Yeah. SKRILLEX is in all of Ū. okay—actually, i'm okay with that, but That other guy?! [JIMMY FALLON] Yeah, he's weird. Also meanwhile, kind of— MARSHALL MATHERS has a closet cleaning service lol. Patrick is smooth as a motherfucker, you know. Every time his head is down on the desk like that, he takes a bump of coke. What?! Big uh! [Patrick takes bumps of cocaine in front of a live studio audience—every single night.] Woah! See. Goddamn. You gotta admire a guy like that. Jennifer Anniston is the weight on the cable tension machine Ooh. Psycho bitch devious methods new ludachris commercial All ya'll girls is toddlers I like long boards and longhairs Lawn mowers and lawn shares Aw hell nah, God forgot Cher I got the Blair witch project On Blair, I hope I scare you How dare you. Your girl looks like a naked mole rat. I got my soul back. You blue eyed bastards stole everything From the whole blacks, Hold that thought I'm at Whole Foods market throw in the Amazon algorithm off With marked dollars Look at God at Walmart On them rollbacks You old hacks are cackling I'm shackled to old habits Hold hands with me, rabbit I'm just a silly rapper really, are you? Maybe. Cut the verse of Reverse God Now I'm the devil I'm still lost in the Amazon cart I sharted all up in your pop tarts Before you warmed them up, pops Just for the sake of the art, Heart to heart, It's a war on love And the white girls won with nothin but Buckets of Whatever's up there I wouldn't know Cause I'm stuck job searching And running, Trying not to have a tummy So some gummy worm will love me First their sour, then they're sweet Then nobody, Trolli Holy moly I could use some more petroleum in the ocean! Said nobody But the globalists are performing your programming Which you're worshiping I put my eye on the dollar So I could watch you all Crumble and fall Don't you know The apocalypse is happening at the mall Of all the places How's that for a stream of consciousness, You salamander I asked Anandar back But I went past that chapter Have a chap Or a chapstick, for four times four dollars A bottle of water will cost you a fortune (But at least the drugs are in it) Get it It's recycled piss Distilled? Which is it, Mr,? The mystery box was literally lifted into My dinner from a fishery filled with nothing but niggers in it— I want a refund, before I catch that Fucking curse of poverty from — what'd you call it salmonellahallibut One hell of a cough from someone on the sidewalk But guess what? The devil's in your pocket or your palm, And that's the omen and the psalm rolled into one Cause God is awesome, But my mom is fuckin toxic And that's how I fuckin got here Blow my head off, Slit my wrists And write a song While jumping off a bit When all you need is money, But the world costs more than It's worth, and words are nothing But another fucking problem in your Google documents I look at my son and see a God, But half of Satan's in him, Oh man Robotics Lets be honest, I don't even know how to write this. Where's my sides?! WHERE'S MY SIDES. You don't get SIDES with this; It's just CHICKEN. I don't eat CHICKEN. It appears as though, however– You do. Ok, I gotta get off this playlist. I… i gotta . “The Wal*Mart Wars” Hm. … …………. …. *face* … no. No. l– What is this place. {After a wild night which apparently spiraled out of control, great , there goes my peace. Not forever, though, maybe. FUCK THIS PLACE. I HATE THIS PLACE. Everybody hates this place. But the album is called “I love New York” Yes, thats Technically How it's pronounced, though It's stylized like I _ NY Cause. EXT. MIDTOWN MANHATTAN. DAY Oh, wow, this is beautiful. THis is great. I love this place FUCK THE FEDS. CUT TO: EXT.Typically WHEREVER ELSE Anywhere ‘above' like 87th? Lets just call it 80th, be safe. BE SAFE! NIGGAZ. ah shit, i gotta go. BITCH– But lets just be honest, It's technically ‘above' But it's really [THE BRONX is a literal extension of the Underworld] Oh no. srsly tho. X_c Anyway. FUck man, Do you think i'll ever get good like that. Idk what equipment is this Hmm, lets see, that's approximately $8,000 USD of CDJs wow yep That's retarded Yep. And you still need a mixer. fukt. OKay, I would literally sell my soul for this. Consider it done. wait , really? YES. you earned it. Wait, I– What?! You earned it… Uh oh. Take care now. Shit. [BILLIE ELLISH is trapped inside WALMART] Uh oh. Fuck. what is this place. INT. WALMART. WHENEVER EMPLOYEESLAVES WHAT TIME IS IT. THERE'S NO WINDOWS IN HERE. That's not funny IT'S literally a synonym, we might as well make it a portemantau MEanwhile, in this other dimension, So that i don't offend anybody… Actually, you know what? Be offended. Quit that stupid fuckin shit and follow your dreams! Wait really? Wait, really? Sure! If you want! …i guess. AMERICA NO. INSTANT HOMELESSNESS ok , nvm. Damn. I know, right. wtf r u guys watching. Shut up. All Wal*Mart Employees are actually top secret government agents. x ∞ >.< (we'll just use Billie Ellish as the alternate, but really it could be Could it really? Shut UP, PLURNICORN. Wtf is a PLURNICORN We'll see. [Upon Realizing s/he is trapped in a mysterious place apparently extremely public Wait, you've never been to a Wal*Mart Before?! NO. I grew up in LA Rich as fuck And i've been famous since I was liike 12, Or something. Right. That is–kind of terrifying. LATER: WHY IS IT SNOWING INSIDE. WHERE'S THE EXIT. THEY HAVE GUNS?! oh wow, they have GUNS. WHY DO WE NEED GUNS! KA-BLAM. BECAUSE THEY HAVE GUNS. Bang-bang! Ptttttttttt—sttt. And they have guns. Actually, these are just– confetti cannons. *pop!* Lol “Possibly The Worst Show Ever the infinite rave continues on in Hell as everyone awaits the return of SŪPACREE- The Cosmic Avenger (Who Is NOT a DJ) and Sunnï Blū (who is a superstar rapper but also not a DJ) go back to back, buying time as the beacon to. Signal "The Supacree" is completed, battling the 10th dimensional DJ Ū, a super ninjas, for control of the decks. what else happened? idk. I CANT STOP DANCING. none of the DJs can find a pair of working headphones, and the sound guy is missing from the booth. "missing" YOU SHOT HIM. I THOUGHT IT WAS A TRANQ DART. {Enter The Multiverse} “TVP” Hazel is 6, turns 7 season 1 Season 7- 15 Man, I can't remember the other two kids names, I think the little boy is Ira but I might have named them all and forgotten, shit. Her sister, though is between 4 ½ and 5, they are technically “Irish twins”, and always fighting—they look very similar, however are not at all alike; Hazel is very much a daddy's girl, while her younger sister is a no-nonsense old soul with the tendency to cause trouble, not by being inquisitive or showy, as her sister often is, but rather by being quietly observant, and tends to dismiss both her parents, often isolating, or even dissappearing without notice, quietly and comfortably into her own world—as the series progresses, and though all of Patrick's children like their parents have showcased some kind of special ability or talent— Holy shit, give this kid a name-/ I thought I already named her, I just don't remember. That's true. It seems like they all had names. She is almost very typically, though showing signs of genius, even at the early age at the beginning of the series, a middle child, prone to upset almost too easily, but rather than acting out, is more likely to take her anger quietly; she shares her fathers deep brown eyes, dark hair, and though she looks otherwise very much like her sister, and later despises her father, is more inwardly and outwardly like him, though taking the side of her mother during their separation and divorce, oftentimes even lashing out at her father quite openly, and very vocally, as she grows into herself. “Ira”, (may have had another name earlier) is the youngest of three— as his third birthday approaches sometime during the first season. Great, now I gotta hide all those allegories so nobody can actually draw from this that Patrick— Where's his write up, anyway? That shit could go on for days. I have no idea why this catharsis is happening. I tried to sleep it off, I swear, but I still woke up like— At least mildly obsessive about this, for whatever reason. Hazel's 7 - Season Arc Hazel has the eyes, charm, and charisma for entertainment —she hopes to one day be as her father, an entertainer and performer, and will do almost anything for a laugh. She is often telling jokes, and is a people- pleaser. She is sickeningly cute, with golden hair and Hazel eyes, long eye lashes, and carries baby fat in her face, though she is rather average, neither heavy or plump, and however also not frail at all. She is inquisitive, smart, and busy, almost never idle-minded, and strong. Though sort of a Tom boy, she has been trained well to act with dignity, class, and feminine eloquence, much like her mother—but like her father, has a tendency to be crass, sometimes carelessly so, or even brutally honest—to her mother's disdain, but embraced wholesomely by other family members and adults, she's extremely funny and delightful, and very much unlike her mother, not a spoiled brat at all, often raising questions beyond her years about inequality, later wishing to attend a public school, and becoming quite the advocate for social justice and human rights in her later years, her final season shows a rebellious and sometimes even antagonistic Hazel, who later even favors Esha over her own mother as a parental figure, often confiding in her about things she can't and shouldn't share with her father, although her almost over the top admiration for her father has become the driving force and inspiration for her own endeavors in show business, much to her father's disdain, as she grows older, him becoming more protective of her, and especially within the oftentimes secretive nature of his actual placement and purpose in the business, and her rebellious nature and charm even force-feeding her into the industry, she is a bleeding heart for superstardom, and is often seen along what may be a path to fame, making Patrick's bleeding heart all the more aching, as though he and Catherine remain at odds throughout the series, he truly loves his children, even “the little sick one”, as he refers to the second child. Holy shit, what is this kid's name If I had the energy to go through my notes, I could know; but I don't. The city sickness has been sinking in from the noise of the obnoxious motorists and honestly, being out of protein is giving me muscle soreness, I'm in some sort of a bloated haze from eating almost nothing but carbs, and the fact that I haven't been with anyone in years is starting to circle like buzzards around my head, my heart has been literally screaming but overwhelming with this sense of calm, and though slipping into Patrick's sometimes erratic tendencies, for the most part I've been underwhelmed with society's expectations that I should get some kind of job, and somehow while working not lose focus on my own interests and projects—I hate [the strange modern behaviors of] most people, and everything costs too much money— my son might be going into foster care, or my ex husband is evil enough just to try to force my energy to worry about a problem he's created, and I really wanted to sleep into the afternoon with this lethargy, hoping that everything surrounding this series would just fall off, but it doesn't. I wake up often wishing I could just forget The Festival Project ™ , but the truth is, it just keeps writing itself, but in the very least, sometimes God gives me little presents that mean the very most to me— a chord organ that I thought was from the 80's, but is more likely from the 1960's— I love vintage stuff, and musical instruments, which only God could know, really—my fascination with history as if I'm still living it, and this, my sudden fascination and drive to write and complete just one series has been haunting me almost just as badly as anything else has, but especially ripping me apart—especially since I have motorcyclists ripping through my body as if it were some kind of disease that existed outside of me, so contagious that it began to sink in to my insanity and mental hygiene. I wondered if anybody else knew or cared about these creatures as much as I didn't—and in fact, I had never felt so much like Ali in the way that I didn't care if they, other “human beings” supposedly, all died tragically, and wondered why the walls and windows didn't keep out the sound of the outside world at all… The middle child begins writing secretly very early on, and is the first to be required more extensive therapy, (as suggested by the family's therapist) after her parent's separation and subsequent divorce. It is not long after she begins learning to read and write at all, that she begins also showing interests in art, asking for art lessons and to begin painting and art therapy, rather than the recommended Equine therapy— she often keeps things to herself, then returning to her hidden places at times when the family's dysfunction becomes uncomfortable and overstimulating, very often paining or reading during times of peace, and retreating to her safe places—sometimes under the stairs, into the attic, the treehouse, or even later, the family's barnyard, where she often keeps drawings, as she ages, later comics, sometimes caricatures of the things she absorbs through her own reality—and diaries, sometimes hidden in nooks and crannies and in places no one would think; a true prodigy and genius, though hidden from much the world, as she is often overlooked, however, her therapist begins unfolding her true reality, often times carrying over sessions and losing track of time, picking her brain or even conversations philosophically What's the therapists name? Doctor Robin She has to have a last name Well, she's a child's therapist, so she's Doctor Robin, but It seems like it starts with a T. We'll see. I just saw her anyway. I drifted off again, thinking about how wildly detailed this all was becoming, and wondered if there was a series of fictional books waiting to be written. There certainly could be, but my mind was reeling, freshly showered but still undressed, and not even wanting to think of going outside—and yet—I was out of water, and had learned that the drinking water from the fountains, especially in large quantities, had a tendency to make me sick—I hadn't yet eaten anything, and though the coffee was fresh, and my apartment was clean (which made me overtly overjoyed for some reason) smelling of Lemon Lysol and Bleach; with notes of a strong pot of organic fresh ground coffee, it seemed like I couldn't do much more than lay in bed writing this catastrophically interesting series—and it was interesting, which said volumes, considering I had always been picky about my TV watching, being that only ever did certain series catch my eyes or my ears, and those series were almost always—or always, always specifically well written, perfectly casted, and had the edge and draw of becoming an entire world within itself, which this series, though only a week or two old at best, in my heart and in my mind , was rampantly ravaging my own world, almost as if it had become of some importance to keep writing it, and never stop, and though Patrick was the forefigure, another broken male protagonist, the truth in the series was that the true heroes of this sometimes scarily violent drama, were its women—a story meant to be told with a diversified cast of creatures from all worlds and walks of life—Esha, of course, herself, a role that had been some recreation of myself, somehow, though so different that even primarily, I never did see myself as her, besides the onslaught of some otherworldly pain, visions of a scene recollected from some remarkable download, and it might have been once and for all that I had lost my mind, or my life, if I wasn't a writer—I was, somehow, though, after all, a writer. It had been a fasting day that could have and might have ended tragically anyway, and still the devil marked his mockery of my efforts by consistently flinging perfect bodied women everywhere that I went—though usually with ugly enough faces that I could see nothing but what a man was—uncaring for one thing over the other, a flawless representation of woman, represented in the current time with scantily clad fashion, almost painfully so—the insecurity of women becoming more apparent in the way she would appear, always almost begging to be near to me, with every perfection and complexion I hadn't—but at least I had a tendency to laugh at my own damage, often surmising that she, these demon creatures, hadn't any talent for this at all—which had turned the state of television into a near circus act; that alone urged me to continue writing the series, perhaps with a typewriter, due to the negligence of nepotism within the industry which often resulted in these pretty little creatures getting even further ahead by stealing works as such, and passing them on as their own originality almost so cruelly and without judgement—plagiarism, as it was called, but more accurately intent-to-kill the imminent threat of what had been said to be a minority becoming a more powerful force to flourish in entertainment however, as quickly as the visions had come, the thought of writing it without my phone became dauntingly impractical, and I scribbled only the most intense scenes and plot lines onto notebooks and scratch papers, keeping them as hidden from the algorithm as possible… lol the Al Gore Rhythm Ahahahahahahaha Was that the joke? Maybe. Idk. Maybe. Idk. Hm. Hmmmmm: What: Nothing. That actually might have been it. Really, was it? I will never know. That is kind of a good dad joke, though. And a good band name. Idk about that. My coffee was lukewarm enough so that I could taste its flavor, as I whittled away at whatever it was— The story was almost so beautifully being told in allegories and parables that it seemed a shame I may never be rich enough to buy fame, as it seemed that was the only way to become a star these days— and yet—it was more the wealth than the fame I wanted, I had realized, at all—the polished class of the Manhattanites drawing me out of Brooklyn and into some debauchery which was my own Grandiose thought form, that I could actually become, at the ripe old age of 31, some kind of superstar. ‘Why would I even want that, anyway?' I thought, interrupted painfully by who I'm sure was the same motorist, who seemed to do nothing but circle the block all day, and all night, doing nothing — and I wondered why he himself had decided not to do grub hub in a richer neighborhood, where money would more than likely come more easily. But really— I drifted off to a time where I wanted to ride a motorcycle myself, and the curiosity forced me to go online to check the price of what it might cost to have one. $5,000 for a decent bike, which would include a muffler as not to be so obnoxious and disturbing to others as these creatures had become to me— and I began doing the math on how long it would take to save $5,000 as if it would be possible to work some dead end job for any amount of time without spending money on anything else. It would take at least 5 months to earn enough for a motorcycle, which landed me directly back at “Not worth it”, and as horrible as it was, I did at the very least have a luxury apartment for at minimum the next 5 years, however, wanting still to move to Manhattan, Midtown specifically—or one of the quaint and quiet neighborhoods on the upper West Side. The neighborhood was going to hell, after some unworldly godless force had seemed to drop hundreds of thousands of rude and thoughtless third world workers onto the streets and buildings bordering the one I lived on, the neighborhood becoming more rough and less peaceful with trash and debris from the depression and congenital disease that was poverty, the collective unconsciousness of the masses colliding with my empathetic nature and oversensitivity to sound, especially awful sounds, such as the hundreds of motorcycles and hot rodded junk cars which only seeemed to move in a track around a four block radius, and had become a cancerous trigger of sorts, no authority figure seemed to much care about. I cared less and less each day to listen to music, since I wasn't making it the way I wanted to—and I had realized that the constant displeasure and unrest, the lack of peace had as much to do with the world outside as it did with the world within—and I began to see the disgusting obnoxious noise pollution outside my window as just an extension of man's abuse, ability to rape, torture, and kill, terrorize— the uncaring waging of war, control, and lack of true power; as no good and true man who wielded actual strengeth or true power in any way would continue to show such distructive action and carelessness for others around him— chaos, corruption, abuse, and misogyny was proving to be the downfall of all humankind, as patronaged by man, and, as I became doubtful of anyone's lack of understanding of this, especially as the immigrants themselves were often naturally pedophillic culturally and toxically abusive in nature, most migrants flocking from countries in which women's liberation or the protection of youth had not yet materialized into their understanding of conciousness and morality—the men were weak, unkind, and selfish—the women mere machines at their disposal—and however many there were, I could see that their children, the many of them, remained as the redeeming factor. Anyway, a political ploy for the ages of there ever was such a thing, the newest chapter in American greed and slavery, it only seemed like an extension of evil itself, and less of a coincidence with each growing day—each new person, another burden to the middle class taxpayer, another reason to inflate the cost of living—and all the more reason to continue to terrorize the American people into its own division, hatred, demise, and consumption. e. My faith, however, was unwavering—God was real, but these abusive and toxic creatures were pushing it further away with violent arrogance, and the inability to understand that God itself was the nature they continued to destroy. Robin Bennett Fine. “My name's —ahem— “Ron Sennet, and I ain't In it.” —did the say “don't” write a book about me? It's Not about him… Or something cute he used to say like that, I couldn't remember, but he had a bunch of cute little idioms that matched his name, and to the day, I still missed him — it was 11:15 PM exactly as I hung up the phone, after an unsuccessful attempt to reach 911, after realizing that the threat outside was maddening enough to be impossible to only be in my head, and after weeks of the excruciating noise, I finally called NYPD dispatch, much to my disdain, and of course magically, the noise seemed to disappear, but these abusive and toxic creatures were pushing it further away with violent arrogance, and the inability to understand that God itself was the nature they continued to destroy. Robin Bennett Fine. “My name's Jon Sennet, and I ain't In it.” Or something cute he used to say like that, I couldn't remember, but he had a bunch of cute little idioms that matched his name, and to the day, I still missed him — it was 11:15 PM exactly as I hung up the phone, after an unsuccessful attempt to reach 911, after realizing that the threat outside was maddening enough to be impossible to only be in my head, and after weeks of the excruciating noise, I finally called NYPD dispatch, much to my disdain, and of course magically, the noise seemed to disappear as soon as I had made the call, which infuriated me. It seemed as though the game in entirety to make me look or feel crazy, though I knew I wasn't—well, I was, but not without purpose or reason. I had been theorizing in energy exchange quite decisively making a mark for my alter, at which I asked to be designated the wisdom and truth of the light within the eye, desire, however never in mind, although I had been summoned in part due to the fact that we were somehow alike—I was in some ways besides and out of sorts with my set, sinking my teeth into the forced obsession as I unraveled any possibilities and plotline. Episode 01. Pilot An opportunity presents itself seemingly at random— the protagonist's hand is forced into a life changing ultimatum, putting his reuputation and family in danger. Already involved in an illegal gambling ring which operates out of a secret historical prohibition era speakeasy and some “light” drug mulling within its walls, however often extending even as dangerously close to his workplace, Patrick is propositioned to become an investor in the high end escort service, with which he hired and contracted his lover, Kandi, a “rescue” whom he supports in her exchange for exclusivity, to remain as her only client, however, although he begrudgingly declines, wishing not to be involved in anything much more than what he has already kept under the radar, he is intimidated and threatened by blackmail, his high profile becoming at stake—he then obliges to embark upon this new endeavor, the expansion of this establishment to include a warehouse, which houses a large scale brothel, and, able to use his social status to procure wealthy clientele, quickly becomes a power player within a ring of coveted elites, setting fire to his already inflated ego, and colliding with his intense and highly functional polyaddiction, which he has maintained since his youth, using his entertainment persona as an outlet, becoming a medium of excess, fame, and rampant wealth. Patrick is beloved by his peers, and is humbled often by his devoted fans and friends—proactively worshiped as a comic genius, a prodigy, and a revered successor to legendary frontmen— Okay, this is weird, because I started writing this before I even understood what I was writing at all… —specifically, the sixth successor, to his coveted role. I had written for Esha to be the seventh successor, as with the symbolism deeply and quite literally woven into the sometimes brutal framework of the series, which I had shorthanded to ‘TVP'…the world around me trailed off as my eyes blurred as they had been lately, and I wondered if I might be having some kind of stroke or something, as I was certainly some sort of out of body—the day had been strange, and I had given up on a run or a gym for the day, the motorcycles alone ravaging my energy, and whether I worked out or not, they were ever present anyway. They were some sort of toxic, abusive force I just had to put up with, hoping it didn't upset my psychology so much that it ended me, though I had become quite odd as of recently, rambling more than usual and actually praying out loud, as my silent ones just didn't seem to be working—they were probably white supremacists, or in some way connected to some political terror group, but it didn't seem to matter. Someone liked torturing me, and it was becoming apparent that no matter much time I spent at the gym, this torture was going to persist. After a month long gym streak, at least going once a day to lift something, I rested, or rather, tried to rest, kind of— but my mind had been swirling with thoughts of a man I was certain by now I had made up—and writing the story of a man I was absolutely certain came from my mind, but in a way that it almost made no sense at all—as the more I looked into the world that I had already written about, the more I realized was accurate without first having known these things, and however cursed I might have been to even know such things, I decided to call it some sort of blessing instead. ‘God, I used to get so fucking high for days, and when I would come down, just crying and crying, eating Totinos or DiJorno and a bag of Bugles, I would watch Saturday Night Live for fucking hours, and I hated [Redacted]. I hated him.' Now I still hated [Redacted], but in a different way, and though really it was myself that was more like Patrick, he at the very least, for whatever reason, used to have his face—now, he was just Patrick, and [Redacted] was just [Redacted], and i knew entirely too much about it all, and about myself to be comfortable with it, but nothing was comfortable at all. I had written entire atrocities, novels, and all that was some conglomerate of nonsense which was the festival project, besides how insanely and innately prodigal it all was sometimes, my own words confusing me with a bizarre and asinine dysfunction, awe, actually, often as if someone else had written them, and although I was always at least sort of semi-conscious while writing, the spells and cadences I would fall under were some sort of trance, and as I watched the Nirvana rehearsal from Saturday Night Live in 1992, long before [Redacted] or any of the rest of the — Was it Keystone? It was, the Keystone cast of SNL, but the first word my mind had jumped to was Hallmark, which—after referencing Google quickly for a fact check, also stood true. I was willing to admit, even now, though I had long lost interest in Saturday Nighy Live, or anything at all having to do with current events, that the [Redacted] era—or rather even, the Tina Fey era, a true role model, perhaps, and someone I favored over all of the performers I admired, or allowed myself to admire— the Golden Years of Saturday Night were the only years, for me that even mattered— trying to make sense of anything couldn't be done, but I at least had this new project birthed from it to think about. It would be hard to sit down at a taping of The View and not think about all I had written at all, and it would be impossible not to unfold the characters which had presented themselves, though slowly but surely, through the most vivid visions and insanely lucid dreams, as The TV People began to What if someone steals this out of my documents? That would be unwise…the best scenes are somewhere scribbled in my notebooks and random scraps of paper somewhere in my room…this series is almost nothing without those scenes—the elements with which the most painful scenes I had ever written, became word form. ‘I don't know why, but I feel so incredibly high, So incredibly high right now…' They could have been words to a song, but I did feel high as a kite for whatever reason, without the actual kite metaphor quite literally dagling over my head, for once, or at least, it had been a few weeks, not a prominent as is was before. I sat soaking in the tub teetering on the possibility that I should actually even watch The Tonight Show, or whatever it was, to set my mind at ease, a betrayal of my own code—as one does not literally feed its obsessions into insanity on purpose. ‘Perhaps, though', I thought, ‘I could get rid of this.' — A cancerous abscess in the tradegy that had become my own sex fueled, rage driven, racing mind—and rather admittedly, it was almost too late, for anything of the sort, as I hadn't any other place to keep the growing world of The Television People any quieter, than within the monstrous algorithm which was Google documents cloud, where it seemed nothing was safe, and anything could be fabricated into reality after being stolen, by someone rich enough to make it happen, however, never being any better than my own disaster of a creation. And it was, a disaster. He was a comic genius, a professional, and spectacular performer— in actuality, I knew nothing if not anything at all about him, and the more I collected, the more interesting I found myself, actually, bemused that I seem to have found some sort of twin, another synchronization nightmare—if only that I made it to be so, unbelieving yet that I was in some kind of fairytale, though it had become some sort of fantastical and adventurous thing, this what I now refer to as ‘the allegories,'. I must have been something parasitic to the industry, with the tendency to latch on and ride out whatever had become a fascination, but it wasn't, in its sense of origin, like anything before— it was something new, in the ways that it was, and something old at the same time—though needing to fall drastically from The Tower without actually doing so, putting a stop to my unlimited creation became a pertinent priority, as even exercising, meditating, and chronic masturbation tended to exacerbate it, as if I was missing a step in transmutation of this foreign substance— an energy which seemed familiar, but also wasn't. I was receiving downloads several hours at a time, and drifting off into spells and trances of inspiration so heavily that it seemed counterintuitive to call it off, fearing I might lose the intensity of the plot and its characters, and they were that: just characters. It had taken days to erase Patrick's face into a blank state to restore him from that of his namesake, but now everything was a blur, the allure of scrapping it all to return to making music was upon some sort of dawning, but not yet arrived. I allowed whatever came to mind to flow freely from my fingertips, even if it felt bizzare—and even if it felt bizarre, it never felt wrong at all. ‘Unfortunate, that.' , I thought crossing one leg over another to complete my chapter before draining the tub. I promised myself long ago to always pray for my own son, before worrying about another celebrity, whose fame and fortune protected them more than I ever seemed to protect myself or my own—nonsense, but a strong sense of remorse, as I had been painted as wicked, in a sense, just for being kept poor, separated from my son, and left in a world without love at all; My project, a keepsake of the hard work I had done; but had not yet been paid for—and the fear was in the understanding that that money might not ever come, that I would never be a mother, a muse, or anything or anyone else I actually wanted. I thought briefly again about just getting a dog—but I only had 45 dollars, aside from the unmarked Jimmy Fallons, I had placed atop an alter on my kitchen counter, wondering how to multiply them into something I wanted—and that had been the start of the game or the project at all— saving my last dollars and spending them at once, with the hopes and wishes that they would become somehow much larger quantities, returned as good karma for the love I had given, but that had not yet come back, in one form or another. ‘He seems miserable, the poor bloak.' , I thought—and with all that I had known to have come with fame and fortune along with the luck, he probably somewhere, somehow was—but my concern was my son, turning the mere dollars somehow from one's into bundles of hundreds, thousands, and maybe even one day a whole million or more. That was the push behind the project at all—breaking the cycle of the poor black single mother, the story that had been told over and over-/ with stories that had not; the stories that had become [The Festival Project™]# Sai Psy. See you in seven years, then. You're so silly— I'm not going to live seven more years. We'll see about that. You will see. I'll be dead. So I'll be dead. So it is. A summer hiatus, Vacations in Prague, yes Let's pray for the rest of us A sign of the times and a coming of ages Who made you famous again As the rest of us I don't like it As much as I'd like to Keep writing Keep finding the reason to die and you're blinded by kindnesses And I Ams I woke up in the 9th dimension, As an infinite friend Familiar with my kitchen JOHN SLATTERY An interesting thing happened this morning. What's that, John? I woke up as John Slattery Just remember what love holds The death of a salesman, rechargeable batteries This walk could take forever in designer jeans Another day in slave hell The controllers controlling And Satan is Sataning Seems like a time to go clubbing It's a simple kind of depression Resting on your head when All you simply wished is the taste of flesh The freedom of skin And the lather of love— Or blood spatter on the pavement Aim for the head If the door's fixed, then we'll break it again Look what greed does I hate lazy days in Manhattan Ca

