4:20 - 555 | Return To Sender | 555 - 4:20

I thought running three miles a day would keep her away—and staying away from the toxic lower vibrations—those who gathered in the hallway to socialize and Esther needed one another to survive—would keep her away— But on that day, though running my typical 5k in under 30 minutes, not to include the mile walk to the bus stop, and the mile walk back from such—which added up to an almost-Madonna—around 5 and a half miles give or take total—only to return to this, yet another body so susceptible to demonic possession that it literally hurt to stand, in the room which I had peacefully inhabited for quite some time, alone— “I bet you're suprised to see me here, aren't you?” She said. She had been hiding at the end of the bed, almost invisible—but the vibration of the room itself had changed with her presence—and I knew from the moment I entered the space that someone was there. “Not really,” I muttered—and I wasn't. I knew it was 50/50, that with the onslaught of new people that had been brought over from the Bronx Pause “Lil biiiiiitz” Dudes are such little bitches at the gym. Why the fuck are you throwing your weights? Why—on earth are you tossing those little five pounders across the room. What the fuck. And when they're lifting? The fuck! The grunting and yelling “Aaaaaaaagggghhhhh” Bro. What are you trying to fucking show? Fucking pussies. “Aaaaaaaaaaagggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh” Dude that's like 25 pounds. My left foot weighs as much. Do you see me grunting every time I take a fucking step? “Aaaagggggggghhhhhh!!!!” That shit is not cute. That does not make you more. Strong, I promise. I'm a whole a female. I promise. When I see dudes like this at the gym I'm like “You little bitch.” “Naaaaaauuuuvhhhhhhhhh!!!!” Fucking pussy. I guess that's why at planet fitness they have the “lunk alarm” That shit made me quit. Easy. I was like “Cancel my shit.” No. Then dudes who loom at themselves in the mirror too much as their working out. “Dude, you're gay.” Fucking stop it. Dudes be looking at themselves in the mirror at the gym like “Yeah, yeah.” I'm like “Dude, you should just take it in the butt.” That's gay. Don't get me wrong. There's nothing wrong with being gay. I like dudes who take it in the butt. Makes you more of a man. But— be private about it. If you're looking at yourself in the mirror about to bust a nut. You've got problems, sir. “Fuck it, I'm just going to do whatever I want.” I thought to myself—I had been burning myself out, running myself rampant, and though making headway, it was still to no avail— my life was loveless, I was penniless, and surrounded by energy I hated—but rather than making me work harder, as it had at first, it tired me so; I felt drained of my energy, and running three miles a day, even though it was only half of Madonn's standard pre-show 6 I had read about, I much doubted anyone with such beautiful blue eyes or luxurious blonde hair had been against any of at all of the adversity or hardships I had—in fact, I theorized quite often that blue eyed blonde haired people spent so much of their lives surrounded by love and light, that they were able to live and dwell off of this energy. But love was almost nearly rarely found in the ghetto—though lust, codependency, and insequirity flourished, there was almost no love around at all—save for the occasional mothers and this r children—that is, the mothers that actually cared for their children, rather than just supplying the world with them like machines, without giving much of a care. The hundreds of immigrants in the neighborhood often seemed more like cattle than actual human beings—then—most human beings did seem to be somewhat unconscious, and more sheepish than ever—the entire world had been programmed into an unconscious lull. “I'm not running—for what?” I thought obstinately. “Nobody's paying me.” It was true, and it seemed the Illuminati was playing games with my Monty once again—I had received one out of six of the overdue backpay I had earned—and I found it uncanny the ability for the unemployment agency to act as if the money itself didn't belong to an individual—it had, after all, come out of a paycheck I had worked to earn at some point, and been withheld in the form of taxes or something rather—and, with the new burden of having someone around, especially when I wanted to be alone—I felt it relentlessless draining to keep trying to appease the white supremacy—and they had made it more than apparent that they were in control of everything, and especially the more-than-typically programmable black people who ran the homeless system— as disorganized and irritatingly out of whack as you would expect a mostly-black organization to be. I now understood my mother's own aversion to black culture, and was thankful that I hadn't been raised in the ghetto or in any place with a black majority—but now I was getting my fair share of the black world, or “the black lands” as I called them, where the white supremacy had made sure that the systematic oppression was put into and stayed in effect, not any longer governed by whites, but by blacks themselves—they seemed to even take pride in em parting the oppression on one another, which was no less than sickening, but the reality of it. Luckily, however, at least from what it looked like, the decision to — I gave up writing mid-thought, abandoning one idea for another—I had so much to do, and had been drained of my energy, especially lately, and whether it had been intentional or not, tt seemed the longer I spent in lower-vibrational environments, the more the pull of the void would set in. “I miss Equinox