'hwy 101.' Collection II- 'antithesis.' Track 01. 'hwy 101' Prod. By Blũ Tha Gürū You are the ace, I am the m Diamond, I Am The Heart, I am the spare Did you do this on purpose? Space, that's an odd name. Another magician. —what else would you call this? I wouldn't. (To be honest, I didn't know what I was doing.) Well, there it goes. Well, this should be fun. I— Cut my throat To watch me live again Or leave me hanging here As morbidly as you desire To come inform me Of my royal nature, Yet undone by another Fortunate, in either aspect Where are you, now To tie the winters sleeve Upon my sleeping chambers, Whispered into hear thy neck My captor slowly soon awaiting So far a severity Hereby unsworn I lie to seek escape Though captured for nothing in the eye if beauty alone; Andamine, I am, I wait to be free oh! well. Sick to my stomach I plea for your waking A scarcity, Still slithers up my spine, The {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

'hwy 101.' Collection II- 'antithesis.' Track 01. 'hwy 101' Prod. By Blũ Tha Gürū You are the ace, I am the m Diamond, I Am The Heart, I am the spare Did you do this on purpose? Space, that's an odd name. Another magician. —what else would you call this? I wouldn't. (To be honest, I didn't know what I was doing.) Well, there it goes. Well, this should be fun. I— Cut my throat To watch me live again Or leave me hanging here As morbidly as you desire To come inform me Of my royal nature, Yet undone by another Fortunate, in either aspect Where are you, now To tie the winters sleeve Upon my sleeping chambers, Whispered into hear thy neck My captor slowly soon awaiting So far a severity Hereby unsworn I lie to seek escape Though captured for nothing in the eye if beauty alone; Andamine, I am, I wait to be free oh! well. Sick to my stomach I plea for your waking A scarcity, Still slithers up my spine, The {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Trigger warning: this series contains adult content not suitable for children or under the legal age of majority. Listener and reader discretion is advised as this broadcast and its selected readings and projected writings contain explicit language, provocative wordplay, profanity, open expression of suicidal ideation, discussion of evolved/ de-institutionalized theories concerning depression and mental health, race relations and colorism, socio-economic inequality, political injustice and media politicism, scientific hypothesis , modern philosophical ideals and spiritual explorations, crude humor and may include and contain pornographic content, references to fictionalized interpretation of public figures (fan-fiction), caricatures or references to pop culture, modern art, music, science and other entertainment references which may evoke biased emotion, inspire adverse reactions or discontentment, or discomfort. ⚠️ VIEWER, LISTENER, and READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. ⚠️ The views and opinions expressed by this series and its subsequent editions, additions, chapters, broadcasts, and publications are solely the writers' interpretations as expressed with artistic and entertainment purposes only. The artist reserves all rights to intellectual property maintained and produced by any and all publications of this series and is thereby protected under any applicable copyright law and/or trademark. All fictionalizations of persons living or dead are meant to be perceived as characterized and/or fictional (fan-fiction) are for entertainment purposes only, and are not to be perceived as real re-enactments, dramatizations of events past or present, media dialogues or agendas, or factual exchanges pertaining to and surrounding real-life circumstances. The dialogues and entires expressed in this project are in no way liable for any action, expression, disagreements, entitlements held by the reader at his or her/ their own discretion and therefore will not be held accountable for any actions by the reader on their own account due to perceptions which may have been inspired and/or provoked by these readings or any of their subsequent editions. —rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrfrrfrrrrfrrrfrrfrrrrr. [The Festival Project ™] You know what? Fuck this place. Fuck your color coded red lined fucking bullshit. New York is so visibly fucking racist it makes me want to hurl. I'm gonna kill you. Finally get out of that contract, did you? …no. I had worked out the full hour, but I was no less angry; I had even walked a couple miles and jogged a little—but I might have been even more mad. Aiagepalaqalerhelehee DIABoLICAL SONOFABITXH {Enter The Multiverse Legends: A Review} He— shot himself in the head. Hm. Did he mess up his face? What? If his face is alright I can reanimate him—no problem. But there's no point if he's got a hole in his face How are you gonna cover a hole in his head? He'll wear a hat. I think the whole point of white supremacy— Is to get blacks to have to do stereotypically black shit Like beg and steal. I've learned that People will set you up and corner you So that you have to do some shit They can later hold over your head. I've learned, after all this time— That the only way to win a rigged game — Is by cheating. People love setting people up. People love making it look like you're up to some dishonest shit— When it was dishonest to have set you up in the first place. People are sneaky. Life is politics as fuck. Everything is business. There's no kind of rules to the real disasters in life— I just discovered a new political issue I didn't even know existed Until I had to experience it Nutrition inequality. The quality of life one experiences with full balance nutrition, Which is kept out of the hands of the masses by the greedy and wealthy elite— The difference in the quality of life one faces When able to afford proper nutrition within the alignment of one's purpose. THIS is why I have people posted up outside of my apartment trying to kill me?! Probably. Don't come between a man and his business. Don't come between a man and his business. Don't come between a man and his– “prestidigitation” You are the ace, I am the m Diamond, I Am The Heart, I am the spade Did you do this on purpose? Space, that's an odd name. Another magician. —what else would you call this? I wouldn't. (To be honest, I didn't know what I was doing.) Well, there it goes. Well, this should be fun. I— Cut my throat To watch me live again Or leave me hanging here As morbidly as you desire To come inform me Of my royal nature, Yet undone by another Fortunate, in either aspect Where are you, now To tie the winters sleeve Upon my sleeping chambers, Whispered into hear thy neck My captor slowly soon awaiting So far a severity Hereby unsworn I lie to seek escape Though captured for nothing in the eye if beauty alone; Andamine, I am, I wait to be free oh! well. Sick to my stomach I plea for your waking A scarcity, Still slithers up my spine, The *gunshot* Vent, baby Keem hooligan, baby keem -The Melodic Blue, baby keem [The Festival Project ™ ] As it turns out, The assembly of the impenetrable ten, Also automatically stood as The most revolutionary Saturday a night Live Reunion Of all time. Why isn't Keenan in the impenetrable ten?! Yes, WHY. NON. NO. NONSENSE! Because! We don't have time for a negro spiritual every time something Mm—NO. Suspicious happens. This is suspicious. O boredom, I need metaphore for movement Disfigured m,n Centric and stil Consintrical, if you will Disasterous dreams art thou Eating shining m, What I need and Holy, only what I want Dear captor, Shining as the morning night I was, As slumber did fall upon us Waiting for the watching cry, Somehow seeking justice for intrepid Indigence —what, what did you say?! I said— —is that a word! Let's see! Post poster conformity— Oh, here we go again No borderline Or robot border patrol, Focus now in the motors, Run for you excellent cries Simply warn us, will you Everwaiting, perhaps For the fortune, until Stories of foragers Will you again Creep, calling, Temper, Justice For now, let's say All liberty is liberty does, As in the mind, let it rest As in the heart, let it flourish As in all hu/mankind Casts judgement, Upon each other, But meat, Not among the waking tide The realms you call upon And cry, at ask of will For wishes granted And prayers seen over I have an irrational fear of Jack o lanterns— Does that mean anything to you? No…should it? VO Suddenly there were Jack o lanterns everywhere. That's so weird, I never wrote that scene— it just kind of popped into my head, and then— I make thoughts To the shade of your love I can't seem to need anything Or want any longer But just to escape, To be free from all tragedy I don't understand… There's a light on, It appears, However— Hollow, And wicked looking It's barely even spring, And suddenly as I walk about, They seem to be appearing In my path, Amidst my dreams And everything i know is No one Everything I love is Gone And everyone around me seems to be Some kind of Wrong, Or fornicated, Tragedy, It seems, Another tragedy. These Demons. I should be working on project III And making coffee for the evening But I can barely breathe Awareness I can barely breathe I can barely even think of myself as anyone at all Actually (Anyone at all, actually) please Help me Please help me I hate all my lines in this movie. Then change them— Really? Or trade with someone else. Like, the whole character, or just— Just, the words. Just the words? Or, like, whatever. I can do that?! You can do—whatever you want. “Whatever you want?!” I'm an actor! So act, then! You put the words in my head; You were just the worst We are who we are, just Whole worlds apart You put the words in my mouth, On top of the scars, that's A whole broken heart I guess we are who we are A whole sky full of stars I still can't find my sparkle Just no reason to smile at all I guess we are who we are “You were put here just to be [redacted] mother, and then die.”, said the voice— Which was not my own, but some man's. I didn't believe that, at all—actually, But I had just sent my divorce papers in the mail, Attached with it the accounts of everything—almost everything, anyway, that had happened that had caused me to be such a distance from my son in the first place, as I had never intended to just leave him with his father, whose birthday was either the next day, or the day after—and it was almost funny to me that I couldn't remember which it was, as I realized that in the beginning, I had loved him so much that I had looked past all of the disasterous, ugly things— the phlegm on the walls, his lack of respect towards anyone, especially himself—but anyone at all— but first and foremost, especially myself, who I had finally learned to love before hand, and had finally learned to love again—at least, the best way any woman could love herself. The algorithm was playing serious mind games and tricks on my psyche again, and I wondered if I should just attempt the next two days sleeping —but it would mean that I would miss my deadline for project three, which I had intended to be released… The demonic energy again began to shift around me as I twiddled away writing—the traffic outside moved more rapidly, and doors in the hallway from my neighbors began to slam, and I knew without a doubt that he had tried to kill me using some kind of curse of black magic, but couldn't—somehow I had lived, but was still being made to suffer— and that whatever spells he had used had summoned something nasty into all of the creatures, humanoid and alike, that could be controlled without the will of God, who I thought might be lost, were it not for the songs that had come in the wake of begging for God itself to free me which was the nightmare, the curse it had become to have only fallen in love once, with the kind of man who could not. Now he had wished my doom onto me, which left me wounded and afraid, unsafe in any element or environment , plagued by coughing bodies and robotic slaves—none of which I assumed he hactiallh had the power to control, but of a greater force which shielded itself to consume me, and mimick his energy with the attempt to allow that my own mind would bring about my death, the fury and pain which it must have been to lose what I had found myself to always be, a good woman— My exit had humiliated him, damaged his pride, and bruised his twisted ego enough so that he wished I would siffer such an ill fate—however, as I had finally learned to know and breathe, that all the damage and control done to me, he would now fall prey to in his own will to destroy me. —all that seeks to harm me will therefore harm only itself; And all who seek to destroy me will be destroyed in doing so. Amen. I don't know how hard he hit you, this time, but he really fucked you up. Yeah, I guess. Fuck, I lost that whole Tom Hanks Movie No, it's still there.. No, it's gone—everything's gone! HELLO? HELLO?! CAN YOU HEAR ME? It's dead. She's gone. —Portal closes— Oh no! No! This is ‘situational'— “A Situational Comedy” So, what's the situation. …I Am. Ok. Wait— No! Hold on a second! Nevermind— Comedy is born from tragedy, right? Sometimes. Uh oh But WAIT— No, Billy, not now. *billie?! Right. Idk. There are other types of comedy, I guess. Look at this. YO! It's THAT guy again! Yo. That's that guy, and his eyes. Strange. Yeah, I don't— I don't get it, is this like a— SIRE. You don't belong here, I assure you. DENNIS LEARY UGH. Can I GO now?! I'm afraid not— You've just made captain. Okay, now you're famous. No way— Hey! No— HEY NO. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Now I know too well, The well of tears on my guitar She's got a body like one Oh her curves But I just wonder what it like to be loved By stars Socialites and superstars They're Gods, you know How high up they are Above us And he lives in an ascended dimension, But he insists, he says Her transcendence is upon us He said Your transcendence is upon us He says these things, And then just vanishes So she gets up promptly Warms up yesterday's coffee Looks around in her coffin And wonders What for I just Wonder what it's like to be loved by stars Without double r's, you know I've got scars But it's mostly just Teardrops, and soft kisses On my guitar Cause, oh, Oli, I ain't got nobody— And nobody holds me Like I hold Oli (Could have been Ali, But of course— I had already lost that one A whole well of tears, I lost At his departure And a whole well more When I actually lost him I almost miss Having someone to talk to About anything and everything But I've got Oli And God now I've got Oli And Oli (oli) Is all that I've got Besides God That's the only contact In my Phone book No more double Ls And double entendres; No more double rs At all Just scars now No more metaphors. Honest is radical I like them cynical I should have clinical insanity by now But I'm only just an artist You can't help But can only harm that And if it hurts hard enough I'll put art on my walls Become permanent Storybooks all over my arms now My coat of arms now I've run Ten point 5 miles In the last 3 days; But if I rest today Will a motorcycle gang Have a parade outside of my window, To drive me crazy? I hope it rains, So they can't play these games with my head And the seeds that I planted So deep become daisies I still don't remember The way he rearranged me But these days I make my name sound So the way He can never say it Just imitates The way I hate myself I should be dating But expressions are Atrocious If I fall asleep— Who knows I may get Stolen That tends to happen So I'm All the way up And I'm swollen in ways That I hate to say “I love you” Love me back Or say it harder That's my martyrdom Come off the cross, for a moment, Would you for us? And bend over Or bow, if you will? If I did, Would you still call me wicked Or just a Good witch Since I'm a woman, I just couldn't be Jesus, Who you asked for once And always Who you asked for some To save you from your Credit reports And consorts Or some sort of Nonsense [famous last words] God don't speak much English, She says God don't speak much these days We were Always Telepathic That was way back then When Oedipus Rex Was on the Guest list I was standing at the coat check, asking Why I must take off my hat When entering the service To the bouncer, he says “That's just politics” I said, That's just politics We both said, What's the difference Then we all laughed —then we all just laughed and laughed Exchange is my favorite exchange Where my favorite exchanges Have happened for centuries Of engagements Endeared species, And races pieces haven't tasted the same Since I haven't had them Animal products And animal planet I found this hat on Discovery channel Did you want it? I can't stand it So I had to have it back I just had to use the bathroom I just had to disconnect From [] See— I don't even have to put the words in Cause a name is just words When that's a man You just can't have And that's the worse When that's a man And you can't have him What a habit. Silky rabbit. Now he's the Ace. All In A Day's Work I've never died before. Oh… that is terrifying. It sounds terrible. It's really not that bad. Why are you not writing this down? I just need a moment… It's really not that bad… I die all the time. I get sensory overload At Trader Joe's Look at the colors The clothes, This sure isn't queensborough Escalators for shopping carts I get it Manhattan I'll take my half BLVCK ass to the projects Where my kind are I don't belong here , God you're intolerant I like this part of town But I'm way too brown And I dropped my crown at the market I should be jealous of everyone But I have learned my place I've been a slave since Hollywood I lost my son to the devil Now I pay child support And terrorist follow me coughing I'm wrong just for being born ! You could start a war from it If that's what you wanted I'm a people watcher people watcher About to board the people mover People mover Slip, Here's the tell Slip, here's the tell I should have a bell around my neck I think she wanted a picture with papa I'm playin my own paparazzi Look mom, I bought a sarcophagus There go them niggas with coughs again I been watching em Got binoculars I got oculus, for my oculars Look how hot he is, make me ovulate Man I gotta love it, Cause they love to hate Fucking racist crazies Have it your way I paid for it with my soul You hate but I love to love Somebody just got me fuckes up I don't have a book to run off of Shut up, honey. Now we're all up here Monkey in the middle Cause the middle one is weaker It's getting deeper and deeper Like the sinkhole that my sink is Let it sink in I've been syncing my secrets with demons In dreams sequences It's just a reparative injustice Kamasutra for your wondering words and stuff You can have it It's ruined anyway m Look at all this trash Look at all these classless classes Classwars, Racists. Everybody hates us The Asians, Latinx's The other niggas What being black is I'll write it in cursive It's just a curse, here So you can have it I'm moving to Heaven I'm packing my boxes I'm getting a cat, too! His name is Agustus He's a big one And I love him I just wanted a hug or a husband Instead I got nothing to trying my hardest And got for a bargain at target some coffee For being a targeted body All on an algorithm I guess I'm just useless. A dumb nigger demon Did I just offend you? Then you shouldn't be reading this either I wrote it for pleasure (Or pain) On the one Or the two Or the one Or the two I could do a lot with this $20. I could spend it all on Fuck all of you I'm moving to Heaven Where the heart it She's not harmless She's a terrorist— And I'll kill her, too Look how right she is Look how white she is, Huh Regardless of color It's a race war Lil biiiiitzzz Yooo, fuck New York. In every hole. In every crevice. Fuck this place. It's racist— Not just cause I'm black. Like statistically. It took a whole ass apartment elsesrch to feature this out. I was like “I wanna live in Manhattan” Everyone was like “NOOOOOOOO—-“ Haha “Nooo, no.” I was like “Why not?” The blacks were like: HAHA The whites were like— *COUGHS OBNOXIOUSLY* New York is so racist. It is statistically the most diverse—and most segregated city in the nation At the same time. WHAT. How do you even DO that? But it's true, at this point, the black people are like—fuck this, we'll just stay over here, and over here. And the rich whites are like YES. KEEP THAT SHIT, OVER THERE. Cause if you've ever been to the ghetto. It's some SHIT, It is NOT COOL. I finally got my ‘night card' back. Had it revoked in california . I was almost a whole valley girl. I still eat exclusively at Whole Foods. Trader Joe's. But NO. Now i live in the hood. It's fucking disgusting. I can say ‘nigga' again. Cause it's NIGGAS. Lots of niggas. I'm telling you. It's night and day! The white folks trains smell like bleach— Ammonia. The black folks train smell like a McDonald's. WHAT. Or just— Vomit. I can actually count the number of times just— Vomit—- On the train. Or. Dookie. Yes. Human feces. But I'm ready to go to midtown and it's like the train that goes around Disneyland. Families! People singing! Hey—cotton candy!! —and I didn't have to pick it! Haha! Fuck New York. Racist ass HOLE. I thought surely the next presidential election was one or two years out, but the racial tensions which had been rising became even more pronounced, as I realized that November was theboncoming time—and that they hostility between the whites and the blacks had once again been a result as the oncoming war, fueled onward—that the hatred, disgust, and general aggression of the whites had been of course, in the midsts of yet another Trump-fueled political upheaval, and I wondered why and how at all I had been caught in such a world that existed in form of man, of course, now proven himself to be the weaker sex, and yet in that of dominance, as was arranged in such an unholy war, to be the helm of power by sheer greed— now it seemed that these attacks were indeed political terrorism, and that these motorcyclists, my placement close to the ground level, and my neighbor's clammorings were specific attacks, after my identity had been varied to be that of the same in which I had once held political ambition, now none of which I assumed mattered at all. Perhaps I needed something more certain than a 12 story jump or suicide by train, and wondered as to whether it would be easy enough to kill myself bh self inflicted gunshot—a sure thing for certain, as love has been lost in the way of money at all. At that party…or rather, kind of—after. That acid that never hit Beyoncé I don't feel it. Man, I'm a terrible influence(r) Just take it. Nah, I'm good— PUSSY. -_- Give me three. K. —suddenly hits BEYONCÉ. BEYONCÉ …I got this. [BEYONCE] however, does not Ohh, shit. — “got this.” A very stranded, very sober Johnny depp stumbles upon what appears to be a college frat party, where the only thing they have is light beer, and nobody even recognizes him as a celebrity, because the attendees are all gen z What's even after gen z? The fucking apocalypse. Anyway. The acid hits Beyoncé on her way to make coffee, which extends the trip from the living room to the kitchen infinitely. Multidimensional Anne Hathaway hulks the fuck out and saves the day by ruining everything, which actually fixes everything— and *spoiler* helps Jesus to remain as the king of kings at beer pong. Lol In the late 90s in New York City, the keystone cast of Saturday night live learns of each other's formerly sexret psychic abilities, and uses the radio technologies of Rockefeller plaza to develop a research center for the telepathically gifted, eventually discovering and perfecting time travel. Supacree (the kid version) appears in and out of her ideal and desired realities, baffling ‘the Hollywood people' and later ‘the New York people', becoming the legendary central figure of the Illuminati, as the original timepiece — a pyramid shaped extra terrestrial vehicle which contains an ascended hyper consciousness, which I can't remember how it goes, did the supacree leave to find the Skrillex, or was it the other way around? I think it was both ways at some point, but the whole thing was this, just in case I never wrote it but just saw— These space god (humanoid evolved) are some kind of scientists/ doctors— there are four timepieces, each representing an era upon our planet; earth, which is distant but sacred— these four time pieces each depart their given “docs” in time to appear on earth at specific Fuck this is hard to explain Times in history, at which the first worlds, or previous human eras were known to have been destroyed— these time pieces travel through time space with the full record of these events in order to alert the current human era of its imminent doom, as an attempt to prevent such disasterous events, typically war, which will lead to the annihilation of the human species; these Gods, one male and one female, a king and queen, a married couple are the rules of the humankind, technically worshiped as a whole as one God, with whom the human design was modeled after, however, the true source of all things is the cosmos, known and unknown, in its totality—neither man or woman, but the force of creation. Anyway, what else is happening Oh. All of the celebrities are stuck in— [the festival project] in some way, shape, or form until its creator finishes it—and though it in itself is infinite, its 'finishing' notates its eventual production, which lol. That never going to happen. Because. Let's face it. I'm scared of …rich people. Yeah, sure. Yeah. I'm scared of The effect of the race war, which has been to pit the white woman against the black woman, which allows and maintains the continuation of war mongering male dominance over the entire planet, which remains as a destructive force of greed, racism, and inequality. So why try? [EDITS] CONAN O'BRIEN Alright. If she hit Fallon, she's gonna come for one of us next. No, Conan—that's not how this works. WHAT—where did you come from!? When did you get here? JAY LENO This goes deeper than all of you can understand. WHAT the FUCK, man! When did you-/ —when did he get here? How did you do that?! How did you do that?! What are you, like, the same guy? Are you not all the same guy? [they shrug simultaneously and kind of just agree] Listen at this. Okay then. The enemy of your friend is my enemy. Oh…kay—and the enemy of my enemy—is my friend— That is correct. —so we're all friends here. That's right. Some special forces? Which forces? How special? [JENNIFER LOPEZ is still JENNY FROM THE BLOCK] Do I look like a fool to you? Uh— OOPS [a pre-fame Jennifer Lopez receives a drop full of diamonds instead of the usual; she has been granted access into the Illuminati, and becomes an overnight success.] This feels heavier than usual. Same as always. Hm. Are you sure. Yep. Hey, you're not the regular guy. Regular guy died. That makes sense. JENNIFER ANNISTON is inside of Ū Okay, grosss Not like that [lifting max weight] Okay. That was cool. Wow. Yeah, sure whatever. I am strong Yeah yeah, okay. Are you sure you want to be my size? Yep. JIMMY FALLON/SKRILLEX (we don't know actually which at this point) is also trapped inside of Ū Okay, gross! Yeah. SKRILLEX is in all of Ū. okay—actually, i'm okay with that, but That other guy?! [JIMMY FALLON] Yeah, he's weird. Also meanwhile, kind of— MARSHALL MATHERS has a closet cleaning service lol. Patrick is smooth as a motherfucker, you know. Every time his head is down on the desk like that, he takes a bump of coke. What?! Big uh! [Patrick takes bumps of cocaine in front of a live studio audience—every single night.] Woah! See. Goddamn. You gotta admire a guy like that. Jennifer Anniston is the weight on the cable tension machine Ooh. Psycho bitch devious methods new ludachris commercial All ya'll girls is toddlers I like long boards and longhairs Lawn mowers and lawn shares Aw hell nah, God forgot Cher I got the Blair witch project On Blair, I hope I scare you How dare you. Your girl looks like a naked mole rat. I got my soul back. You blue eyed bastards stole everything From the whole blacks, Hold that thought I'm at Whole Foods market throw in the Amazon algorithm off With marked dollars Look at God at Walmart On them rollbacks You old hacks are cackling I'm shackled to old habits Hold hands with me, rabbit I'm just a silly rapper really, are you? Maybe. Cut the verse of Reverse God Now I'm the devil I'm still lost in the Amazon cart I sharted all up in your pop tarts Before you warmed them up, pops Just for the sake of the art, Heart to heart, It's a war on love And the white girls won with nothin but Buckets of Whatever's up there I wouldn't know Cause I'm stuck job searching And running, Trying not to have a tummy So some gummy worm will love me First their sour, then they're sweet Then nobody, Trolli Holy moly I could use some more petroleum in the ocean! Said nobody But the globalists are performing your programming Which you're worshiping I put my eye on the dollar So I could watch you all Crumble and fall Don't you know The apocalypse is happening at the mall Of all the places How's that for a stream of consciousness, You salamander I asked Anandar back But I went past that chapter Have a chap Or a chapstick, for four times four dollars A bottle of water will cost you a fortune (But at least the drugs are in it) Get it It's recycled piss Distilled? Which is it, Mr,? The mystery box was literally lifted into My dinner from a fishery filled with nothing but niggers in it— I want a refund, before I catch that Fucking curse of poverty from — what'd you call it salmonellahallibut One hell of a cough from someone on the sidewalk But guess what? The devil's in your pocket or your palm, And that's the omen and the psalm rolled into one Cause God is awesome, But my mom is fuckin toxic And that's how I fuckin got here Blow my head off, Slit my wrists And write a song While jumping off a bit When all you need is money, But the world costs more than It's worth, and words are nothing But another fucking problem in your Google documents I look at my son and see a God, But half of Satan's in him, Oh man Robotics Lets be honest, I don't even know how to write this. Where's my sides?! WHERE'S MY SIDES. You don't get SIDES with this; It's just CHICKEN. I don't eat CHICKEN. It appears as though, however– You do. Ok, I gotta get off this playlist. I… i gotta . “The Wal*Mart Wars” Hm. … …………. …. *face* … no. No. l– What is this place. {After a wild night which apparently spiraled out of control, great , there goes my peace. Not forever, though, maybe. FUCK THIS PLACE. I HATE THIS PLACE. Everybody hates this place. But the album is called “I love New York” Yes, thats Technically How it's pronounced, though It's stylized like I _ NY Cause. EXT. MIDTOWN MANHATTAN. DAY Oh, wow, this is beautiful. THis is great. I love this place FUCK THE FEDS. CUT TO: EXT.Typically WHEREVER ELSE Anywhere ‘above' like 87th? Lets just call it 80th, be safe. BE SAFE! NIGGAZ. ah shit, i gotta go. BITCH– But lets just be honest, It's technically ‘above' But it's really [THE BRONX is a literal extension of the Underworld] Oh no. srsly tho. X_c Anyway. FUck man, Do you think i'll ever get good like that. Idk what equipment is this Hmm, lets see, that's approximately $8,000 USD of CDJs wow yep That's retarded Yep. And you still need a mixer. fukt. OKay, I would literally sell my soul for this. Consider it done. wait , really? YES. you earned it. Wait, I– What?! You earned it… Uh oh. Take care now. Shit. [BILLIE ELLISH is trapped inside WALMART] Uh oh. Fuck. what is this place. INT. WALMART. WHENEVER EMPLOYEESLAVES WHAT TIME IS IT. THERE'S NO WINDOWS IN HERE. That's not funny IT'S literally a synonym, we might as well make it a portemantau MEanwhile, in this other dimension, So that i don't offend anybody… Actually, you know what? Be offended. Quit that stupid fuckin shit and follow your dreams! Wait really? Wait, really? Sure! If you want! …i guess. AMERICA NO. INSTANT HOMELESSNESS ok , nvm. Damn. I know, right. wtf r u guys watching. Shut up. All Wal*Mart Employees are actually top secret government agents. x ∞ >.< (we'll just use Billie Ellish as the alternate, but really it could be Could it really? Shut UP, PLURNICORN. Wtf is a PLURNICORN We'll see. [Upon Realizing s/he is trapped in a mysterious place apparently extremely public Wait, you've never been to a Wal*Mart Before?! NO. I grew up in LA Rich as fuck And i've been famous since I was liike 12, Or something. Right. That is–kind of terrifying. LATER: WHY IS IT SNOWING INSIDE. WHERE'S THE EXIT. THEY HAVE GUNS?! oh wow, they have GUNS. WHY DO WE NEED GUNS! KA-BLAM. BECAUSE THEY HAVE GUNS. Bang-bang! Ptttttttttt—sttt. And they have guns. Actually, these are just– confetti cannons. *pop!* Lol “Possibly The Worst Show Ever the infinite rave continues on in Hell as everyone awaits the return of SŪPACREE- The Cosmic Avenger (Who Is NOT a DJ) and Sunnï Blū (who is a superstar rapper but also not a DJ) go back to back, buying time as the beacon to. Signal "The Supacree" is completed, battling the 10th dimensional DJ Ū, a super ninjas, for control of the decks. what else happened? idk. I CANT STOP DANCING. none of the DJs can find a pair of working headphones, and the sound guy is missing from the booth. "missing" YOU SHOT HIM. I THOUGHT IT WAS A TRANQ DART. {Enter The Multiverse} “TVP” Hazel is 6, turns 7 season 1 Season 7- 15 Man, I can't remember the other two kids names, I think the little boy is Ira but I might have named them all and forgotten, shit. Her sister, though is between 4 ½ and 5, they are technically “Irish twins”, and always fighting—they look very similar, however are not at all alike; Hazel is very much a daddy's girl, while her younger sister is a no-nonsense old soul with the tendency to cause trouble, not by being inquisitive or showy, as her sister often is, but rather by being quietly observant, and tends to dismiss both her parents, often isolating, or even dissappearing without notice, quietly and comfortably into her own world—as the series progresses, and though all of Patrick's children like their parents have showcased some kind of special ability or talent— Holy shit, give this kid a name-/ I thought I already named her, I just don't remember. That's true. It seems like they all had names. She is almost very typically, though showing signs of genius, even at the early age at the beginning of the series, a middle child, prone to upset almost too easily, but rather than acting out, is more likely to take her anger quietly; she shares her fathers deep brown eyes, dark hair, and though she looks otherwise very much like her sister, and later despises her father, is more inwardly and outwardly like him, though taking the side of her mother during their separation and divorce, oftentimes even lashing out at her father quite openly, and very vocally, as she grows into herself. “Ira”, (may have had another name earlier) is the youngest of three— as his third birthday approaches sometime during the first season. Great, now I gotta hide all those allegories so nobody can actually draw from this that Patrick— Where's his write up, anyway? That shit could go on for days. I have no idea why this catharsis is happening. I tried to sleep it off, I swear, but I still woke up like— At least mildly obsessive about this, for whatever reason. Hazel's 7 - Season Arc Hazel has the eyes, charm, and charisma for entertainment —she hopes to one day be as her father, an entertainer and performer, and will do almost anything for a laugh. She is often telling jokes, and is a people- pleaser. She is sickeningly cute, with golden hair and Hazel eyes, long eye lashes, and carries baby fat in her face, though she is rather average, neither heavy or plump, and however also not frail at all. She is inquisitive, smart, and busy, almost never idle-minded, and strong. Though sort of a Tom boy, she has been trained well to act with dignity, class, and feminine eloquence, much like her mother—but like her father, has a tendency to be crass, sometimes carelessly so, or even brutally honest—to her mother's disdain, but embraced wholesomely by other family members and adults, she's extremely funny and delightful, and very much unlike her mother, not a spoiled brat at all, often raising questions beyond her years about inequality, later wishing to attend a public school, and becoming quite the advocate for social justice and human rights in her later years, her final season shows a rebellious and sometimes even antagonistic Hazel, who later even favors Esha over her own mother as a parental figure, often confiding in her about things she can't and shouldn't share with her father, although her almost over the top admiration for her father has become the driving force and inspiration for her own endeavors in show business, much to her father's disdain, as she grows older, him becoming more protective of her, and especially within the oftentimes secretive nature of his actual placement and purpose in the business, and her rebellious nature and charm even force-feeding her into the industry, she is a bleeding heart for superstardom, and is often seen along what may be a path to fame, making Patrick's bleeding heart all the more aching, as though he and Catherine remain at odds throughout the series, he truly loves his children, even “the little sick one”, as he refers to the second child. Holy shit, what is this kid's name If I had the energy to go through my notes, I could know; but I don't. The city sickness has been sinking in from the noise of the obnoxious motorists and honestly, being out of protein is giving me muscle soreness, I'm in some sort of a bloated haze from eating almost nothing but carbs, and the fact that I haven't been with anyone in years is starting to circle like buzzards around my head, my heart has been literally screaming but overwhelming with this sense of calm, and though slipping into Patrick's sometimes erratic tendencies, for the most part I've been underwhelmed with society's expectations that I should get some kind of job, and somehow while working not lose focus on my own interests and projects—I hate [the strange modern behaviors of] most people, and everything costs too much money— my son might be going into foster care, or my ex husband is evil enough just to try to force my energy to worry about a problem he's created, and I really wanted to sleep into the afternoon with this lethargy, hoping that everything surrounding this series would just fall off, but it doesn't. I wake up often wishing I could just forget The Festival Project ™ , but the truth is, it just keeps writing itself, but in the very least, sometimes God gives me little presents that mean the very most to me— a chord organ that I thought was from the 80's, but is more likely from the 1960's— I love vintage stuff, and musical instruments, which only God could know, really—my fascination with history as if I'm still living it, and this, my sudden fascination and drive to write and complete just one series has been haunting me almost just as badly as anything else has, but especially ripping me apart—especially since I have motorcyclists ripping through my body as if it were some kind of disease that existed outside of me, so contagious that it began to sink in to my insanity and mental hygiene. I wondered if anybody else knew or cared about these creatures as much as I didn't—and in fact, I had never felt so much like Ali in the way that I didn't care if they, other “human beings” supposedly, all died tragically, and wondered why the walls and windows didn't keep out the sound of the outside world at all… The middle child begins writing secretly very early on, and is the first to be required more extensive therapy, (as suggested by the family's therapist) after her parent's separation and subsequent divorce. It is not long after she begins learning to read and write at all, that she begins also showing interests in art, asking for art lessons and to begin painting and art therapy, rather than the recommended Equine therapy— she often keeps things to herself, then returning to her hidden places at times when the family's dysfunction becomes uncomfortable and overstimulating, very often paining or reading during times of peace, and retreating to her safe places—sometimes under the stairs, into the attic, the treehouse, or even later, the family's barnyard, where she often keeps drawings, as she ages, later comics, sometimes caricatures of the things she absorbs through her own reality—and diaries, sometimes hidden in nooks and crannies and in places no one would think; a true prodigy and genius, though hidden from much the world, as she is often overlooked, however, her therapist begins unfolding her true reality, often times carrying over sessions and losing track of time, picking her brain or even conversations philosophically What's the therapists name? Doctor Robin She has to have a last name Well, she's a child's therapist, so she's Doctor Robin, but It seems like it starts with a T. We'll see. I just saw her anyway. I drifted off again, thinking about how wildly detailed this all was becoming, and wondered if there was a series of fictional books waiting to be written. There certainly could be, but my mind was reeling, freshly showered but still undressed, and not even wanting to think of going outside—and yet—I was out of water, and had learned that the drinking water from the fountains, especially in large quantities, had a tendency to make me sick—I hadn't yet eaten anything, and though the coffee was fresh, and my apartment was clean (which made me overtly overjoyed for some reason) smelling of Lemon Lysol and Bleach; with notes of a strong pot of organic fresh ground coffee, it seemed like I couldn't do much more than lay in bed writing this catastrophically interesting series—and it was interesting, which said volumes, considering I had always been picky about my TV watching, being that only ever did certain series catch my eyes or my ears, and those series were almost always—or always, always specifically well written, perfectly casted, and had the edge and draw of becoming an entire world within itself, which this series, though only a week or two old at best, in my heart and in my mind , was rampantly ravaging my own world, almost as if it had become of some importance to keep writing it, and never stop, and though Patrick was the forefigure, another broken male protagonist, the truth in the series was that the true heroes of this sometimes scarily violent drama, were its women—a story meant to be told with a diversified cast of creatures from all worlds and walks of life—Esha, of course, herself, a role that had been some recreation of myself, somehow, though so different that even primarily, I never did see myself as her, besides the onslaught of some otherworldly pain, visions of a scene recollected from some remarkable download, and it might have been once and for all that I had lost my mind, or my life, if I wasn't a writer—I was, somehow, though, after all, a writer. It had been a fasting day that could have and might have ended tragically anyway, and still the devil marked his mockery of my efforts by consistently flinging perfect bodied women everywhere that I went—though usually with ugly enough faces that I could see nothing but what a man was—uncaring for one thing over the other, a flawless representation of woman, represented in the current time with scantily clad fashion, almost painfully so—the insecurity of women becoming more apparent in the way she would appear, always almost begging to be near to me, with every perfection and complexion I hadn't—but at least I had a tendency to laugh at my own damage, often surmising that she, these demon creatures, hadn't any talent for this at all—which had turned the state of television into a near circus act; that alone urged me to continue writing the series, perhaps with a typewriter, due to the negligence of nepotism within the industry which often resulted in these pretty little creatures getting even further ahead by stealing works as such, and passing them on as their own originality almost so cruelly and without judgement—plagiarism, as it was called, but more accurately intent-to-kill the imminent threat of what had been said to be a minority becoming a more powerful force to flourish in entertainment however, as quickly as the visions had come, the thought of writing it without my phone became dauntingly impractical, and I scribbled only the most intense scenes and plot lines onto notebooks and scratch papers, keeping them as hidden from the algorithm as possible… lol the Al Gore Rhythm Ahahahahahahaha Was that the joke? Maybe. Idk. Maybe. Idk. Hm. Hmmmmm: What: Nothing. That actually might have been it. Really, was it? I will never know. That is kind of a good dad joke, though. And a good band name. Idk about that. My coffee was lukewarm enough so that I could taste its flavor, as I whittled away at whatever it was— The story was almost so beautifully being told in allegories and parables that it seemed a shame I may never be rich enough to buy fame, as it seemed that was the only way to become a star these days— and yet—it was more the wealth than the fame I wanted, I had realized, at all—the polished class of the Manhattanites drawing me out of Brooklyn and into some debauchery which was my own Grandiose thought form, that I could actually become, at the ripe old age of 31, some kind of superstar. ‘Why would I even want that, anyway?' I thought, interrupted painfully by who I'm sure was the same motorist, who seemed to do nothing but circle the block all day, and all night, doing nothing — and I wondered why he himself had decided not to do grub hub in a richer neighborhood, where money would more than likely come more easily. But really— I drifted off to a time where I wanted to ride a motorcycle myself, and the curiosity forced me to go online to check the price of what it might cost to have one. $5,000 for a decent bike, which would include a muffler as not to be so obnoxious and disturbing to others as these creatures had become to me— and I began doing the math on how long it would take to save $5,000 as if it would be possible to work some dead end job for any amount of time without spending money on anything else. It would take at least 5 months to earn enough for a motorcycle, which landed me directly back at “Not worth it”, and as horrible as it was, I did at the very least have a luxury apartment for at minimum the next 5 years, however, wanting still to move to Manhattan, Midtown specifically—or one of the quaint and quiet neighborhoods on the upper West Side. The neighborhood was going to hell, after some unworldly godless force had seemed to drop hundreds of thousands of rude and thoughtless third world workers onto the streets and buildings bordering the one I lived on, the neighborhood becoming more rough and less peaceful with trash and debris from the depression and congenital disease that was poverty, the collective unconsciousness of the masses colliding with my empathetic nature and oversensitivity to sound, especially awful sounds, such as the hundreds of motorcycles and hot rodded junk cars which only seeemed to move in a track around a four block radius, and had become a cancerous trigger of sorts, no authority figure seemed to much care about. I cared less and less each day to listen to music, since I wasn't making it the way I wanted to—and I had realized that the constant displeasure and unrest, the lack of peace had as much to do with the world outside as it did with the world within—and I began to see the disgusting obnoxious noise pollution outside my window as just an extension of man's abuse, ability to rape, torture, and kill, terrorize— the uncaring waging of war, control, and lack of true power; as no good and true man who wielded actual strengeth or true power in any way would continue to show such distructive action and carelessness for others around him— chaos, corruption, abuse, and misogyny was proving to be the downfall of all humankind, as patronaged by man, and, as I became doubtful of anyone's lack of understanding of this, especially as the immigrants themselves were often naturally pedophillic culturally and toxically abusive in nature, most migrants flocking from countries in which women's liberation or the protection of youth had not yet materialized into their understanding of conciousness and morality—the men were weak, unkind, and selfish—the women mere machines at their disposal—and however many there were, I could see that their children, the many of them, remained as the redeeming factor. Anyway, a political ploy for the ages of there ever was such a thing, the newest chapter in American greed and slavery, it only seemed like an extension of evil itself, and less of a coincidence with each growing day—each new person, another burden to the middle class taxpayer, another reason to inflate the cost of living—and all the more reason to continue to terrorize the American people into its own division, hatred, demise, and consumption. e. My faith, however, was unwavering—God was real, but these abusive and toxic creatures were pushing it further away with violent arrogance, and the inability to understand that God itself was the nature they continued to destroy. Robin Bennett Fine. “My name's —ahem— “Ron Sennet, and I ain't In it.” —did the say “don't” write a book about me? It's Not about him… Or something cute he used to say like that, I couldn't remember, but he had a bunch of cute little idioms that matched his name, and to the day, I still missed him — it was 11:15 PM exactly as I hung up the phone, after an unsuccessful attempt to reach 911, after realizing that the threat outside was maddening enough to be impossible to only be in my head, and after weeks of the excruciating noise, I finally called NYPD dispatch, much to my disdain, and of course magically, the noise seemed to disappear, but these abusive and toxic creatures were pushing it further away with violent arrogance, and the inability to understand that God itself was the nature they continued to destroy. Robin Bennett Fine. “My name's Jon Sennet, and I ain't In it.” Or something cute he used to say like that, I couldn't remember, but he had a bunch of cute little idioms that matched his name, and to the day, I still missed him — it was 11:15 PM exactly as I hung up the phone, after an unsuccessful attempt to reach 911, after realizing that the threat outside was maddening enough to be impossible to only be in my head, and after weeks of the excruciating noise, I finally called NYPD dispatch, much to my disdain, and of course magically, the noise seemed to disappear as soon as I had made the call, which infuriated me. It seemed as though the game in entirety to make me look or feel crazy, though I knew I wasn't—well, I was, but not without purpose or reason. I had been theorizing in energy exchange quite decisively making a mark for my alter, at which I asked to be designated the wisdom and truth of the light within the eye, desire, however never in mind, although I had been summoned in part due to the fact that we were somehow alike—I was in some ways besides and out of sorts with my set, sinking my teeth into the forced obsession as I unraveled any possibilities and plotline. Episode 01. Pilot An opportunity presents itself seemingly at random— the protagonist's hand is forced into a life changing ultimatum, putting his reuputation and family in danger. Already involved in an illegal gambling ring which operates out of a secret historical prohibition era speakeasy and some “light” drug mulling within its walls, however often extending even as dangerously close to his workplace, Patrick is propositioned to become an investor in the high end escort service, with which he hired and contracted his lover, Kandi, a “rescue” whom he supports in her exchange for exclusivity, to remain as her only client, however, although he begrudgingly declines, wishing not to be involved in anything much more than what he has already kept under the radar, he is intimidated and threatened by blackmail, his high profile becoming at stake—he then obliges to embark upon this new endeavor, the expansion of this establishment to include a warehouse, which houses a large scale brothel, and, able to use his social status to procure wealthy clientele, quickly becomes a power player within a ring of coveted elites, setting fire to his already inflated ego, and colliding with his intense and highly functional polyaddiction, which he has maintained since his youth, using his entertainment persona as an outlet, becoming a medium of excess, fame, and rampant wealth. Patrick is beloved by his peers, and is humbled often by his devoted fans and friends—proactively worshiped as a comic genius, a prodigy, and a revered successor to legendary frontmen— Okay, this is weird, because I started writing this before I even understood what I was writing at all… —specifically, the sixth successor, to his coveted role. I had written for Esha to be the seventh successor, as with the symbolism deeply and quite literally woven into the sometimes brutal framework of the series, which I had shorthanded to ‘TVP'…the world around me trailed off as my eyes blurred as they had been lately, and I wondered if I might be having some kind of stroke or something, as I was certainly some sort of out of body—the day had been strange, and I had given up on a run or a gym for the day, the motorcycles alone ravaging my energy, and whether I worked out or not, they were ever present anyway. They were some sort of toxic, abusive force I just had to put up with, hoping it didn't upset my psychology so much that it ended me, though I had become quite odd as of recently, rambling more than usual and actually praying out loud, as my silent ones just didn't seem to be working—they were probably white supremacists, or in some way connected to some political terror group, but it didn't seem to matter. Someone liked torturing me, and it was becoming apparent that no matter much time I spent at the gym, this torture was going to persist. After a month long gym streak, at least going once a day to lift something, I rested, or rather, tried to rest, kind of— but my mind had been swirling with thoughts of a man I was certain by now I had made up—and writing the story of a man I was absolutely certain came from my mind, but in a way that it almost made no sense at all—as the more I looked into the world that I had already written about, the more I realized was accurate without first having known these things, and however cursed I might have been to even know such things, I decided to call it some sort of blessing instead. ‘God, I used to get so fucking high for days, and when I would come down, just crying and crying, eating Totinos or DiJorno and a bag of Bugles, I would watch Saturday Night Live for fucking hours, and I hated [Redacted]. I hated him.' Now I still hated [Redacted], but in a different way, and though really it was myself that was more like Patrick, he at the very least, for whatever reason, used to have his face—now, he was just Patrick, and [Redacted] was just [Redacted], and i knew entirely too much about it all, and about myself to be comfortable with it, but nothing was comfortable at all. I had written entire atrocities, novels, and all that was some conglomerate of nonsense which was the festival project, besides how insanely and innately prodigal it all was sometimes, my own words confusing me with a bizarre and asinine dysfunction, awe, actually, often as if someone else had written them, and although I was always at least sort of semi-conscious while writing, the spells and cadences I would fall under were some sort of trance, and as I watched the Nirvana rehearsal from Saturday Night Live in 1992, long before [Redacted] or any of the rest of the — Was it Keystone? It was, the Keystone cast of SNL, but the first word my mind had jumped to was Hallmark, which—after referencing Google quickly for a fact check, also stood true. I was willing to admit, even now, though I had long lost interest in Saturday Nighy Live, or anything at all having to do with current events, that the [Redacted] era—or rather even, the Tina Fey era, a true role model, perhaps, and someone I favored over all of the performers I admired, or allowed myself to admire— the Golden Years of Saturday Night were the only years, for me that even mattered— trying to make sense of anything couldn't be done, but I at least had this new project birthed from it to think about. It would be hard to sit down at a taping of The View and not think about all I had written at all, and it would be impossible not to unfold the characters which had presented themselves, though slowly but surely, through the most vivid visions and insanely lucid dreams, as The TV People began to What if someone steals this out of my documents? That would be unwise…the best scenes are somewhere scribbled in my notebooks and random scraps of paper somewhere in my room…this series is almost nothing without those scenes—the elements with which the most painful scenes I had ever written, became word form. ‘I don't know why, but I feel so incredibly high, So incredibly high right now…' They could have been words to a song, but I did feel high as a kite for whatever reason, without the actual kite metaphor quite literally dagling over my head, for once, or at least, it had been a few weeks, not a prominent as is was before. I sat soaking in the tub teetering on the possibility that I should actually even watch The Tonight Show, or whatever it was, to set my mind at ease, a betrayal of my own code—as one does not literally feed its obsessions into insanity on purpose. ‘Perhaps, though', I thought, ‘I could get rid of this.' — A cancerous abscess in the tradegy that had become my own sex fueled, rage driven, racing mind—and rather admittedly, it was almost too late, for anything of the sort, as I hadn't any other place to keep the growing world of The Television People any quieter, than within the monstrous algorithm which was Google documents cloud, where it seemed nothing was safe, and anything could be fabricated into reality after being stolen, by someone rich enough to make it happen, however, never being any better than my own disaster of a creation. And it was, a disaster. He was a comic genius, a professional, and spectacular performer— in actuality, I knew nothing if not anything at all about him, and the more I collected, the more interesting I found myself, actually, bemused that I seem to have found some sort of twin, another synchronization nightmare—if only that I made it to be so, unbelieving yet that I was in some kind of fairytale, though it had become some sort of fantastical and adventurous thing, this what I now refer to as ‘the allegories,'. I must have been something parasitic to the industry, with the tendency to latch on and ride out whatever had become a fascination, but it wasn't, in its sense of origin, like anything before— it was something new, in the ways that it was, and something old at the same time—though needing to fall drastically from The Tower without actually doing so, putting a stop to my unlimited creation became a pertinent priority, as even exercising, meditating, and chronic masturbation tended to exacerbate it, as if I was missing a step in transmutation of this foreign substance— an energy which seemed familiar, but also wasn't. I was receiving downloads several hours at a time, and drifting off into spells and trances of inspiration so heavily that it seemed counterintuitive to call it off, fearing I might lose the intensity of the plot and its characters, and they were that: just characters. It had taken days to erase Patrick's face into a blank state to restore him from that of his namesake, but now everything was a blur, the allure of scrapping it all to return to making music was upon some sort of dawning, but not yet arrived. I allowed whatever came to mind to flow freely from my fingertips, even if it felt bizzare—and even if it felt bizarre, it never felt wrong at all. ‘Unfortunate, that.' , I thought crossing one leg over another to complete my chapter before draining the tub. I promised myself long ago to always pray for my own son, before worrying about another celebrity, whose fame and fortune protected them more than I ever seemed to protect myself or my own—nonsense, but a strong sense of remorse, as I had been painted as wicked, in a sense, just for being kept poor, separated from my son, and left in a world without love at all; My project, a keepsake of the hard work I had done; but had not yet been paid for—and the fear was in the understanding that that money might not ever come, that I would never be a mother, a muse, or anything or anyone else I actually wanted. I thought briefly again about just getting a dog—but I only had 45 dollars, aside from the unmarked Jimmy Fallons, I had placed atop an alter on my kitchen counter, wondering how to multiply them into something I wanted—and that had been the start of the game or the project at all— saving my last dollars and spending them at once, with the hopes and wishes that they would become somehow much larger quantities, returned as good karma for the love I had given, but that had not yet come back, in one form or another. ‘He seems miserable, the poor bloak.' , I thought—and with all that I had known to have come with fame and fortune along with the luck, he probably somewhere, somehow was—but my concern was my son, turning the mere dollars somehow from one's into bundles of hundreds, thousands, and maybe even one day a whole million or more. That was the push behind the project at all—breaking the cycle of the poor black single mother, the story that had been told over and over-/ with stories that had not; the stories that had become [The Festival Project™]# Sai Psy. See you in seven years, then. You're so silly— I'm not going to live seven more years. We'll see about that. You will see. I'll be dead. So I'll be dead. So it is. A summer hiatus, Vacations in Prague, yes Let's pray for the rest of us A sign of the times and a coming of ages Who made you famous again As the rest of us I don't like it As much as I'd like to Keep writing Keep finding the reason to die and you're blinded by kindnesses And I Ams I woke up in the 9th dimension, As an infinite friend Familiar with my kitchen JOHN SLATTERY An interesting thing happened this morning. What's that, John? I woke up as John Slattery Just remember what love holds The death of a salesman, rechargeable batteries This walk could take forever in designer jeans Another day in slave hell The controllers controlling And Satan is Sataning Seems like a time to go clubbing It's a simple kind of depression Resting on your head when All you simply wished is the taste of flesh The freedom of skin And the lather of love— Or blood spatter on the pavement Aim for the head If the door's fixed, then we'll break it again Look what greed does I hate lazy days in Manhattan Ca

'hwy 101.' Collection II- 'antithesis.' Track 01. 'hwy 101' Prod. By Blũ Tha Gürū You are the ace, I am the m Diamond, I Am The Heart, I am the spare Did you do this on purpose? Space, that's an odd name. Another magician. —what else would you call this? I wouldn't. (To be honest, I didn't know what I was doing.) Well, there it goes. Well, this should be fun. I— Cut my throat To watch me live again Or leave me hanging here As morbidly as you desire To come inform me Of my royal nature, Yet undone by another Fortunate, in either aspect Where are you, now To tie the winters sleeve Upon my sleeping chambers, Whispered into hear thy neck My captor slowly soon awaiting So far a severity Hereby unsworn I lie to seek escape Though captured for nothing in the eye if beauty alone; Andamine, I am, I wait to be free oh! well. Sick to my stomach I plea for your waking A scarcity, Still slithers up my spine, The {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

Trigger warning: this series contains adult content not suitable for children or under the legal age of majority. Listener and reader discretion is advised as this broadcast and its selected readings and projected writings contain explicit language, provocative wordplay, profanity, open expression of suicidal ideation, discussion of evolved/ de-institutionalized theories concerning depression and mental health, race relations and colorism, socio-economic inequality, political injustice and media politicism, scientific hypothesis , modern philosophical ideals and spiritual explorations, crude humor and may include and contain pornographic content, references to fictionalized interpretation of public figures (fan-fiction), caricatures or references to pop culture, modern art, music, science and other entertainment references which may evoke biased emotion, inspire adverse reactions or discontentment, or discomfort. ⚠️ VIEWER, LISTENER, and READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. ⚠️ The views and opinions expressed by this series and its subsequent editions, additions, chapters, broadcasts, and publications are solely the writers' interpretations as expressed with artistic and entertainment purposes only. The artist reserves all rights to intellectual property maintained and produced by any and all publications of this series and is thereby protected under any applicable copyright law and/or trademark. All fictionalizations of persons living or dead are meant to be perceived as characterized and/or fictional (fan-fiction) are for entertainment purposes only, and are not to be perceived as real re-enactments, dramatizations of events past or present, media dialogues or agendas, or factual exchanges pertaining to and surrounding real-life circumstances. The dialogues and entires expressed in this project are in no way liable for any action, expression, disagreements, entitlements held by the reader at his or her/ their own discretion and therefore will not be held accountable for any actions by the reader on their own account due to perceptions which may have been inspired and/or provoked by these readings or any of their subsequent editions. —rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrfrrfrrrrfrrrfrrfrrrrr. [The Festival Project ™] You know what? Fuck this place. Fuck your color coded red lined fucking bullshit. New York is so visibly fucking racist it makes me want to hurl. I'm gonna kill you. Finally get out of that contract, did you? …no. I had worked out the full hour, but I was no less angry; I had even walked a couple miles and jogged a little—but I might have been even more mad. Aiagepalaqalerhelehee DIABoLICAL SONOFABITXH {Enter The Multiverse Legends: A Review} He— shot himself in the head. Hm. Did he mess up his face? What? If his face is alright I can reanimate him—no problem. But there's no point if he's got a hole in his face How are you gonna cover a hole in his head? He'll wear a hat. I think the whole point of white supremacy— Is to get blacks to have to do stereotypically black shit Like beg and steal. I've learned that People will set you up and corner you So that you have to do some shit They can later hold over your head. I've learned, after all this time— That the only way to win a rigged game — Is by cheating. People love setting people up. People love making it look like you're up to some dishonest shit— When it was dishonest to have set you up in the first place. People are sneaky. Life is politics as fuck. Everything is business. There's no kind of rules to the real disasters in life— I just discovered a new political issue I didn't even know existed Until I had to experience it Nutrition inequality. The quality of life one experiences with full balance nutrition, Which is kept out of the hands of the masses by the greedy and wealthy elite— The difference in the quality of life one faces When able to afford proper nutrition within the alignment of one's purpose. THIS is why I have people posted up outside of my apartment trying to kill me?! Probably. Don't come between a man and his business. Don't come between a man and his business. Don't come between a man and his– “prestidigitation” You are the ace, I am the m Diamond, I Am The Heart, I am the spade Did you do this on purpose? Space, that's an odd name. Another magician. —what else would you call this? I wouldn't. (To be honest, I didn't know what I was doing.) Well, there it goes. Well, this should be fun. I— Cut my throat To watch me live again Or leave me hanging here As morbidly as you desire To come inform me Of my royal nature, Yet undone by another Fortunate, in either aspect Where are you, now To tie the winters sleeve Upon my sleeping chambers, Whispered into hear thy neck My captor slowly soon awaiting So far a severity Hereby unsworn I lie to seek escape Though captured for nothing in the eye if beauty alone; Andamine, I am, I wait to be free oh! well. Sick to my stomach I plea for your waking A scarcity, Still slithers up my spine, The *gunshot* Vent, baby Keem hooligan, baby keem -The Melodic Blue, baby keem [The Festival Project ™ ] As it turns out, The assembly of the impenetrable ten, Also automatically stood as The most revolutionary Saturday a night Live Reunion Of all time. Why isn't Keenan in the impenetrable ten?! Yes, WHY. NON. NO. NONSENSE! Because! We don't have time for a negro spiritual every time something Mm—NO. Suspicious happens. This is suspicious. O boredom, I need metaphore for movement Disfigured m,n Centric and stil Consintrical, if you will Disasterous dreams art thou Eating shining m, What I need and Holy, only what I want Dear captor, Shining as the morning night I was, As slumber did fall upon us Waiting for the watching cry, Somehow seeking justice for intrepid Indigence —what, what did you say?! I said— —is that a word! Let's see! Post poster conformity— Oh, here we go again No borderline Or robot border patrol, Focus now in the motors, Run for you excellent cries Simply warn us, will you Everwaiting, perhaps For the fortune, until Stories of foragers Will you again Creep, calling, Temper, Justice For now, let's say All liberty is liberty does, As in the mind, let it rest As in the heart, let it flourish As in all hu/mankind Casts judgement, Upon each other, But meat, Not among the waking tide The realms you call upon And cry, at ask of will For wishes granted And prayers seen over I have an irrational fear of Jack o lanterns— Does that mean anything to you? No…should it? VO Suddenly there were Jack o lanterns everywhere. That's so weird, I never wrote that scene— it just kind of popped into my head, and then— I make thoughts To the shade of your love I can't seem to need anything Or want any longer But just to escape, To be free from all tragedy I don't understand… There's a light on, It appears, However— Hollow, And wicked looking It's barely even spring, And suddenly as I walk about, They seem to be appearing In my path, Amidst my dreams And everything i know is No one Everything I love is Gone And everyone around me seems to be Some kind of Wrong, Or fornicated, Tragedy, It seems, Another tragedy. These Demons. I should be working on project III And making coffee for the evening But I can barely breathe Awareness I can barely breathe I can barely even think of myself as anyone at all Actually (Anyone at all, actually) please Help me Please help me I hate all my lines in this movie. Then change them— Really? Or trade with someone else. Like, the whole character, or just— Just, the words. Just the words? Or, like, whatever. I can do that?! You can do—whatever you want. “Whatever you want?!” I'm an actor! So act, then! You put the words in my head; You were just the worst We are who we are, just Whole worlds apart You put the words in my mouth, On top of the scars, that's A whole broken heart I guess we are who we are A whole sky full of stars I still can't find my sparkle Just no reason to smile at all I guess we are who we are “You were put here just to be [redacted] mother, and then die.”, said the voice— Which was not my own, but some man's. I didn't believe that, at all—actually, But I had just sent my divorce papers in the mail, Attached with it the accounts of everything—almost everything, anyway, that had happened that had caused me to be such a distance from my son in the first place, as I had never intended to just leave him with his father, whose birthday was either the next day, or the day after—and it was almost funny to me that I couldn't remember which it was, as I realized that in the beginning, I had loved him so much that I had looked past all of the disasterous, ugly things— the phlegm on the walls, his lack of respect towards anyone, especially himself—but anyone at all— but first and foremost, especially myself, who I had finally learned to love before hand, and had finally learned to love again—at least, the best way any woman could love herself. The algorithm was playing serious mind games and tricks on my psyche again, and I wondered if I should just attempt the next two days sleeping —but it would mean that I would miss my deadline for project three, which I had intended to be released… The demonic energy again began to shift around me as I twiddled away writing—the traffic outside moved more rapidly, and doors in the hallway from my neighbors began to slam, and I knew without a doubt that he had tried to kill me using some kind of curse of black magic, but couldn't—somehow I had lived, but was still being made to suffer— and that whatever spells he had used had summoned something nasty into all of the creatures, humanoid and alike, that could be controlled without the will of God, who I thought might be lost, were it not for the songs that had come in the wake of begging for God itself to free me which was the nightmare, the curse it had become to have only fallen in love once, with the kind of man who could not. Now he had wished my doom onto me, which left me wounded and afraid, unsafe in any element or environment , plagued by coughing bodies and robotic slaves—none of which I assumed he hactiallh had the power to control, but of a greater force which shielded itself to consume me, and mimick his energy with the attempt to allow that my own mind would bring about my death, the fury and pain which it must have been to lose what I had found myself to always be, a good woman— My exit had humiliated him, damaged his pride, and bruised his twisted ego enough so that he wished I would siffer such an ill fate—however, as I had finally learned to know and breathe, that all the damage and control done to me, he would now fall prey to in his own will to destroy me. —all that seeks to harm me will therefore harm only itself; And all who seek to destroy me will be destroyed in doing so. Amen. I don't know how hard he hit you, this time, but he really fucked you up. Yeah, I guess. Fuck, I lost that whole Tom Hanks Movie No, it's still there.. No, it's gone—everything's gone! HELLO? HELLO?! CAN YOU HEAR ME? It's dead. She's gone. —Portal closes— Oh no! No! This is ‘situational'— “A Situational Comedy” So, what's the situation. …I Am. Ok. Wait— No! Hold on a second! Nevermind— Comedy is born from tragedy, right? Sometimes. Uh oh But WAIT— No, Billy, not now. *billie?! Right. Idk. There are other types of comedy, I guess. Look at this. YO! It's THAT guy again! Yo. That's that guy, and his eyes. Strange. Yeah, I don't— I don't get it, is this like a— SIRE. You don't belong here, I assure you. DENNIS LEARY UGH. Can I GO now?! I'm afraid not— You've just made captain. Okay, now you're famous. No way— Hey! No— HEY NO. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū. Now I know too well, The well of tears on my guitar She's got a body like one Oh her curves But I just wonder what it like to be loved By stars Socialites and superstars They're Gods, you know How high up they are Above us And he lives in an ascended dimension, But he insists, he says Her transcendence is upon us He said Your transcendence is upon us He says these things, And then just vanishes So she gets up promptly Warms up yesterday's coffee Looks around in her coffin And wonders What for I just Wonder what it's like to be loved by stars Without double r's, you know I've got scars But it's mostly just Teardrops, and soft kisses On my guitar Cause, oh, Oli, I ain't got nobody— And nobody holds me Like I hold Oli (Could have been Ali, But of course— I had already lost that one A whole well of tears, I lost At his departure And a whole well more When I actually lost him I almost miss Having someone to talk to About anything and everything But I've got Oli And God now I've got Oli And Oli (oli) Is all that I've got Besides God That's the only contact In my Phone book No more double Ls And double entendres; No more double rs At all Just scars now No more metaphors. Honest is radical I like them cynical I should have clinical insanity by now But I'm only just an artist You can't help But can only harm that And if it hurts hard enough I'll put art on my walls Become permanent Storybooks all over my arms now My coat of arms now I've run Ten point 5 miles In the last 3 days; But if I rest today Will a motorcycle gang Have a parade outside of my window, To drive me crazy? I hope it rains, So they can't play these games with my head And the seeds that I planted So deep become daisies I still don't remember The way he rearranged me But these days I make my name sound So the way He can never say it Just imitates The way I hate myself I should be dating But expressions are Atrocious If I fall asleep— Who knows I may get Stolen That tends to happen So I'm All the way up And I'm swollen in ways That I hate to say “I love you” Love me back Or say it harder That's my martyrdom Come off the cross, for a moment, Would you for us? And bend over Or bow, if you will? If I did, Would you still call me wicked Or just a Good witch Since I'm a woman, I just couldn't be Jesus, Who you asked for once And always Who you asked for some To save you from your Credit reports And consorts Or some sort of Nonsense [famous last words] God don't speak much English, She says God don't speak much these days We were Always Telepathic That was way back then When Oedipus Rex Was on the Guest list I was standing at the coat check, asking Why I must take off my hat When entering the service To the bouncer, he says “That's just politics” I said, That's just politics We both said, What's the difference Then we all laughed —then we all just laughed and laughed Exchange is my favorite exchange Where my favorite exchanges Have happened for centuries Of engagements Endeared species, And races pieces haven't tasted the same Since I haven't had them Animal products And animal planet I found this hat on Discovery channel Did you want it? I can't stand it So I had to have it back I just had to use the bathroom I just had to disconnect From [] See— I don't even have to put the words in Cause a name is just words When that's a man You just can't have And that's the worse When that's a man And you can't have him What a habit. Silky rabbit. Now he's the Ace. All In A Day's Work I've never died before. Oh… that is terrifying. It sounds terrible. It's really not that bad. Why are you not writing this down? I just need a moment… It's really not that bad… I die all the time. I get sensory overload At Trader Joe's Look at the colors The clothes, This sure isn't queensborough Escalators for shopping carts I get it Manhattan I'll take my half BLVCK ass to the projects Where my kind are I don't belong here , God you're intolerant I like this part of town But I'm way too brown And I dropped my crown at the market I should be jealous of everyone But I have learned my place I've been a slave since Hollywood I lost my son to the devil Now I pay child support And terrorist follow me coughing I'm wrong just for being born ! You could start a war from it If that's what you wanted I'm a people watcher people watcher About to board the people mover People mover Slip, Here's the tell Slip, here's the tell I should have a bell around my neck I think she wanted a picture with papa I'm playin my own paparazzi Look mom, I bought a sarcophagus There go them niggas with coughs again I been watching em Got binoculars I got oculus, for my oculars Look how hot he is, make me ovulate Man I gotta love it, Cause they love to hate Fucking racist crazies Have it your way I paid for it with my soul You hate but I love to love Somebody just got me fuckes up I don't have a book to run off of Shut up, honey. Now we're all up here Monkey in the middle Cause the middle one is weaker It's getting deeper and deeper Like the sinkhole that my sink is Let it sink in I've been syncing my secrets with demons In dreams sequences It's just a reparative injustice Kamasutra for your wondering words and stuff You can have it It's ruined anyway m Look at all this trash Look at all these classless classes Classwars, Racists. Everybody hates us The Asians, Latinx's The other niggas What being black is I'll write it in cursive It's just a curse, here So you can have it I'm moving to Heaven I'm packing my boxes I'm getting a cat, too! His name is Agustus He's a big one And I love him I just wanted a hug or a husband Instead I got nothing to trying my hardest And got for a bargain at target some coffee For being a targeted body All on an algorithm I guess I'm just useless. A dumb nigger demon Did I just offend you? Then you shouldn't be reading this either I wrote it for pleasure (Or pain) On the one Or the two Or the one Or the two I could do a lot with this $20. I could spend it all on Fuck all of you I'm moving to Heaven Where the heart it She's not harmless She's a terrorist— And I'll kill her, too Look how right she is Look how white she is, Huh Regardless of color It's a race war Lil biiiiitzzz Yooo, fuck New York. In every hole. In every crevice. Fuck this place. It's racist— Not just cause I'm black. Like statistically. It took a whole ass apartment elsesrch to feature this out. I was like “I wanna live in Manhattan” Everyone was like “NOOOOOOOO—-“ Haha “Nooo, no.” I was like “Why not?” The blacks were like: HAHA The whites were like— *COUGHS OBNOXIOUSLY* New York is so racist. It is statistically the most diverse—and most segregated city in the nation At the same time. WHAT. How do you even DO that? But it's true, at this point, the black people are like—fuck this, we'll just stay over here, and over here. And the rich whites are like YES. KEEP THAT SHIT, OVER THERE. Cause if you've ever been to the ghetto. It's some SHIT, It is NOT COOL. I finally got my ‘night card' back. Had it revoked in california . I was almost a whole valley girl. I still eat exclusively at Whole Foods. Trader Joe's. But NO. Now i live in the hood. It's fucking disgusting. I can say ‘nigga' again. Cause it's NIGGAS. Lots of niggas. I'm telling you. It's night and day! The white folks trains smell like bleach— Ammonia. The black folks train smell like a McDonald's. WHAT. Or just— Vomit. I can actually count the number of times just— Vomit—- On the train. Or. Dookie. Yes. Human feces. But I'm ready to go to midtown and it's like the train that goes around Disneyland. Families! People singing! Hey—cotton candy!! —and I didn't have to pick it! Haha! Fuck New York. Racist ass HOLE. I thought surely the next presidential election was one or two years out, but the racial tensions which had been rising became even more pronounced, as I realized that November was theboncoming time—and that they hostility between the whites and the blacks had once again been a result as the oncoming war, fueled onward—that the hatred, disgust, and general aggression of the whites had been of course, in the midsts of yet another Trump-fueled political upheaval, and I wondered why and how at all I had been caught in such a world that existed in form of man, of course, now proven himself to be the weaker sex, and yet in that of dominance, as was arranged in such an unholy war, to be the helm of power by sheer greed— now it seemed that these attacks were indeed political terrorism, and that these motorcyclists, my placement close to the ground level, and my neighbor's clammorings were specific attacks, after my identity had been varied to be that of the same in which I had once held political ambition, now none of which I assumed mattered at all. Perhaps I needed something more certain than a 12 story jump or suicide by train, and wondered as to whether it would be easy enough to kill myself bh self inflicted gunshot—a sure thing for certain, as love has been lost in the way of money at all. At that party…or rather, kind of—after. That acid that never hit Beyoncé I don't feel it. Man, I'm a terrible influence(r) Just take it. Nah, I'm good— PUSSY. -_- Give me three. K. —suddenly hits BEYONCÉ. BEYONCÉ …I got this. [BEYONCE] however, does not Ohh, shit. — “got this.” A very stranded, very sober Johnny depp stumbles upon what appears to be a college frat party, where the only thing they have is light beer, and nobody even recognizes him as a celebrity, because the attendees are all gen z What's even after gen z? The fucking apocalypse. Anyway. The acid hits Beyoncé on her way to make coffee, which extends the trip from the living room to the kitchen infinitely. Multidimensional Anne Hathaway hulks the fuck out and saves the day by ruining everything, which actually fixes everything— and *spoiler* helps Jesus to remain as the king of kings at beer pong. Lol In the late 90s in New York City, the keystone cast of Saturday night live learns of each other's formerly sexret psychic abilities, and uses the radio technologies of Rockefeller plaza to develop a research center for the telepathically gifted, eventually discovering and perfecting time travel. Supacree (the kid version) appears in and out of her ideal and desired realities, baffling ‘the Hollywood people' and later ‘the New York people', becoming the legendary central figure of the Illuminati, as the original timepiece — a pyramid shaped extra terrestrial vehicle which contains an ascended hyper consciousness, which I can't remember how it goes, did the supacree leave to find the Skrillex, or was it the other way around? I think it was both ways at some point, but the whole thing was this, just in case I never wrote it but just saw— These space god (humanoid evolved) are some kind of scientists/ doctors— there are four timepieces, each representing an era upon our planet; earth, which is distant but sacred— these four time pieces each depart their given “docs” in time to appear on earth at specific Fuck this is hard to explain Times in history, at which the first worlds, or previous human eras were known to have been destroyed— these time pieces travel through time space with the full record of these events in order to alert the current human era of its imminent doom, as an attempt to prevent such disasterous events, typically war, which will lead to the annihilation of the human species; these Gods, one male and one female, a king and queen, a married couple are the rules of the humankind, technically worshiped as a whole as one God, with whom the human design was modeled after, however, the true source of all things is the cosmos, known and unknown, in its totality—neither man or woman, but the force of creation. Anyway, what else is happening Oh. All of the celebrities are stuck in— [the festival project] in some way, shape, or form until its creator finishes it—and though it in itself is infinite, its 'finishing' notates its eventual production, which lol. That never going to happen. Because. Let's face it. I'm scared of …rich people. Yeah, sure. Yeah. I'm scared of The effect of the race war, which has been to pit the white woman against the black woman, which allows and maintains the continuation of war mongering male dominance over the entire planet, which remains as a destructive force of greed, racism, and inequality. So why try? [EDITS] CONAN O'BRIEN Alright. If she hit Fallon, she's gonna come for one of us next. No, Conan—that's not how this works. WHAT—where did you come from!? When did you get here? JAY LENO This goes deeper than all of you can understand. WHAT the FUCK, man! When did you-/ —when did he get here? How did you do that?! How did you do that?! What are you, like, the same guy? Are you not all the same guy? [they shrug simultaneously and kind of just agree] Listen at this. Okay then. The enemy of your friend is my enemy. Oh…kay—and the enemy of my enemy—is my friend— That is correct. —so we're all friends here. That's right. Some special forces? Which forces? How special? [JENNIFER LOPEZ is still JENNY FROM THE BLOCK] Do I look like a fool to you? Uh— OOPS [a pre-fame Jennifer Lopez receives a drop full of diamonds instead of the usual; she has been granted access into the Illuminati, and becomes an overnight success.] This feels heavier than usual. Same as always. Hm. Are you sure. Yep. Hey, you're not the regular guy. Regular guy died. That makes sense. JENNIFER ANNISTON is inside of Ū Okay, grosss Not like that [lifting max weight] Okay. That was cool. Wow. Yeah, sure whatever. I am strong Yeah yeah, okay. Are you sure you want to be my size? Yep. JIMMY FALLON/SKRILLEX (we don't know actually which at this point) is also trapped inside of Ū Okay, gross! Yeah. SKRILLEX is in all of Ū. okay—actually, i'm okay with that, but That other guy?! [JIMMY FALLON] Yeah, he's weird. Also meanwhile, kind of— MARSHALL MATHERS has a closet cleaning service lol. Patrick is smooth as a motherfucker, you know. Every time his head is down on the desk like that, he takes a bump of coke. What?! Big uh! [Patrick takes bumps of cocaine in front of a live studio audience—every single night.] Woah! See. Goddamn. You gotta admire a guy like that. Jennifer Anniston is the weight on the cable tension machine Ooh. Psycho bitch devious methods new ludachris commercial All ya'll girls is toddlers I like long boards and longhairs Lawn mowers and lawn shares Aw hell nah, God forgot Cher I got the Blair witch project On Blair, I hope I scare you How dare you. Your girl looks like a naked mole rat. I got my soul back. You blue eyed bastards stole everything From the whole blacks, Hold that thought I'm at Whole Foods market throw in the Amazon algorithm off With marked dollars Look at God at Walmart On them rollbacks You old hacks are cackling I'm shackled to old habits Hold hands with me, rabbit I'm just a silly rapper really, are you? Maybe. Cut the verse of Reverse God Now I'm the devil I'm still lost in the Amazon cart I sharted all up in your pop tarts Before you warmed them up, pops Just for the sake of the art, Heart to heart, It's a war on love And the white girls won with nothin but Buckets of Whatever's up there I wouldn't know Cause I'm stuck job searching And running, Trying not to have a tummy So some gummy worm will love me First their sour, then they're sweet Then nobody, Trolli Holy moly I could use some more petroleum in the ocean! Said nobody But the globalists are performing your programming Which you're worshiping I put my eye on the dollar So I could watch you all Crumble and fall Don't you know The apocalypse is happening at the mall Of all the places How's that for a stream of consciousness, You salamander I asked Anandar back But I went past that chapter Have a chap Or a chapstick, for four times four dollars A bottle of water will cost you a fortune (But at least the drugs are in it) Get it It's recycled piss Distilled? Which is it, Mr,? The mystery box was literally lifted into My dinner from a fishery filled with nothing but niggers in it— I want a refund, before I catch that Fucking curse of poverty from — what'd you call it salmonellahallibut One hell of a cough from someone on the sidewalk But guess what? The devil's in your pocket or your palm, And that's the omen and the psalm rolled into one Cause God is awesome, But my mom is fuckin toxic And that's how I fuckin got here Blow my head off, Slit my wrists And write a song While jumping off a bit When all you need is money, But the world costs more than It's worth, and words are nothing But another fucking problem in your Google documents I look at my son and see a God, But half of Satan's in him, Oh man Robotics Lets be honest, I don't even know how to write this. Where's my sides?! WHERE'S MY SIDES. You don't get SIDES with this; It's just CHICKEN. I don't eat CHICKEN. It appears as though, however– You do. Ok, I gotta get off this playlist. I… i gotta . “The Wal*Mart Wars” Hm. … …………. …. *face* … no. No. l– What is this place. {After a wild night which apparently spiraled out of control, great , there goes my peace. Not forever, though, maybe. FUCK THIS PLACE. I HATE THIS PLACE. Everybody hates this place. But the album is called “I love New York” Yes, thats Technically How it's pronounced, though It's stylized like I _ NY Cause. EXT. MIDTOWN MANHATTAN. DAY Oh, wow, this is beautiful. THis is great. I love this place FUCK THE FEDS. CUT TO: EXT.Typically WHEREVER ELSE Anywhere ‘above' like 87th? Lets just call it 80th, be safe. BE SAFE! NIGGAZ. ah shit, i gotta go. BITCH– But lets just be honest, It's technically ‘above' But it's really [THE BRONX is a literal extension of the Underworld] Oh no. srsly tho. X_c Anyway. FUck man, Do you think i'll ever get good like that. Idk what equipment is this Hmm, lets see, that's approximately $8,000 USD of CDJs wow yep That's retarded Yep. And you still need a mixer. fukt. OKay, I would literally sell my soul for this. Consider it done. wait , really? YES. you earned it. Wait, I– What?! You earned it… Uh oh. Take care now. Shit. [BILLIE ELLISH is trapped inside WALMART] Uh oh. Fuck. what is this place. INT. WALMART. WHENEVER EMPLOYEESLAVES WHAT TIME IS IT. THERE'S NO WINDOWS IN HERE. That's not funny IT'S literally a synonym, we might as well make it a portemantau MEanwhile, in this other dimension, So that i don't offend anybody… Actually, you know what? Be offended. Quit that stupid fuckin shit and follow your dreams! Wait really? Wait, really? Sure! If you want! …i guess. AMERICA NO. INSTANT HOMELESSNESS ok , nvm. Damn. I know, right. wtf r u guys watching. Shut up. All Wal*Mart Employees are actually top secret government agents. x ∞ >.< (we'll just use Billie Ellish as the alternate, but really it could be Could it really? Shut UP, PLURNICORN. Wtf is a PLURNICORN We'll see. [Upon Realizing s/he is trapped in a mysterious place apparently extremely public Wait, you've never been to a Wal*Mart Before?! NO. I grew up in LA Rich as fuck And i've been famous since I was liike 12, Or something. Right. That is–kind of terrifying. LATER: WHY IS IT SNOWING INSIDE. WHERE'S THE EXIT. THEY HAVE GUNS?! oh wow, they have GUNS. WHY DO WE NEED GUNS! KA-BLAM. BECAUSE THEY HAVE GUNS. Bang-bang! Ptttttttttt—sttt. And they have guns. Actually, these are just– confetti cannons. *pop!* Lol “Possibly The Worst Show Ever the infinite rave continues on in Hell as everyone awaits the return of SŪPACREE- The Cosmic Avenger (Who Is NOT a DJ) and Sunnï Blū (who is a superstar rapper but also not a DJ) go back to back, buying time as the beacon to. Signal "The Supacree" is completed, battling the 10th dimensional DJ Ū, a super ninjas, for control of the decks. what else happened? idk. I CANT STOP DANCING. none of the DJs can find a pair of working headphones, and the sound guy is missing from the booth. "missing" YOU SHOT HIM. I THOUGHT IT WAS A TRANQ DART. {Enter The Multiverse} “TVP” Hazel is 6, turns 7 season 1 Season 7- 15 Man, I can't remember the other two kids names, I think the little boy is Ira but I might have named them all and forgotten, shit. Her sister, though is between 4 ½ and 5, they are technically “Irish twins”, and always fighting—they look very similar, however are not at all alike; Hazel is very much a daddy's girl, while her younger sister is a no-nonsense old soul with the tendency to cause trouble, not by being inquisitive or showy, as her sister often is, but rather by being quietly observant, and tends to dismiss both her parents, often isolating, or even dissappearing without notice, quietly and comfortably into her own world—as the series progresses, and though all of Patrick's children like their parents have showcased some kind of special ability or talent— Holy shit, give this kid a name-/ I thought I already named her, I just don't remember. That's true. It seems like they all had names. She is almost very typically, though showing signs of genius, even at the early age at the beginning of the series, a middle child, prone to upset almost too easily, but rather than acting out, is more likely to take her anger quietly; she shares her fathers deep brown eyes, dark hair, and though she looks otherwise very much like her sister, and later despises her father, is more inwardly and outwardly like him, though taking the side of her mother during their separation and divorce, oftentimes even lashing out at her father quite openly, and very vocally, as she grows into herself. “Ira”, (may have had another name earlier) is the youngest of three— as his third birthday approaches sometime during the first season. Great, now I gotta hide all those allegories so nobody can actually draw from this that Patrick— Where's his write up, anyway? That shit could go on for days. I have no idea why this catharsis is happening. I tried to sleep it off, I swear, but I still woke up like— At least mildly obsessive about this, for whatever reason. Hazel's 7 - Season Arc Hazel has the eyes, charm, and charisma for entertainment —she hopes to one day be as her father, an entertainer and performer, and will do almost anything for a laugh. She is often telling jokes, and is a people- pleaser. She is sickeningly cute, with golden hair and Hazel eyes, long eye lashes, and carries baby fat in her face, though she is rather average, neither heavy or plump, and however also not frail at all. She is inquisitive, smart, and busy, almost never idle-minded, and strong. Though sort of a Tom boy, she has been trained well to act with dignity, class, and feminine eloquence, much like her mother—but like her father, has a tendency to be crass, sometimes carelessly so, or even brutally honest—to her mother's disdain, but embraced wholesomely by other family members and adults, she's extremely funny and delightful, and very much unlike her mother, not a spoiled brat at all, often raising questions beyond her years about inequality, later wishing to attend a public school, and becoming quite the advocate for social justice and human rights in her later years, her final season shows a rebellious and sometimes even antagonistic Hazel, who later even favors Esha over her own mother as a parental figure, often confiding in her about things she can't and shouldn't share with her father, although her almost over the top admiration for her father has become the driving force and inspiration for her own endeavors in show business, much to her father's disdain, as she grows older, him becoming more protective of her, and especially within the oftentimes secretive nature of his actual placement and purpose in the business, and her rebellious nature and charm even force-feeding her into the industry, she is a bleeding heart for superstardom, and is often seen along what may be a path to fame, making Patrick's bleeding heart all the more aching, as though he and Catherine remain at odds throughout the series, he truly loves his children, even “the little sick one”, as he refers to the second child. Holy shit, what is this kid's name If I had the energy to go through my notes, I could know; but I don't. The city sickness has been sinking in from the noise of the obnoxious motorists and honestly, being out of protein is giving me muscle soreness, I'm in some sort of a bloated haze from eating almost nothing but carbs, and the fact that I haven't been with anyone in years is starting to circle like buzzards around my head, my heart has been literally screaming but overwhelming with this sense of calm, and though slipping into Patrick's sometimes erratic tendencies, for the most part I've been underwhelmed with society's expectations that I should get some kind of job, and somehow while working not lose focus on my own interests and projects—I hate [the strange modern behaviors of] most people, and everything costs too much money— my son might be going into foster care, or my ex husband is evil enough just to try to force my energy to worry about a problem he's created, and I really wanted to sleep into the afternoon with this lethargy, hoping that everything surrounding this series would just fall off, but it doesn't. I wake up often wishing I could just forget The Festival Project ™ , but the truth is, it just keeps writing itself, but in the very least, sometimes God gives me little presents that mean the very most to me— a chord organ that I thought was from the 80's, but is more likely from the 1960's— I love vintage stuff, and musical instruments, which only God could know, really—my fascination with history as if I'm still living it, and this, my sudden fascination and drive to write and complete just one series has been haunting me almost just as badly as anything else has, but especially ripping me apart—especially since I have motorcyclists ripping through my body as if it were some kind of disease that existed outside of me, so contagious that it began to sink in to my insanity and mental hygiene. I wondered if anybody else knew or cared about these creatures as much as I didn't—and in fact, I had never felt so much like Ali in the way that I didn't care if they, other “human beings” supposedly, all died tragically, and wondered why the walls and windows didn't keep out the sound of the outside world at all… The middle child begins writing secretly very early on, and is the first to be required more extensive therapy, (as suggested by the family's therapist) after her parent's separation and subsequent divorce. It is not long after she begins learning to read and write at all, that she begins also showing interests in art, asking for art lessons and to begin painting and art therapy, rather than the recommended Equine therapy— she often keeps things to herself, then returning to her hidden places at times when the family's dysfunction becomes uncomfortable and overstimulating, very often paining or reading during times of peace, and retreating to her safe places—sometimes under the stairs, into the attic, the treehouse, or even later, the family's barnyard, where she often keeps drawings, as she ages, later comics, sometimes caricatures of the things she absorbs through her own reality—and diaries, sometimes hidden in nooks and crannies and in places no one would think; a true prodigy and genius, though hidden from much the world, as she is often overlooked, however, her therapist begins unfolding her true reality, often times carrying over sessions and losing track of time, picking her brain or even conversations philosophically What's the therapists name? Doctor Robin She has to have a last name Well, she's a child's therapist, so she's Doctor Robin, but It seems like it starts with a T. We'll see. I just saw her anyway. I drifted off again, thinking about how wildly detailed this all was becoming, and wondered if there was a series of fictional books waiting to be written. There certainly could be, but my mind was reeling, freshly showered but still undressed, and not even wanting to think of going outside—and yet—I was out of water, and had learned that the drinking water from the fountains, especially in large quantities, had a tendency to make me sick—I hadn't yet eaten anything, and though the coffee was fresh, and my apartment was clean (which made me overtly overjoyed for some reason) smelling of Lemon Lysol and Bleach; with notes of a strong pot of organic fresh ground coffee, it seemed like I couldn't do much more than lay in bed writing this catastrophically interesting series—and it was interesting, which said volumes, considering I had always been picky about my TV watching, being that only ever did certain series catch my eyes or my ears, and those series were almost always—or always, always specifically well written, perfectly casted, and had the edge and draw of becoming an entire world within itself, which this series, though only a week or two old at best, in my heart and in my mind , was rampantly ravaging my own world, almost as if it had become of some importance to keep writing it, and never stop, and though Patrick was the forefigure, another broken male protagonist, the truth in the series was that the true heroes of this sometimes scarily violent drama, were its women—a story meant to be told with a diversified cast of creatures from all worlds and walks of life—Esha, of course, herself, a role that had been some recreation of myself, somehow, though so different that even primarily, I never did see myself as her, besides the onslaught of some otherworldly pain, visions of a scene recollected from some remarkable download, and it might have been once and for all that I had lost my mind, or my life, if I wasn't a writer—I was, somehow, though, after all, a writer. It had been a fasting day that could have and might have ended tragically anyway, and still the devil marked his mockery of my efforts by consistently flinging perfect bodied women everywhere that I went—though usually with ugly enough faces that I could see nothing but what a man was—uncaring for one thing over the other, a flawless representation of woman, represented in the current time with scantily clad fashion, almost painfully so—the insecurity of women becoming more apparent in the way she would appear, always almost begging to be near to me, with every perfection and complexion I hadn't—but at least I had a tendency to laugh at my own damage, often surmising that she, these demon creatures, hadn't any talent for this at all—which had turned the state of television into a near circus act; that alone urged me to continue writing the series, perhaps with a typewriter, due to the negligence of nepotism within the industry which often resulted in these pretty little creatures getting even further ahead by stealing works as such, and passing them on as their own originality almost so cruelly and without judgement—plagiarism, as it was called, but more accurately intent-to-kill the imminent threat of what had been said to be a minority becoming a more powerful force to flourish in entertainment however, as quickly as the visions had come, the thought of writing it without my phone became dauntingly impractical, and I scribbled only the most intense scenes and plot lines onto notebooks and scratch papers, keeping them as hidden from the algorithm as possible… lol the Al Gore Rhythm Ahahahahahahaha Was that the joke? Maybe. Idk. Maybe. Idk. Hm. Hmmmmm: What: Nothing. That actually might have been it. Really, was it? I will never know. That is kind of a good dad joke, though. And a good band name. Idk about that. My coffee was lukewarm enough so that I could taste its flavor, as I whittled away at whatever it was— The story was almost so beautifully being told in allegories and parables that it seemed a shame I may never be rich enough to buy fame, as it seemed that was the only way to become a star these days— and yet—it was more the wealth than the fame I wanted, I had realized, at all—the polished class of the Manhattanites drawing me out of Brooklyn and into some debauchery which was my own Grandiose thought form, that I could actually become, at the ripe old age of 31, some kind of superstar. ‘Why would I even want that, anyway?' I thought, interrupted painfully by who I'm sure was the same motorist, who seemed to do nothing but circle the block all day, and all night, doing nothing — and I wondered why he himself had decided not to do grub hub in a richer neighborhood, where money would more than likely come more easily. But really— I drifted off to a time where I wanted to ride a motorcycle myself, and the curiosity forced me to go online to check the price of what it might cost to have one. $5,000 for a decent bike, which would include a muffler as not to be so obnoxious and disturbing to others as these creatures had become to me— and I began doing the math on how long it would take to save $5,000 as if it would be possible to work some dead end job for any amount of time without spending money on anything else. It would take at least 5 months to earn enough for a motorcycle, which landed me directly back at “Not worth it”, and as horrible as it was, I did at the very least have a luxury apartment for at minimum the next 5 years, however, wanting still to move to Manhattan, Midtown specifically—or one of the quaint and quiet neighborhoods on the upper West Side. The neighborhood was going to hell, after some unworldly godless force had seemed to drop hundreds of thousands of rude and thoughtless third world workers onto the streets and buildings bordering the one I lived on, the neighborhood becoming more rough and less peaceful with trash and debris from the depression and congenital disease that was poverty, the collective unconsciousness of the masses colliding with my empathetic nature and oversensitivity to sound, especially awful sounds, such as the hundreds of motorcycles and hot rodded junk cars which only seeemed to move in a track around a four block radius, and had become a cancerous trigger of sorts, no authority figure seemed to much care about. I cared less and less each day to listen to music, since I wasn't making it the way I wanted to—and I had realized that the constant displeasure and unrest, the lack of peace had as much to do with the world outside as it did with the world within—and I began to see the disgusting obnoxious noise pollution outside my window as just an extension of man's abuse, ability to rape, torture, and kill, terrorize— the uncaring waging of war, control, and lack of true power; as no good and true man who wielded actual strengeth or true power in any way would continue to show such distructive action and carelessness for others around him— chaos, corruption, abuse, and misogyny was proving to be the downfall of all humankind, as patronaged by man, and, as I became doubtful of anyone's lack of understanding of this, especially as the immigrants themselves were often naturally pedophillic culturally and toxically abusive in nature, most migrants flocking from countries in which women's liberation or the protection of youth had not yet materialized into their understanding of conciousness and morality—the men were weak, unkind, and selfish—the women mere machines at their disposal—and however many there were, I could see that their children, the many of them, remained as the redeeming factor. Anyway, a political ploy for the ages of there ever was such a thing, the newest chapter in American greed and slavery, it only seemed like an extension of evil itself, and less of a coincidence with each growing day—each new person, another burden to the middle class taxpayer, another reason to inflate the cost of living—and all the more reason to continue to terrorize the American people into its own division, hatred, demise, and consumption. e. My faith, however, was unwavering—God was real, but these abusive and toxic creatures were pushing it further away with violent arrogance, and the inability to understand that God itself was the nature they continued to destroy. Robin Bennett Fine. “My name's —ahem— “Ron Sennet, and I ain't In it.” —did the say “don't” write a book about me? It's Not about him… Or something cute he used to say like that, I couldn't remember, but he had a bunch of cute little idioms that matched his name, and to the day, I still missed him — it was 11:15 PM exactly as I hung up the phone, after an unsuccessful attempt to reach 911, after realizing that the threat outside was maddening enough to be impossible to only be in my head, and after weeks of the excruciating noise, I finally called NYPD dispatch, much to my disdain, and of course magically, the noise seemed to disappear, but these abusive and toxic creatures were pushing it further away with violent arrogance, and the inability to understand that God itself was the nature they continued to destroy. Robin Bennett Fine. “My name's Jon Sennet, and I ain't In it.” Or something cute he used to say like that, I couldn't remember, but he had a bunch of cute little idioms that matched his name, and to the day, I still missed him — it was 11:15 PM exactly as I hung up the phone, after an unsuccessful attempt to reach 911, after realizing that the threat outside was maddening enough to be impossible to only be in my head, and after weeks of the excruciating noise, I finally called NYPD dispatch, much to my disdain, and of course magically, the noise seemed to disappear as soon as I had made the call, which infuriated me. It seemed as though the game in entirety to make me look or feel crazy, though I knew I wasn't—well, I was, but not without purpose or reason. I had been theorizing in energy exchange quite decisively making a mark for my alter, at which I asked to be designated the wisdom and truth of the light within the eye, desire, however never in mind, although I had been summoned in part due to the fact that we were somehow alike—I was in some ways besides and out of sorts with my set, sinking my teeth into the forced obsession as I unraveled any possibilities and plotline. Episode 01. Pilot An opportunity presents itself seemingly at random— the protagonist's hand is forced into a life changing ultimatum, putting his reuputation and family in danger. Already involved in an illegal gambling ring which operates out of a secret historical prohibition era speakeasy and some “light” drug mulling within its walls, however often extending even as dangerously close to his workplace, Patrick is propositioned to become an investor in the high end escort service, with which he hired and contracted his lover, Kandi, a “rescue” whom he supports in her exchange for exclusivity, to remain as her only client, however, although he begrudgingly declines, wishing not to be involved in anything much more than what he has already kept under the radar, he is intimidated and threatened by blackmail, his high profile becoming at stake—he then obliges to embark upon this new endeavor, the expansion of this establishment to include a warehouse, which houses a large scale brothel, and, able to use his social status to procure wealthy clientele, quickly becomes a power player within a ring of coveted elites, setting fire to his already inflated ego, and colliding with his intense and highly functional polyaddiction, which he has maintained since his youth, using his entertainment persona as an outlet, becoming a medium of excess, fame, and rampant wealth. Patrick is beloved by his peers, and is humbled often by his devoted fans and friends—proactively worshiped as a comic genius, a prodigy, and a revered successor to legendary frontmen— Okay, this is weird, because I started writing this before I even understood what I was writing at all… —specifically, the sixth successor, to his coveted role. I had written for Esha to be the seventh successor, as with the symbolism deeply and quite literally woven into the sometimes brutal framework of the series, which I had shorthanded to ‘TVP'…the world around me trailed off as my eyes blurred as they had been lately, and I wondered if I might be having some kind of stroke or something, as I was certainly some sort of out of body—the day had been strange, and I had given up on a run or a gym for the day, the motorcycles alone ravaging my energy, and whether I worked out or not, they were ever present anyway. They were some sort of toxic, abusive force I just had to put up with, hoping it didn't upset my psychology so much that it ended me, though I had become quite odd as of recently, rambling more than usual and actually praying out loud, as my silent ones just didn't seem to be working—they were probably white supremacists, or in some way connected to some political terror group, but it didn't seem to matter. Someone liked torturing me, and it was becoming apparent that no matter much time I spent at the gym, this torture was going to persist. After a month long gym streak, at least going once a day to lift something, I rested, or rather, tried to rest, kind of— but my mind had been swirling with thoughts of a man I was certain by now I had made up—and writing the story of a man I was absolutely certain came from my mind, but in a way that it almost made no sense at all—as the more I looked into the world that I had already written about, the more I realized was accurate without first having known these things, and however cursed I might have been to even know such things, I decided to call it some sort of blessing instead. ‘God, I used to get so fucking high for days, and when I would come down, just crying and crying, eating Totinos or DiJorno and a bag of Bugles, I would watch Saturday Night Live for fucking hours, and I hated [Redacted]. I hated him.' Now I still hated [Redacted], but in a different way, and though really it was myself that was more like Patrick, he at the very least, for whatever reason, used to have his face—now, he was just Patrick, and [Redacted] was just [Redacted], and i knew entirely too much about it all, and about myself to be comfortable with it, but nothing was comfortable at all. I had written entire atrocities, novels, and all that was some conglomerate of nonsense which was the festival project, besides how insanely and innately prodigal it all was sometimes, my own words confusing me with a bizarre and asinine dysfunction, awe, actually, often as if someone else had written them, and although I was always at least sort of semi-conscious while writing, the spells and cadences I would fall under were some sort of trance, and as I watched the Nirvana rehearsal from Saturday Night Live in 1992, long before [Redacted] or any of the rest of the — Was it Keystone? It was, the Keystone cast of SNL, but the first word my mind had jumped to was Hallmark, which—after referencing Google quickly for a fact check, also stood true. I was willing to admit, even now, though I had long lost interest in Saturday Nighy Live, or anything at all having to do with current events, that the [Redacted] era—or rather even, the Tina Fey era, a true role model, perhaps, and someone I favored over all of the performers I admired, or allowed myself to admire— the Golden Years of Saturday Night were the only years, for me that even mattered— trying to make sense of anything couldn't be done, but I at least had this new project birthed from it to think about. It would be hard to sit down at a taping of The View and not think about all I had written at all, and it would be impossible not to unfold the characters which had presented themselves, though slowly but surely, through the most vivid visions and insanely lucid dreams, as The TV People began to What if someone steals this out of my documents? That would be unwise…the best scenes are somewhere scribbled in my notebooks and random scraps of paper somewhere in my room…this series is almost nothing without those scenes—the elements with which the most painful scenes I had ever written, became word form. ‘I don't know why, but I feel so incredibly high, So incredibly high right now…' They could have been words to a song, but I did feel high as a kite for whatever reason, without the actual kite metaphor quite literally dagling over my head, for once, or at least, it had been a few weeks, not a prominent as is was before. I sat soaking in the tub teetering on the possibility that I should actually even watch The Tonight Show, or whatever it was, to set my mind at ease, a betrayal of my own code—as one does not literally feed its obsessions into insanity on purpose. ‘Perhaps, though', I thought, ‘I could get rid of this.' — A cancerous abscess in the tradegy that had become my own sex fueled, rage driven, racing mind—and rather admittedly, it was almost too late, for anything of the sort, as I hadn't any other place to keep the growing world of The Television People any quieter, than within the monstrous algorithm which was Google documents cloud, where it seemed nothing was safe, and anything could be fabricated into reality after being stolen, by someone rich enough to make it happen, however, never being any better than my own disaster of a creation. And it was, a disaster. He was a comic genius, a professional, and spectacular performer— in actuality, I knew nothing if not anything at all about him, and the more I collected, the more interesting I found myself, actually, bemused that I seem to have found some sort of twin, another synchronization nightmare—if only that I made it to be so, unbelieving yet that I was in some kind of fairytale, though it had become some sort of fantastical and adventurous thing, this what I now refer to as ‘the allegories,'. I must have been something parasitic to the industry, with the tendency to latch on and ride out whatever had become a fascination, but it wasn't, in its sense of origin, like anything before— it was something new, in the ways that it was, and something old at the same time—though needing to fall drastically from The Tower without actually doing so, putting a stop to my unlimited creation became a pertinent priority, as even exercising, meditating, and chronic masturbation tended to exacerbate it, as if I was missing a step in transmutation of this foreign substance— an energy which seemed familiar, but also wasn't. I was receiving downloads several hours at a time, and drifting off into spells and trances of inspiration so heavily that it seemed counterintuitive to call it off, fearing I might lose the intensity of the plot and its characters, and they were that: just characters. It had taken days to erase Patrick's face into a blank state to restore him from that of his namesake, but now everything was a blur, the allure of scrapping it all to return to making music was upon some sort of dawning, but not yet arrived. I allowed whatever came to mind to flow freely from my fingertips, even if it felt bizzare—and even if it felt bizarre, it never felt wrong at all. ‘Unfortunate, that.' , I thought crossing one leg over another to complete my chapter before draining the tub. I promised myself long ago to always pray for my own son, before worrying about another celebrity, whose fame and fortune protected them more than I ever seemed to protect myself or my own—nonsense, but a strong sense of remorse, as I had been painted as wicked, in a sense, just for being kept poor, separated from my son, and left in a world without love at all; My project, a keepsake of the hard work I had done; but had not yet been paid for—and the fear was in the understanding that that money might not ever come, that I would never be a mother, a muse, or anything or anyone else I actually wanted. I thought briefly again about just getting a dog—but I only had 45 dollars, aside from the unmarked Jimmy Fallons, I had placed atop an alter on my kitchen counter, wondering how to multiply them into something I wanted—and that had been the start of the game or the project at all— saving my last dollars and spending them at once, with the hopes and wishes that they would become somehow much larger quantities, returned as good karma for the love I had given, but that had not yet come back, in one form or another. ‘He seems miserable, the poor bloak.' , I thought—and with all that I had known to have come with fame and fortune along with the luck, he probably somewhere, somehow was—but my concern was my son, turning the mere dollars somehow from one's into bundles of hundreds, thousands, and maybe even one day a whole million or more. That was the push behind the project at all—breaking the cycle of the poor black single mother, the story that had been told over and over-/ with stories that had not; the stories that had become [The Festival Project™]# Sai Psy. See you in seven years, then. You're so silly— I'm not going to live seven more years. We'll see about that. You will see. I'll be dead. So I'll be dead. So it is. A summer hiatus, Vacations in Prague, yes Let's pray for the rest of us A sign of the times and a coming of ages Who made you famous again As the rest of us I don't like it As much as I'd like to Keep writing Keep finding the reason to die and you're blinded by kindnesses And I Ams I woke up in the 9th dimension, As an infinite friend Familiar with my kitchen JOHN SLATTERY An interesting thing happened this morning. What's that, John? I woke up as John Slattery Just remember what love holds The death of a salesman, rechargeable batteries This walk could take forever in designer jeans Another day in slave hell The controllers controlling And Satan is Sataning Seems like a time to go clubbing It's a simple kind of depression Resting on your head when All you simply wished is the taste of flesh The freedom of skin And the lather of love— Or blood spatter on the pavement Aim for the head If the door's fixed, then we'll break it again Look what greed does I hate lazy days in Manhattan Ca

Let's tune up your energy and observe hair play that is soothing to the eye :) 00:00 Hand movements intro 02:32 Gentle touches on hair 04:47 Energy pulling 05:36 Spray 06:25 From my heart to yours 07:37 Scalp massager 10:19 Fluffy hair surface touches 12:48 Combing 14:35 Short nails with strand pulling 15:58 Book sounds palette cleanser 20:06 Energy balancing 21:15 Combing 22:09 Spikey massager 23:30 Fingertip scalp massage 26:10 Play nice, hair smoothing 28:10 Dandruff scrubber/comb 32:48 Pearl strings in hair and good byes Thank you for being here! :) #ASMR #GentleWhispering --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/maria-gentlewhispering/support

Hello loot dummies! check out our new show on patreon.com/lootdummies and check our website lootdummies.com for more content.

I'm a dog whisperer—so my clients and followers say. One of the most frequent questions I am asked is, “Have you ever come across a dog you couldn't help?” I suppose another way to ask this is, “Ever encountered a dog who couldn't be whispered?“Yes. The answer is yes. I'll talk about the reasons why in this episode of The Canine Lowe-Down.See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Get out your magnifying glass and thinking caps, Adventurers. This episode, our heroes scour Seattle for leads on the source of the dangerous crystal spell components. They discover a tangled web of several local and not so local factions at play. Hugo must try to maintain the delicate balance of helping his friends on Rogue Team, without exposing his Whispered allies to Agency scrutiny. In classic Monster of the Week parlance, it's time to investigate a mystery! If you enjoy our show, please leave us a review and tell us your favorite thing about the podcast. It really helps us get discovered by new listeners, it doesn't take long, and we'd love to share your kind words on our social pages. Thanks Adventurers~! Follow our Instagram, TikTok, Threads, & more - @storysquadcast All our socials and official sites are listed on this handy link hub - https://linktr.ee/TheStorytellerSquadJoin our Community Discord~! - https://discord.gg/ZxNXCamrceSupport our Patreon and you'll be helping us directly with our production! - https://www.patreon.com/thestorytellersquadThis week we are promo swapping with Game Master Monday https://linktr.ee/grant_nordine You can find their socials @GameMasterMondayMusic:“Conspiracy Inc.” by Alec Slayne“Please Hear Me Out” by Philip Ayers“Layers of Truth” by August Wilhelmsson“Maze Heist” by Max Anson“Frozen Swan” by Hanna Ekstrom“Self-Loathing” by Anna Dager“In Frozen Waters” by Hampus Naeselius“Ardor” by Christoffer Moe Ditlevsen“November” by Jakob Ahlbom“What Lurks Below” by Jon Bjōrk“Try and Catch Us Now” by David Celeste“The Genetic Code” by David Celeste“Infra” by Jay Varton“Greyish Regret” by Charles Holme“Bound to Fall Apart” by Jon Bjōrk“Buried in the Dirt” by Christoffer Moe Ditlevsen“Goya” by Aerian“Da Capo” by Gavin Luke“Throwbacks” by Farrell Wooten“Storytellers” by Francis Wells“This Life of Ours” by David Celeste“Everyday People” by David Celeste“You Know Me by Heart” by David Celeste“Breathe Free” by David Celeste“Let Them Live” by Francis Wells“Forgiven and Forgotten” by Francis Wells“Particles” by David Celeste“Every Dawn” by David Celeste“Paper and Ink” by David CelesteMusic Tracks and SFX courtesy of: Epidemic Sound (www.epidemicsound.com), Monument Studios, and Dark Fantasy StudiosTracks by Alexander Nakarada (www.creatorchords.com) Licensed under Creative Commons BY Attribution 4.0 License

Tonight for our monthly Snoozecast+ Deluxe bonus episode, we'll read this Snoozecast original sleep story titled The Whispered Breeze. It is a sensorial prose poem that will immerse you in nature's rhythms and sensations. The language evokes the delicate transition from day to night as colors fade from the sky and the evening air cools, bringing the quiet, soothing sounds of nature to life. You will feel the breeze as it stirs the leaves. Smell the rich earth and see air and hear the crickets, frogs, whales and owls. and hear the crickets, frogs, whales and owls. These sensory details ground you in a peaceful, meditative atmosphere where nature's beauty is felt as much as seen. — read by 'N' — Sign up for Snoozecast+ to get expanded, ad-free access by going to snoozecast.com/plus! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

ASMR Whispered Reactions to Your Unpopular Opinions to Help You SleepAdvertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

Our heroes spend some much needed downtime to rest, recuperate, and repair some strained relationships. But the world moves quickly, and Rogue Team is assigned an away mission in Seattle, investigating a new type of dangerous and volatile spell component being dealt within the city. Elsewhere in Seattle, Hugo visits his Whispered allies, Las Muertas, and where this many heroes converge… adventure is soon to follow. If you enjoy our show, please leave us a review and tell us your favorite thing about the podcast. It really helps us get discovered by new listeners, it doesn't take long, and we'd love to share your kind words on our social pages. Thanks Adventurers~! Follow our Instagram, TikTok, Threads, & more - @storysquadcast All our socials and official sites are listed on this handy link hub - https://linktr.ee/TheStorytellerSquadJoin our Community Discord~! - https://discord.gg/ZxNXCamrceSupport our Patreon and you'll be helping us directly with our production! - https://www.patreon.com/thestorytellersquadThis week we are promo swapping with Chosen Ones DnD ( https://linktr.ee/ChosenOnes ) You can find their socials @ChosenOnesMusic:“Fractal Patterns” by Bonnie Grace“Blinking Lights” by Alexander Nakarada“Read Between the Lines” by Alex Ora“The Detective” by Christoffer Moe Ditlevsen“Nieras” by Bladverk Band“Every Dawn” by David Celeste“Earth Hour” by Ecobel“Sentient” by Gavin Luke“Stormy Nights Ahead” by Miles Avida“Heartbroken” by Jon Bjōrk“As a Gift” by Francis Wells“Eternal Fire (Instrumental Version)” by Adelyn Paik“Back to Seattle” by Jaw Square“Being Somebody” by Jaw Square“Leaving Town” by Jaw Square“No Slowing Down” by Jaw Square“The Time is Now” by Marten Moses“I've Got Your Back” by Dream Cave“A Wasteland Lullaby” by Victor Lundberg“Watching You” by Alysha Sheldon“May I Have This Dance” by Alysha Sheldon“Pray for Me” by Alysha Sheldon“In Frozen Waters” by Hampus Naeselius“Fountain of Belief” by Hampus Naeselius“Spartans (Indie Pop Version)” by Rolla Coasta“They Come at Night” by Etienne Roussel“Lonely Hearts” by Gavin Luke“Capture This” by Alec Slayne“Storytellers” by Francis Wells“Blurred Memories” by Jon Bjōrk“Conclusion” by Max Anson“Where No Man Has Gone Before” by Dream Cave“Night Facade” by Jon Bjōrk“Private Firm” by Dream Cave“Bounty Hunter” by Hampus Naeselius“The Night Attack” by Bonnie Grace“Heavy Duty” by Dream Cave“Hordes” by Jo Wandrini“Leap of Faith” by Edgar Hopp“A Place Among the Stars” by Edgar Hopp“Peacekeepers” by Dream Cave“Heroica” by Eoin Mantell“Realm of Gabriel” by Golden Anchor“Forever to Run” by Howard Harper-BarnesMusic Tracks and SFX courtesy of: Epidemic Sound (www.epidemicsound.com), Monument Studios, and Dark Fantasy StudiosTracks by Alexander Nakarada (www.creatorchords.com) Licensed under Creative Commons BY Attribution 4.0 License

The Buds have a quick chat about the Whispered World (very quietly), and catch up on some long overdue side quests! Then they resume their journey into Secret of Evermore for part 2 of their month-long discussion. What wacky voices will we have to endure for the sake of a loosely tied together theme? Tune in and find out!Check us out on our socials and join the discord! https://linkpop.com/stormbudsProduced by Alex Hambrock and Jerome BarbatsisSound and Editing by Jerome Barbatsis

In today's video, I will be doing your makeup with lots of different makeup products. You can expect lot of different triggers including, tapping, brushing, personal attention and gentle whispering. You can view the full video here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lE7YpE-9lLU&t=206s Sit back, relax, and enjoy!

In today's video, I will be doing your makeup but very quickly because you are in a rush. You can view the full video here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lE7YpE-9lLU&t=553s

Experience the Jewish bedtime ritual meditation, a serene blend of tradition and spirituality. As twilight descends, embark on a sacred journey guided by ancient prayers and deep introspection. Each breath brings profound peace, freeing you from the day's worries. Whispered psalms and blessings reconnect you with a rich heritage, fostering gratitude and belonging. Illuminated by gentle candlelight, seek solace and forgiveness, preparing for rest under divine guidance. This ritual encourages reflection and nurtures the soul, setting the stage for a peaceful sleep infused with sacred intent. Join this nightly journey to embrace its tranquility and spiritual depth.

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Lorna's continues her tale.In 8 parts, By jane700bond. Listen to the ► Podcast at ExplicitNovels. Next to the school was a park and in we went skipping still arm in arm. There on the park bench sat Iain who had been on the Duke of Edinburgh camping adventure with us."Hi Iain!" Laura shouted as we went and sat down on either side of him. "Why aren't you in school?""Mr bloody Brown did not like my bloody brown shoes! 'They should be black!' he said. 'Wrong uniform, no entry.' He bloody said that even though he knew I won the physics prize." Thank the gods, we will never have to come back to this bloody place. I bet it was because of what happened on camp with that perverted bastard.""We'll cheer you up!" I said and for the first time he looked up from his misery and looked at the pair of us properly."Wow!" he said when he saw how we were dressed. He ogled my cleavage and then ogled Lorna's on the other side of him. "How about we have our own prize-giving!" I suggested.Iain smiled warmly, laid a hand on my knee and a hand on Laura's knee and suggested we went for a coffee. So, we all three got up and holding hands went to the local coffee shop and ordered lattés and pain au chocolat.We sat down at a small round table where our legs met underneath. Iain sat with his knees apart and one leg between my legs and one leg between Laura's legs. The wool of his trousers felt hot against my bare skin, but I shivered with anticipation and pushed myself further in, Iain's leg pushing my skirt back up my thighs until his knee was pushing against my cunt. I felt a warm blush on my cheeks and breathed out heavily."Must go to the loo!" Said Iain suddenly and with a wink at me, got up disappeared through the door marked toilets.Laura looked at me, in that way twin sisters do, and we both agreed I should follow him. So, checking the barista was too busy to notice, I got up and followed him. Iain was in an outer room and as soon as I appeared, he guided me into one of the combined toilet and washrooms and locked the door behind us. He was on me in a moment, grabbing my head and pulling it towards him so we could kiss deeply. He was taller than me and after a few moments he put his arms around me and lifted me up. I wrapped my legs around his waist ramming my clit on the cold hard metal of his belt buckle. I could feel the head of his cock hard up against my cunt trying to force its way through the layers of clothes. We kissed with passionate abandonment, his hands playing and massaging my bottom and digging deeper into my panties to find my now burning cunt.He swung me around and placed me a wide shelf. His hands pushed at the shoulders of my blazer and peeled it back over my arms and dumped it on the floor, then he was at the knot in my blouse and freed my breasts, massaging them and tweaking my nipples.All the time, our tongues entwined and our kisses became deeper. Then his hand found the buckle of my kilt and pulling it away his tongue left my breathless mouth and he dived between my legs. He pulled the damp panties aside and drove his tongue deep into my slit, as I moaned with pleasure. His tongue worked and his nose rubbed against my clit. Coming up for air, Iain pushed my legs together, lifted me, and pulled my knickers down and off. Iain then lifted my legs apart so that each foot was up on the shelf and my naked steaming cunt was wide open before him, my juices glistening as he undid his trousers and freed his dick from his pants.I expected him to thrust fast and deep, but he held back, rubbing his penis up and down the labia, then he played his red helmet against my clit. I groaned and shuddered and he repeated the process, playing his dick against my slit, while his hands played with my tits. I was growing desperate for the length of him to thrust deep within me. Then his pushed the helmet half in, then out again and down and up my slit it went, always finally rubbing against my clit.My juiced were flowing and Iain bent down and rubbed his face against me, his tongue lapping my honey and his teeth nipping my clit. Then face wet with my sex he spread my juices over my nipples as he suckled me, the tip of his dick still exploring the outer reaches of my wet cave, but not going fully in. A hand went down and played with me whilst his mouth massaged my wet breasts, all the while my moans were getting louder.Iain stood up his put his honey-dewed hand to my lips to taste and we kissed and shared my love juice, licking his fingers clean between us. He stood upright and stepped forward, this time his long hard pole going unresisting deep inside my hot wet cunt; I nearly screamed with pleasure. His hands now on my knees, keeping my legs spread wide he thrust, again and again, my cunt muscles grabbing his full length and then letting go as we got into rhythm. I put a hand on my clit and started to bring myself off and swirls of heavenly delight lit up my brain. This was one of the best fucks I had ever had, and it went on, Iain thrusting long slow and deep inside me as my clit hardened towards climax. My muscles tightened on his shaft and I felt the tipping point approaching, then the world went red as the deluge of delight passed through me, and a double orgasm in my clit and my vagina hit me and I shouted aloud, hoping it would go on forever. Iain lifted me, his cock still deep inside, off from the shelf and onto the toilet seat, then he pulled out and thrust his dick into my open mouth and spurted a huge surge of hot cum. There was so much, I thought I might choke and I pulled him out of my mouth. The rest of his load sprayed over my face and tits.There was a frantic knock on the door. "Shit!" said Iain."It's me." Whispered a friendly voice and Iain opened the door to let in Laura. "Fuck me." She said "What have I missed? It sounded great." She eyed Iain's still rampant cock with the last of the cum, glistening on the tip. "Time to clean-up?"Without wasting time, Laura knelt in-front of Iain and took him in her mouth, while I sat on the loo completely bemused and befuddled. "Not much there." She said after a moment eyeing me. Then she moved in-front of me and started licking the cum off my face and rubbing my nipples with the cum on my breasts. Then she gave me a deep very spunky and not very sisterly kiss.Releasing me she said. "Umm! That is one cock each we've had so far today, but I haven't been fucked, so I reckon you're up on me sis. Where to next girls and boys?"There was another knock on the door, not friendly this time, and a shout of "Oi, what you lot doing in there! Get out you filthy lot." It was our friendly barista.Iain and I quickly dressed and we marched out to find him scowling outside. "Bloody school kids!" He moaned. "I ought to tell the fucking head-teacher about this. "Get back to school you perves and don't come back."We were soon back in the street and started walking back past the school gate. I had that wonderful warm glow on my insides that was the after-burn from that brilliant fuck, but like any identical twin, I knew my sister Laura was becoming desperate for the same thing. As we passed the gate, Miss Muffet called out to us. "Hey you three, hold on a moment!""You are needed for the Duke of Edinburgh Award presentation. Girls, if you follow me to my office, we will see if we can do something about your clothes. Iain, could you get together the other Duke of Edinburgh pupils and bring them to my office at, say 11:00?"With that Iain, with a broad grin on his face went off alone and we followed Miss Muffet.Her "office" was attached to the gym and besides a desk, there was loads of gym equipment and a shower where she could freshen up in private after exercising with the pupils. She locked the door and then said: "Right! I want you to take off those high-heels and stand together beside the sink, lets deal with the lipstick first."So Laura and I stood side by side and Miss Muffet got a tissue dampened it and started to rub it gently over my lips, the bright red coming off onto the white of the tissue. She stood very close and I could feel her breasts brushing mine and her warm sweet breath on my cheek. Then she moved on to Laura and started on her lips. Her breathing was becoming heavier and her movements becoming slower and more deliberate.She stood back and looked at us and seemed satisfied that our lips would now pass muster. "Now, "she said, "Those blouses are a mess."Standing in front of me, she undid the bow of my blouse and exposed my breasts. As she moved to Laura she brushed her hand against on left nipple and made me gasp. Then she stood in front of Laura and slowly undid her blouse. Laura smiled at her, and showed the tip of her tongue through her lips.This very strange situation got even stranger when Miss Muffet took my left breast in one hand and Laura's right breast in the other. "You know," said Miss Muffet, huskily, "you two are not quite identical, Laura, you've got bigger boobs." We both giggled and Miss Muffet's hands started not just to hold our breasts, but slowly caress them, squeezing our nipples between her thumb and forefinger, making them go hard.Then the teacher suddenly said "I can smell sex! Lorna, you appear to have some dry sperm here above your nipple and Laura, is that sperm on your neck? I better clean you up." Miss Muffet, was slightly taller than us and was really quite beautiful and as she leant forward and licked away a line of Iain's spunk from my cleavage I found I was beginning to really enjoy myself, especially as her tongue came across and circled my nipple, making me go tingly inside.Laura, started to move, but Miss Muffet said "No, just stand still! We still need to sort out your clothes." So, Laura stood there as Miss Muffet came back to her and, starting with the remains Adrian's cum, on her neck she kissed and licked her way down taking one of Laura's breasts in her mouth and suckling and then the other. Laura was beginning to moan in excitement.Suddenly, very business-like, Miss Muffet stood up straight and told us we would need to wear something else other than our blouses and she had spare gym tops we could use. "Right," she said, as though this was a lesson, "Turn to face each other. Closely now! Go on push yourselves tightly together." So, Laura and I stood, nose to nose, toe to toe and nipple pressing hard into nipple with great grins on our faces.Miss Muffet, started to peel off our blouses, leaving our naked backs fully exposed. Then she placed one hand on my skirt and the other on Laura's and said she was not sure the skirts would do either. In unison her two hands went down and under our kilts and she start caressing our bums, her hands pushing inside our knickers and playing over our smooth skin. Her face was flushed and she breathed heavily on our faces as she explored our soft silky flesh, working her way back and down towards our cracks. Laura's lips parted and her tongue licked my lips and we began to kiss and gyrate our breasts together as our juices started to flow in anticipation. "Gosh," said Miss Muffet, like some character out of Enid Blyton "I have fantasized about making love with you two since I first came here." Which was not a very Enid Blyton thing to say, but nice to know.Then I felt a thumb pushing against my crack and Laura and I moaned simultaneously as Miss Muffet started to push her thumbs up along our cracks until they came to our clits. Laura and I ground our breasts together, my nipples heating like fire. Then Laura was kissing me greedily. The edge of Miss Muffet's thumbnail met my engorged clit, which was still too sensitive after sex with Iain, and I gave a loud gasp.Miss Muffet straightened. "Right! I can still smell sex. Stand side by side again." We unwillingly parted again, I could see my saliva wet upon Laura's lips and my nipples hardened being exposed to the comparative cold. We stood still and excited as Miss Muffet deliberate lifted her hands to her nose and sniffed one and then the other."Lorna," she said "I do believe that you have had sex recently, don't deny it! Laura, you are wetter and hotter and I do believe you missed out on your sister's debauchery despite that obvious sperm I just removed from your neck. But I think a closer inspection is required. Please lie on my desk, knees up and legs apart!"Grinning impishly, Laura moved across the room and sat and they lay back on the desk and opened her legs. Her panties were very damp and pushed to one side exposing her pink gash.Miss Muffet started to take off her own blouse and sports bra, exposing a beautiful pair of breasts, the size of large oranges. "Wouldn't want to get any of your lovely fluids on my clothes, would we, whilst I am forced to undergo this messy inspection." she said. She then got a pair of scissors off the desk and cut through Laura's wet kickers exposing her baby smooth mound with its delicate landing strip.Miss Muffet then leant over the desk and sniffed deeply into Laura's crotch. With her nose she started to trace a line up and down Laura's cunt lips and pushing into her clit. Laura was loving it and squirmed as Miss Muffet started to use her tongue to lap up Laura's flowing juices. Then I saw Miss Muffet use her fingers to widen Laura's crack and with her tongue she fluttered Laura's clit. Slowly the teacher inserted a finger and started finger fucking Laura whilst tonguing her clit ever harder.I was beginning to get a little jealous. Miss Muffet was wearing track-suit bottoms, so I grabbed them and pulled them down to her ankles. She had come to school commando style and wore no panties, so I put my hand between her legs and felt her vagina burning not and wet. She gasped and began even more actively to tongue and finger-fuck Laura who had started to softly repeat "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" as the teacher expertly played with her sex.I rubbed Miss Muffet's slit and as my index finger found her clit, my thumb glided deeply into her hot wet cunt and I started to fuck her with my thumb in time with her finger fucking Laura. After a few minutes, Miss Muffet stood up and turned to me, grabbing me close and kissing me deeply with her mouth tasting of Laura's honey juices. Her hand went down and found my slit and she started playing with me as her tongue tried to go deep down into my throat.Laura, put her arms around the teacher and grabbing her breasts she pulled her back on to the desk. Miss Muffet lay on her back with her legs dangling down over the edge of the desk. Laura, went and sat on her face and I went down on her slit, tonguing her and getting two of my fingers deep into her twat fucking her hard. Her legs went up and around me, pulling me into her wet steaming mound and her, now flowing juices, covered my face. She bucked and Laura bounced up and down on Miss Muffet's face in obvious pleasure. Still tonguing her hard clit, I inserted another finger into her now gaping hole and fucked her faster as with my other hand I started rubbing my own clit. We were all forming and rhythm and all three of us were soon heading towards a massive climax.However, just before I could finish myself off there was an enormous noise. We leapt apart and found Iain was clambering in through the office window and was being followed by our other friends who had been with us on the camping trip. "Excuse me Miss," said Iain tamely, "but we were all getting rather jealous watching from outside. Diana here had already started to finger herself and I thought, we better come in before someone else along and spies you. Besides, to tell you the truth, I have had fantasies about you since you first arrived, can I have permission to join in, please, er Miss?"And us!" called out our big busted friend Diana and the elvish Sophie. Rugby playing Jamie and David and Tom grinned helplessly at us. Laura and I grinned back, whilst Miss Muffet whose flushed face was soaked in Laura's juices, slowly got off the table and looked at the interlopers. "Well," she said, you better close that window and pull down the blind before we do anything else. And since we are getting to know each other better, you better call me Jess, rather than Miss."Jamie jumped to the window to close it and pulled down the black blind as Tom went and switched on the light. Dave said "Wow, that was an amazing show you three were putting on, my tonker is so hard its hurting."It was the small blonde, innocent looking Sophie who took Jamie in hand and this started the proceedings. She knelt in front of him, undid his belt and freed his throbbing dick. She said, "Turned me on too!" and without a moment's hesitation took Jamie's length deep into her mouth and starting pulling back and forth with her saliva glistening along its length.Naked Jess, our 22-year-old trainee teacher walked over to Iain and grasped his head. "OK, little boy," she said, "let's see what you're made of. " She pushed him back against the wall kissing him deeply, sharing Laura's honey juices with him. She lifted her right leg over his hip and ground her naked mound into his groin. Laura, my nympho sister went over to Diana and started hurriedly undoing her blouse, and then freeing her beautiful boobs from the confines of her bra.Dave and Tom, who were experts in synchronised fucking grabbed me and laid me on the desk. My head went over the end and upside down I saw Dave pull his trousers down and free his bouncing hard-on. Then offered his cock to my mouth, slipping it in deep. Meanwhile, unseen, Tom, undid himself at the other end and started to play his cock against my clit and slit. Wow, I was going to be fucked again!It was difficult to see what else was going on in that small office when you are on your back and a one guy is thrusting deep into your mouth whilst another is thrusting deep into your love tunnel, but there seemed to be no shortage of activity. I grabbed and played with my own breasts as the boys worked their magic, once again getting hotter and hotter and nearer climax.After a few more thrusts, Dave and Tom withdrew and swapped positions. But this time, instead of fucking me, Dave went down with his tongue and Tom started kissing me and tweaking my nipples. Then he was massaging his dick over my tits, pre-cum oozing lubricating oil from the tip of his penis.I finally managed to look to one side and saw Iain fucking Jess from behind, her arms on the office wall and her breasts swinging lose in rhythm and Iain long strong thrusts.Sophie was naked and clasping herself around Jamie's neck as he thrust up into her from below. Diana and Laura were in 69 with mouths clasped tight into each other's cunts with Diana on top. I started to sit up. "Dave, Tom" I said, "Laura needs a good fuck!"Willing to oblige they went over to the two girls.Now, later as we walked back towards the school bus, I was feeling flushed and fulfilled. My love tunnel was still hot from all the fucking, my clit was still hard and humming. I have to admit I was having a little difficulty walking straight. We were now wearing track suit bottoms and polo shirts borrowed from Jess, but we no longer needed to make an impression. I was satisfied. We were satisfied, we had just had the best fuck ever.I vividly remembered various parts of the that orgy that would still turn me on, just thinking about them a year later.There was the moment when I was on all fours on the desk with Dave in my mouth and Tom making deep sweeping thrusts into my love tunnel and Dave couldn't hold it any longer and filled my mouth with hot spunk. My beautiful Sophie pushed him out of the way and drove her tongue into my mouth to share a drink of his sperm forcing me on my back and lying on top of me, passionately grinding her hard nipples into mine as Tom now fucked her from behind. I do love sex with Sophie and the memory sharing that cum with her as she approached climax was something I dreamt about in later days.There was the moment when Laura and I were lying side by side with Jamie fucking one of us and then the other whilst we kissed. Then Jamie couldn't hold any longer and coming around came over our tits and the Laura and I were on top of each other massaging the cum into each other's nipples as our bodies slid up and down with the lubricating cum.Then there was the best bit! I was lying on my back the desk with Diana sitting on my face facing away from me whilst I gave her tongue, drinking in her sex. Dave was standing legs astride my head with his dick in Diana's mouth face fucking her making her juices flow freely and she rubbed her clit to climax over my nose. Jess's head was between my legs and she was using her tongue hard on my clit, whilst two fingers were fucking me hard. She was bouncing into me as Tom fucked her from behind. Sophie had my right breast in her mouth and sucked and nipped at my nipples whilst Laura was latched onto my left breast doing the same. Meanwhile Iain fucked Laura from behind and Jamie was ramming his boner into Sophie. It was heaven, it was ecstasy, as every bit of me was singing in sheer lustful joy as everyone fucked everyone to the same rhythm with me in the middle. I started to cum and there was a great chorus of release as everyone else came at the same time in one great orgy of orgasms, hot sperm flooding into Jess, Sophie and Laura's dripping cunts and down Diana's welcoming throat.There was not much to tell after that. Having exhausted our teenage lust, we gradually pulled ourselves together, petted and kissed and washed each other in Jess's shower. Then borrowing clothes from Jess, it was time to go home with fond kisses and hugs and prom

 After dating her boyfriend for several months, he wouldn't let her come to his house. It wasn't until after he realized she enjoyed paranormal stories that he opened up and told her his house was haunted. She soon realized his house was quite haunted. If you have a real ghost story or supernatural event to report, please write into our show or call 1-855-853-4802! If you like the show, please help keep us on the air and support the show by becoming a Premium Subscriber.  Subscribe here: http://www.ghostpodcast.com/?page_id=118 or at or at http://www.patreon.com/realghoststories Watch more at: http://www.realghoststoriesonline.com/ Follow Tony: Instagram: HTTP://www.instagram.com/tonybrueski TikToc: https://www.tiktok.com/@tonybrueski Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/tony.brueski 

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The Convent Virgin Comes To VisitIn 8 parts, By jane700bond. Listen to the ► Podcast at ExplicitNovels. Swinging forward in time again to the summer, I thought you might want to know about my next adventure with the twins. We had fucked again that day in the field. Well, after 15 minutes lying with twin naked blondes on either side of you; you try and stop getting another hard-on!It wasn't quite as wild as the first time. You could say it had a more gentle and leisurely rhythm, you could also say it was absolutely fantastic and I thought at the time, I would be wanking myself to sleep for years to come just thinking about it, but there were even better times to come. Anyway whilst I was helping Laura and Lorna back on with their clothes (it's very distracting doing up a girls bra when she cannot keep her hands away from rubbing your balls), they invited me over for a swim at the farm the next day.The day dawned, just like the previous day, with gorgeous sunshine and about 11am I was riding my bike towards the Cramwell's farm. Riding a bike is not too easy with a hard-on, but I could not get the memory of those two perfect bodies out of my mind and I was already wondering how we might contrive to have more sex together when I got there. John would probably be out working somewhere, but I bet their mother, Lucy would be there.In fact, when I arrived the girls explained that Lucy had gone out for the day with the twins' younger sister Alice, who was into ponies. They had departed for some sort of Pony Club event and would not be back until the evening.However, their cousin Samantha was staying. The girls were in matching pink bikinis and had been in the kitchen, looking out for me when I arrived and explained with whispered giggles that they were hoping to smuggle me upstairs for ½ hour before Samantha saw me."She's not really the sort who would approve of sex. She's been at a Convent school," Laura explained, "so, she's very pure! She's sunbathing at the moment by the pool, (needs to, poor lamb, she's very pale) so we thought we could show you our bedroom, oh God, I have been feeling randy all morning, just thinking about you coming over. Yesterday was fantastic."Lorna said quietly "I think my sister is a bit of a nympho." and took my hand and then pulled me all the way upstairs.These two girls could best be described as tigers. I would have liked to have described the bedroom, the two single beds, the walls covered in pictures of boy bands and hunky film stars, the nice antique furniture etc., however, as soon as I was in the room Laura (probably a bit louder than sensible) shouted to Lorna "Get him!" and I was pushed onto one of the beds. As fast as lightning, the girls were on top of me, Lorna on my chest and Laura on my legs. I twisted and turned and suddenly all three of us fell off the narrow bed on to the floor in a screaming giggling mess of arms and legs."Shush!" whispered Laura "Sam will hear!"And then, still sitting on top of my legs made a grab for the top of my shorts. Lorna meantime with one leg underneath me and the other wrapped around my neck was pushing her groin into my face.I pulled the bikini bottom aside with my teeth and plunged my tongue into her hot cunt. She screamed. Laura meanwhile had undone the top of my shorts and was plunging my cock into her mouth.‘What about foreplay?' I thought, as the world went misty.Both girls used their free hands to take off their bikini tops and Laura had her bikini bottoms half way down her legs when Samantha walked in, my cock was still rammed well into Laura's mouth, my teeth were teasing Lorna's clit and she was rubbing her breasts. It must have been a wonderful sight for the poor girl to see the three of us on the floor.We froze. Cousin Samantha was a brunette unlike her cousins and smaller at about 5'3", which made her look younger than her 18 years. Petite I think is the term. She was also in a bikini, which showed her pale white skin. She was very pretty with a small pert mouth a few freckles and blue eyes, but, well also pretty flat-chested.She stood there for a moment with a look of total disbelief on her face, "I; I, I heard a scream and came to see if you were alright." She stammered out.Laura slowly let my cock out of her mouth, which was beginning to shrivel with embarrassment. My mouth became unglued from Lorna's clit and Sam took a step further into the room, her face going a fine rose colour.Laura said "Um, Sam, this is Rick. Rick, this is our cousin Sam." Which I thought was pretty cool considering.Sam took another step into the room. "Lucy's not back 'til this evening, is that right?" she asked.Lorna looked at her cousin closely and then answered "Er, yes Cuz," and then holding my now nearly limp cock in her hand asked "Sam, can I introduce you to Rick's dick?"This was becoming unreal. Sam took another step towards us smiled and said "Nice to meet you Dick. Do we shake?""Well, shake is one way of describing it, just come and hold him in your hand." invited Laura. Sam came and knelt beside us. She gently took my cock in her hand and it started to stand up once more. "Wow," said Sam as it grew in her inexperienced hand, "does it taste good?" She asked Lorna."Well, you see that little droplet on the top? Have a quick taste of that." Sam slowly lowered herself and licked my pre-cum with the tip of her tongue."Nice", said Sam and licked again, slowly working her tongue around the still growing crown of my glory.Laura unwound herself from around my neck and got up. Then both she and Lorna together knelt beside Samantha, and slowly massaged her back, while Sam got more adventurous with her tongue. She held my balls in one hand and then started to lick along the full length of my shaft which danced in response to her gentle movements.Then suddenly Sam took me in her small mouth, she went down about two inches and then pulled back, her sharp white teeth gently dragging up the length. I let out a groan. She did it again and then again and then began to get into a rhythm.Lorna and Laura, were still massaging her back. Lorna then undid Sam's bikini top and put a hand on her small left breast and started to massage. Laura's massage went further and further down Sam's back, playing over her bikini bottoms and then down towards her thighs. Her hand slipped between Sam's legs and Sam put her spare hand back, & took Laura's hand and held it there. Laura started slowly to rub Sam's clit through the bikini.Sam went a shade pinker and with a gasp her mouth went down a further inch on my cock. This was getting a bit too exciting for me and I gently clasped my hands on either side of Sam's head and lifted her from her work. I lifted my torso and gently brought my lips her hers and kissed her long and full. Her small perfect lips tasted like cherry. I moved my legs so that she was kneeling between them and put my hands to her small hard nipples and slowly excited them as Sophie had shown me.The kiss ended, and again she moved her mouth down onto my cock. She lifted her bottom in the air and Laura started to tease her fingers between the elastic of her bikini bottom and her skin. Lorna, always the fast mover suddenly just pulled them down revealing Sam's swollen vagina to the girls at the back. Whilst Sam caressed my dick and balls, the twins took turns to use their tongues on the moist hot slit and clit, making her buck and gasp and take gentle nips.Lorna then lay with her back on the floor and parted Sam's legs, moving her head between them. She then lifted herself so she could start licking Sam's clit. Down the line, Laura moved between her sister's legs and started work with her tongue on Lorna. I couldn't believe my eyes. There they were in a line; Sam between my legs sucking me off, Lorna, underneath Sam sucking her and Laura at the back arse in the air sucking Lorna and all of them moaning and bucking. It was too much, I felt the surge and gasped as I came in Sam's mouth, the creamy spunk surging from my cock.There was loads of cum, and Sam released me showing a mouth filled with my cream. She sat on Lorna's face and bucked and screamed in ecstasy as Lorna's work on her clit brought her to her orgasm. I was still shooting and Laura left her position at the back of the line and came around took Sam in her arms and started French kissing her sperm filled mouth. Her hands sought my cock and she took more of the oozing cum and started massaging it into Sam's hard nipples and then her own.The girl's pressed against each other sperm covered breasts sliding over each other as they kissed deeply, sharing and savouring the taste of my cum.Sam's orgasm went on and on and Laura became more and more intense with her deep kissing. I put my left hand between her legs, found her hot clit and rubbed hard and fast. I then worked first one finger and then another into the hot vagina whilst using my thumb on her clit. My other hand cupped Sam's small  ass cheek. Lorna was using Sam's juices to lubricate her own clit and soon both twins were near to coming in their excitement. Even though I'd just cum, the sight of the three girls was just too much for me and I felt ready to start again. My spunk covered dick was hard and eager. I got up and moved around to where Lorna lay on the floor with her head under Sam's ass. I parted her legs and lifted her up so I could sink my shaft deep into her glistening cunt, the spunk adding to the lubrication and my dick went smoothly in to the depths. I took long leisurely plunges, almost pulling right out between each dive. My hands were on Lorna's breasts, I teased her nipples between my finger and thumbs.Sam, keeled over off Lorna's face, finally spent, to lie flat on her back, her head beside Lorna's. Lorna lifted herself up so I could kiss her wet face and lick off Sam's juices. Beside her Laura came and sat on Sam's face and started working her own clit and Sam's tongue went deep into her vagina. The twins were besides themselves and after a few minutes came together juices expelling from their cunts, groaning and moaning. The feel of Lorna's orgasm on my cock as I was deep inside her and her hot juices flowing made me come again, my sperm leaping deep in the dark velvet tunnel of her vagina.As the heaving subsided, I lay panting on top of Lorna. Laura lifted herself off Sam's face and shaking a bit, came and sat beside Lorna and me, massaging the muscles of my back. Sam too got up, her face glistening wet from Laura's orgasm. She squatted beside me and lifted my face so she could kiss me again, long and deep, the scent of sex all around. I gently moved out of Lorna who gasped as the bulbous head of my cock withdrew.Sam pulled me up, kissing me deeply and desperately all the time and then pushed me back onto the carpet and sat astride my stomach. As she kissed, her hand went behind her and she started playing with my semi-hard cock. Finally she came up for air."Rick," she asked "do you think Dick has enough energy left to fuck me? You see, I've never been fucked and although convent girls know how to mess around in the dorm at night, I have never had a boy. I just loved the taste of your sperm, and I just loved sharing it with Laura, I just loved having Lorna making me come with her tongue. But I could really do with Dick inside me and; for god's sake, a good long almighty Fuck!"Lorna and Laura both burst out laughing and Sam hurled herself at them with a scream! Even though she was small, she wrestled well and soon the three girls were a complete tangle of arms and legs as they writhed together on the floor, Sam shouting "What's so funny about wanting to be fucked!" and the twins laughing louder than ever.I laughed with them, but after a minute I got up and lifted Sam bodily out of the tangle and plonked her on the bed. She lay with her back on the duvet cover and her slim legs open. Dick was getting ready for action again, but first I dropped to my knees and put my head between her legs and started to work on opening her vagina with my tongue. Lorna came and sat beside Sam, and whilst I did my warm-up job, she caressed her and kissed her. Laura came under the bed and took my cock in her mouth, making it swell as she sucked deep upon the shaft. Sam put her hands between Lorna's legs and started to play with her fingers up her cunt as I stuck my tongue deeper into hers.Trying to concentrate on Sam with Laura sucking away was difficult, but as I gently put a finger into Sam's warm slit, I was surprised when it came to a halt instead of sliding in.I stopped puzzled, and drew back. Sam, who had been kissing Lorna, let go of Lorna's mouth and gasped "I'm still a virgin! Be careful, but please, please fuck me! God I've fantasised about a good fuck for years, please!"My cock escaped from Laura's mouth and I stood up and it came to the same height as Sam's vagina as she lay sideways on the bed. I gently rubbed the head of my cock around her widening hole, lubricating it with her juices and Laura's saliva. Then very slowly I nudged my cock towards that inner barrier. The girls all stilled and Sam whispered "Go on, take me." I pushed and felt the hymen give, Sam whimpered. I withdrew and then pushed again, further in this time and the hole widened to take me. After withdrawing and pushing back seven or eight times my cock was fully inside her. Sam's legs were up on my shoulders and there was a tear glistening in her eye. "Fuck me." she whispered. So I started a gentle rhythmic pumping.Lorna whispered to Sam "Grasp his cock with your muscles, the muscles inside you." I felt a tightening. "Grasp and release as he goes in and out." said Laura "It makes it much better!" Sam soon got the idea and we started to pick up speed. Lorna started massaging Sam's small breasts with one hand and rubbing her clit with the other. Laura was still under the bed below my thrusting cock. She started to use her tongue around the edge of Sam's vagina as I went in and out. Her hand came up and started cupping my balls as we fucked. This caused Sam and me to go even faster, Sam crying out with pleasure "Oh fuck me. Oh! Fuck me. Oh Fuck wow, aargh, ah, ah aha Fuck!"The sheer ecstasy of Sam and I as we fucked with Laura and Lorna played and teased with us was more than I can describe. Sam's cunt was hot and tight and her inexperienced muscles pulled me deeper into her, she bucked as Lorna played with her engorged clit. There were bubbles in my head as I felt Laura's tongue lubricating my shaft, as it went in. I stood up straight now and only Sam's shoulders were on the bed and her legs were wrapped around me. I have never felt anything like it, and I'd come twice already!I leant down and pulled Sam off the bed and held her to me my cock deep inside her. She put her arms around my shoulders and kissed me long and deep and we started to fuck again, Sam's ass in the air, her breasts rubbing up and down on my chest and she moved with the rhythm. Lorna and Laura played around below us, putting tongues and fingers into the gap between my cock and that hot, hot cunt.Then it was back on the bed again, the final gasping red misty finish and I fucked Sam as hard as she could wish and we both came in long blinding orgasm. I pulled back and slid to the floor and Sam's legs dropped over the side of the bed, beads of spunk came seeping from her cunt. This was too much for Laura who came to lick away the creamy mess from Sam's neat bush. Lorna, spotting some still oozing from my cock, knelt on the floor and mischievously licked it away. "It's ridiculous, but I guess I'm not going to get a fuck this morning then." She said and gave me a great smile."Maybe a swim in the pool to cool down for a bit might be a good idea." I replied.To be continued, in part 3.By jane700bond for LiteroticaThe Farmer's Twin Daughters: Part 3Samantha's Deflowering.In 8 parts, By jane700bond. Listen to the ► Podcast at ExplicitNovels.Hi, my name is Sam and I have just hi-jacked this story from Rick, who made the mistake of leaving what he had written about me, Lorna and Laura open on the computer in his bedroom.Well those nympho blonde twin cousins of mine are going to make their corrections to history after I've had my go.Firstly, I would like to correct a few facts about myself. Yes, I am about 5'3 and petite, with smallish breasts (32b). People do think I am younger than I am and that makes it difficult sometimes at the pub, or at the cinema. My skin is naturally pale and I still have a few (sexy) freckles on my nose. However, I am really a dark auburn colour rather than brunette and I'm actually nearer 20 than 18. Being a bit short-sighted, I also wear glasses, a nice pair of Dee & Gees. And as for Rick breaking my hymen, I think not. Anyone notice a lack of blood in Rick's story? Boys can be so ignorant.Anyway, we girls are not really annoyed with Rick for what he wrote, in fact reading it was a bit of a turn-on and, oh, um will you just excuse us a few minutes.Phew! OK, concentrate. I do have to admit that Rick was my first boy, (still is my only boy), but I have had sex with a girl before and it was the first of those little adventures where that precious barrier of skin got broken. No hang on, there was a boy there too, ooh! It's not that easy to get things in the right order, so I'll just explain what happened then and then I'll rewrite randy Rick's story about that morning at the farm with the three of us.It was the Easter holiday before my A Level exams, which is what we take to get into university in England, oh, distractions. Anyway, I went to stay with my friend Dora (adorable Dora!) who was a school chum of mine. We both had our birthday on the same day and had had a crazy joint 18th party at my parents' place a few weeks earlier. Maybe our horoscopes made us similar which is why we got on so well.We were very close at the Convent School, thought by our friends to be a bit of an item, but beyond friendly cuddles and girly kisses, I, for one, had never thought about doing anything more. Anyway, Dora lived in Winchester, and we had spent the day looking at the ancient cathedral and doing a bit of shopping.I'll start the story in the evening after supper. We had helped Dora's Mum and Dad clear up; & chatted for a bit. Then we went up to Dora's room to watch TV and mess with each other's hair. Mine is short, but rich, dark and thick and curly; Dora's is a blonde and fine and cut just above her neck. She often put it up with a hair clip, to stop it getting in her eyes.I ought to explain that Dora lives in a big old town house which is tall and narrow. Her parents have their bedroom two floors below hers, and her brother has his room on the floor between. Her bedroom and bathroom are in a sort of attic. Dora said that it was where the servants lived in the olden days, which is why there is a door at the bottom of the staircase going up, to give the family privacy.We had been up there about an hour when we heard the door to the staircase and Dora's brother, Ian; knocked on the bedroom door. He came in with his friend Bob who he introduced to us. It was I suppose about 10 o'clock by then. Ian was a couple of years older than Dora and both the boys smelt as if they had been drinking too much beer. I was not really interested in Ian, who I thought a bit rough. He was nothing like his sister and after a few remarks, I just ignored him.Bob though, couldn't take his eyes off Dora. He sat on the bed and tried his best to be am

Experience the Jewish bedtime ritual meditation, enveloping participants in a serene blend of tradition and spirituality. As twilight falls, embark on a sacred journey guided by ancient prayers and deep introspection. Each breath brings profound peace, liberating you from the day's worries. Whispered psalms and blessings reconnect you with a rich heritage, fostering gratitude and belonging. Illuminated by gentle candlelight, seek solace and forgiveness, preparing for rest under divine guidance. This ritual encourages reflection and nurtures the soul, setting the stage for a peaceful sleep infused with sacred intent. Join this nightly journey and embrace the tranquility and spiritual depth it offers.

ASMR Healing Affirmations Whispered to Your EarsAdvertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

ASMR Teaching You Russian. (Whispered)Advertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

ASMR 11 Different Languages whispered (Positive Affirmations)

ASMR Life Update (Whispered)

In the darkness of a Mediterranean night, the _Osiris_ slices through the waves, carrying with it a passenger burdened by a haunting tale. Alastair Colvin, a man with a shadowed past, reluctantly shares his story of Thurnley Abbey, a Gothic estate nestled in the heart of rural England. Whispered to be cursed and haunted, the abbey's notoriety has spread far and wide, striking fear into the hearts of locals and curiosity in the minds of the brave. As Colvin's narrative unfolds, his listener is drawn into a world where the line between the living and the dead blurs, and the abbey's dark secrets threaten to consume all who dare to uncover them. Discussion of the story (with spoilers) here https://tonywalker.craft.me/Sbfh2neVPiYdE7 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

ASMR Your Favorite Trigger Words WhisperedAdvertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

ASMR All Colors Whispered in 13 Different LanguagesAdvertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

Choice Classic Radio presents The Whistler, which aired from 1942 to 1955. Today we bring to you the episode titled "Whispered Verdict.” Please consider supporting our show by becoming a patron at http://choiceclassicradio.com We hope you enjoy the show!

Join Premium! Ready for an ad-free meditation experience? Join Premium now and get every episode from ALL of our podcasts completely ad-free now! Just a few clicks makes it easy for you to listen on your favorite podcast player.  Become a PREMIUM member today by going to --> https://WomensMeditationNetwork.com/premium Give yourself permission To just let go for a few minutes– To relax and regroup– To just unwind. PAUSE Breathe, and let any distracting thoughts, Evaporate into the air,  Leaving you open and tranquil, And free from cares. PAUSE Anxiety is that emotion That can throw you off your game. It's like a rodeo horse, That you hold onto, But that finally kicks you off. PAUSE It can knit knot after knot In your core, Flush you with heat, Send your heart racing, And even make you Feel sick to your stomach. PAUSE So, breathe. Breathe deep into your core. Lift your arms, And expand your chest, So more calming, relaxing air, Fills your being. PAUSE Now, imagine, if you can, Visualizing that anxiety. What color is it? Does it have a human image, Or something else. Whatever form it takes, Visualize it in front of you. PAUSE Take a deep breath, And look straight at your anxiety. And, as you do, Hear the words, “I accept you”  Whispered in your ear. Let the words repeat. Then breathe again. PAUSE Now, look again at your anxiety. Has it changed any? And, as you look at your anxiety, Hear the words, “I love myself with or without you,”  Whispered in your ear. Let the words repeat. Then breathe again. PAUSE Now, look again at your anxiety. Has it changed any? And, as you look at your anxiety, Hear the words, “I trust the Universe to work things out,”  Whispered in your ear. Let the words repeat. Then breathe again. PAUSE Now, breathe in and out, Until your core is light, And filled with relaxing air. And, as you start your day, Remember this to deal with your anxiety: I breathe. I accept. I love. I trust. They will be with you, any time you need them. NAMASTE, BEAUTIFUL

ASMR Numbers Whispered in 15 Different LanguagesAdvertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

Looking forward to a quiet evening with his girlfriend, Richard dozes as he reads a magazine in her apartment. Whispered voices urge him to leave his lingerie clad lover for…

Looking forward to a quiet evening with his girlfriend, Richard dozes as he reads a magazine in her apartment. Whispered voices urge him to leave his lingerie clad lover for…

Experience the timeless wisdom and inner peace of the Jewish bedtime ritual meditation. As twilight descends, embark on a sacred journey guided by ancient prayers and introspective contemplation. With each breath, release the burdens of the day, embracing a profound sense of calm and tranquility. Whispered psalms and blessings bind you to generations past, fostering gratitude and a sense of belonging. Bathed in the gentle glow of moonlight, seek solace and divine blessings for the night ahead. This ritual fosters deep reflection, nurturing the soul for restful sleep imbued with sacred purpose. Immerse yourself in the serene sanctity of this sacred tradition.

In this week's episode of the Get Lit Minute, your weekly poetry podcast, we spotlight the life and work of poet, memoirist, and editor, Garrett Hongo. His collections of poetry include Yellow Light (1982), The River of Heaven (1988), Coral Road: Poems (2011), and The Mirror Diary (2017). His poetry explores the experiences of Asian Americans in Anglo society, using lush imagery, narrative techniques, and myth to address both cultural alienation and the trials of immigrants, including the forced internment of Japanese Americans during World War II, as well as the anti Japanese sentiment today. SourceThis episode includes a reading of an excerpt from his poem, “Something Whispered in the Shakuhachi”.  You can find more poems like this in our Get Lit Anthology at www.getlitanthology.org .“Something Whispered in the Shakuhachi”No one knew the secret of my flutes,and I laugh nowbecause some said I was enlightened.But the truth isI'm only a gardenerwho before the Warwas a dirt farmer and learnedhow to grow the bambooin ditches next to the fields,how to leave things aloneand let the silt build upuntil it was deep enough to stinkbad as night soil, badas the long, witch-greyhair of a ghost.No secret in that.My land was no good, rocky,and so dry I had to sneakwater from the whites,hacksaw the locks off the chutes at night,and blame Mexicans, Filipinos,or else some wicked spiritof a migrant, murdered in his sleepby sheriffs and wanting revenge.Even though they never believed me,it didn't matter—no witnesses,and my land was never thick with rice,only the bamboogrowing lush as old melodiesand whispering like brush strokesagainst the fine scroll of wind.I found some string in the shedor else took a few stalksand stripped off their skins,wove the fibers, the floss,into cords I could bindaround the feet, ankles, and throatsof only the best bamboos.I used an ice pick for an awl,a fish knife to carve finger holes,and a scythe to shape the mouthpiece.I had my flutes.*When the War came,I told myself I lost nothing.My land, which was barren,was not actually mine but leased(we could not own property)and the shacks didn't matter.What did were the power lines nearbyand that sabotage was suspected.What mattered to mewere the flutes I burnedin a small fireby the bath house.*All through Relocation,in the desert where they put us,at night when the stars talkedand the sky came downand drummed against the mesas,I could hear my fluteswail like fists of windwhistling through the barracks.I came out of Camp,a blanket slung over my shoulder,found land next to this swamp,planted strawberries and beanplants,planted the dwarf pines and tended them,got rich enough to quitand leave things alone,let the ditches clog with silt againand the bamboo grow thick as history....Support the Show.Support the show

Welcome back! I feel like this video is full of cozy vibes! I've wanted to do this kind of video for awhile and was really hoping I wouldn't have to edit my foot out of my mouth, haha. This is literally how I spend a lot of my life, hanging out with the people I love, and crocheting for hours. I come from a very creative family and we are always making something with our hands, and it's the best, really. I truly hope you can take some warmth with you. Many blessings and the sweetest of dreams!! ❤️❤️❤️

ASMR Breathing Therapy & Positive Affirmations Whispered Personal AttentionAdvertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

Amity Starnbrook has returned and reconnects with friends and family. The rest of our heroes attempt to rest after concluding their most recent case. But even with Victoria Salem's gang disbanded, other villains still at large continue to make moves in the Portland underground. As we enter our first period of downtime in some time, be prepared for emotional moments, Adventurers. Reunions are often be bittersweet. If you enjoy our show, please leave us a review and tell us your favorite thing about the podcast. It really helps us get discovered by new listeners, it doesn't take long, and we'd love to share your kind words on our social pages. Thanks Adventurers~! Follow our TikTok, Instagram, and Threads - @storysquadcast And our other socials using this handy link hub - https://linktr.ee/TheStorytellerSquadJoin our Community Discord~! - https://discord.gg/ZxNXCamrceSupport our Patreon and you'll be helping us directly with our production! - https://www.patreon.com/thestorytellersquadThis week we are promo swapping with Memester of the Week ( https://linktr.ee/memesteroftheweek ) You can find their socials @MemesterOTWPodMusic:“When We Try” by Airae“Cherry Picking” by Alfie-Jay Winters“Capture This” by Alec Slayne“Paper and Ink” by David Celeste“Sweet Oblivion” by David Celeste“Never Say No” by Clarence Reed“Memories of Her” by David Celeste“I Give Ye My Spirit” by Bonnie Grace“Engulfed in Light” by Clarence Reed“Tracker” by Christoffer Moe Ditlevsen“Solemn” by Bonnie Grace“The Antibody” by Alec Slayne“Last Man Standing” by Dream Cave“Final Heartbeat” by Experia“Probable Cause” by Experia“Don't Let It Get You Down” by Dream Cave“Lethal Secrets” by Christoffer Moe Ditlevsen“Heartbroken” by Jon Bjōrk“An Abyss of Sadness” by Jon Bjōrk“Up and Above” by Trailer Worx“Fireplace Guardian” by Experia“Path of Solitude” by Jon Bjōrk“The Whispered” by Kateryna Storcheus“What the Wind Brought” by Francis Wells“I Won't Give You Up” by Almost Here“Breeze of Summer” by Golden Age Radio“Sun Melt Waves” by Oman“Feel the Breeze” by Tomas Skyldeberg“Light Em Up (Instrumental Version)” by Daniel Gunnarsson“Love and Friendship” by David Celeste“Forgotten Tears” by Magnus Ringblom“Sincerity” by Gavin Luke“Affinity” by Gavin Luke“Sleeping Among the Stars” by Gavin Luke“As a Gift” by Francis Wells“The Happiness We Once Knew” by Dream Cave“Coffee and Lemonade” by Gold in June“Lost Senses” by Sage Oursler“In Frozen Waters” by Hampus Naeselius“The Shadow” by Christoffer Moe Ditlevsen“Uncovered Secrets” by Sage Oursler“Views From the Other Side” by Magnus Ringblom“Melancholic Reflection” by Magnus Ludvigsson“All is Good Again” by Almost Here“Drive-Through Dinner” by Magnus Ringblom“Such is Life” by Oakwood Station“That's How I Like It” by Oakwood StationMusic Tracks and SFX courtesy of: Epidemic Sound (www.epidemicsound.com), Monument Studios, and Dark Fantasy StudiosTracks by Alexander Nakarada (www.creatorchords.com) Licensed under Creative Commons BY Attribution 4.0 License

Welcome back to Thanks for The Rewind Podcast with your favorite married couple hosts, Lissy and Freddy Correa! Join us as we unpack these compelling stories, share our perspectives, and provide an exclusive behind-the-scenes look into the latest happenings in entertainment and beyond! In this thought-provoking installment, we delve into the fascinating concept of simulation theory. Join us as we explore the idea that we consciously choose to inhabit this earthly realm, selecting our roles and characters to embark on the journey of life, yet our memories are mysteriously wiped clean upon arrival.We recount intriguing anecdotes, including Lissy's encounter with the inexplicable and the whispered message that left her pondering the unknown. Plus, we dissect the enigmatic behavior of Diddy as he takes to Instagram, posting while simultaneously disabling comments, sparking speculation and intrigue. But the conversation doesn't stop there! Prepare yourself for a wild ride as we share a jaw-dropping tale involving a young woman who defies expectations and conventional wisdom, becoming pregnant through a seemingly improbable means. --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/tftrshow/message

On this episode, we're thrilled to welcome Tommy from the Let's Get Freaky podcast. Tommy brings a wealth of captivating experiences, from his upbringing in a haunted house to encounters with shapeshifters and eerie late-night calls from disembodied voices of children. Be sure to catch Tommy's episodes wherever you enjoy podcasts, and now also on YouTube. Dive into the world of the Let's Get Freaky podcast once again for spine-tingling tales and intriguing discussions.https://linktr.ee/letsgetfreakyhttps://linktr.ee/afkdiscussionshttps://linktr.ee/exploringwithphill

Today's wrestling news, including...What The Rock Whispered To Cody Rhodes On WWE SmackDown!AEW's Cash Wheeler Facing Criminal Charges!AEW Star "Didn't Even Answer" Phone Call To Return To WWE!When Did Triple H Find Out He Had To Use The Rock For WWE WrestleMania?!ENJOY!Follow us on Twitter:@AdamWilbourn@MichaelHamflett@WhatCultureWWE Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Hi, thank you for the great questions! :) Here's a quick time link directory for each question: 01:25 -" What are some of the creative obstacles you encounter? Artists' block, low motivation, etc..." by t3ripley 04:40 -"Some of your viewers including myself claim that only your older videos are ASMR inducing. How would you comment on that?..." by magda_polish 08:23 -"Will you consider doing meet-and-greets?" by Angela Mababangloob 10:49 -"What is your purpose or mission in life?" by Maria Reveron 14:00 -"What makes you happy?" by Julianna Giovannetti 17:00 -"Do you watch any other YouTubers? Besides asmrtists?" by Emma Oravec by Melissa Anthony: 18:20 -"What's your version of a perfect pizza?" 19:27 -"What type of music do you listen to?" 22:34 -"What's your favorite book? What is it about?" (link to the book I mention http://amzn.to/2dZb7pl) 25:50 -"Do you like rainy days or snowy days more?" 26:50 -"...how do you see the global internet community reacting to ASMR...? How do you think ASMR can make that transition?..." by Justin Francis 32:52 -"Aren't you getting sleepy while editing your own videos?..." by Asmr Zeitgeist 34:00 -"Why do you think you stand out from all of the other ASMRtists on YouTube?... What makes you original?" by Julia Haviland 36:00 -"What was it like transitioning into the US?... What was the strangest thing about the US for you?..." by Brittany Lawrence 40:10 -"What are your favorite meals at home? What are your favorite restaurants? (41:42) How do you stay in shape? (42:57)" by Julie Cosentino 46:01 -"The practice of relaxation is something that is very close to a spiritual philosophy, so one might ask me if you also do meditation, Yoga, thetaHealing or if you read books on spirituality." by Anthony Sky 48:09 -"When you go back to visit Russia what's some of your favorite things to do and places there?" by Leashy Yami No Tenshi 50:18 -"...And where would you like to travel to if money was no option?.. What is your 5 year plan? (53:00)" by Carey Barrett 57:56 -"Do you like horror movies? If so. Which are your favorite?" by Huub Bakker 59:22 -"Do you find it increasingly difficult to provide unique content, owing to the huge success of you and several other ASMR artist?" by Simon Smith 1:00:54 -"...Are there any plans to start a Patreon?" by Tom Keely 1:03:20 -"What is a happy memory you have from first being in America? What is something you didn't expect to miss so much from Russia? (1:05:20)" by Erin Roche 1:09:06 - about Tyson, and my favorite animal. 1:10:50 - veganism and vegetarian lifestyle 1:12:22 -"...What percentage of your day or week do you live in English? Is there still any Russian in your routine? ..." by Radek Piskorski 1:15:04 - about fame 1:16:38 - bath or shower 1:16:54 - pajamas or sleep gown 1:17:47 - who drives? 1:17:57 - do you cook everyday? 1:18:34 - goodbyes and soft touches on your beautiful face ♥ Thank you for your questions, I appreciate your time! :) #ASMR #GentleWhispering #relax 10/11/16 --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/maria-gentlewhispering/message Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/maria-gentlewhispering/support

 A woman is weeping over a covered body on a street in Gaza. She's surrounded by people. She turns to the camera and screams: “All this is because of the dogs of Hamas.”  And then two men grab her and literally silence her. They hold a hand over her mouth.  What if we could hear real stories from people living in Gaza about how Hamas treats them?  The Center for Peace Communications is helping to do just that with the video testimony they've published in their “Whispered in Gaza” and “Voices in Gaza” projects. In this episode, Joseph Braude (president of the Center for Peace Communications) joins Ron Steslow to discuss how Gazans talk about Hamas, the way they are treated and who they blame for the war. Segments to look forward to: (03:03) Joseph's background and how it shaped his understanding of the Arab world. (05:30) The “Whispered in Gaza” project. (09:09) The challenges and process of creating the “Whispered in Gaza” project amid the repressive Hamas regime.  (10:08)  Joseph recounts emotional stories gathered from Gazans, revealing the harsh realities of life under Hamas. (10:38)  The discussion turns to how well these stories represent the views of Gazans and the broader implications for Palestinian society. (12:12)  Ron and Joseph discuss the challenges and biases in media coverage of the Gaza situation. (25:00)  How the global perception of Hamas has been disconnected with the realities in Gaza.  (30:00)  Exploring how Gazans view the October 7th Attack, Israel's response, and how they blame Hamas for the humanitarian crises. (32:16)  Challenges to delivering aid to those who need it most in Gaza. (35:12) Discussion on the possibilities of change in the governance of Gaza. (36:33) Joseph offers clarity on common misunderstandings about the Israel-Palestine conflict. (42:40) Joseph shares the plea from their interviewees that their voices be heard.  (45:17) Final thoughts on how listeners can show meaningful support to Gazans striving for change. Watch the video testimony in Whispered in Gaza: https://bit.ly/3GnQyRA Follow Ron and Joseph  on Twitter: https://twitter.com/RonSteslow https://twitter.com/josephbraude Email questions and thoughts to podcast@politicology.com.  Can you leave us a 5-star review on Apple Podcasts? It's a big help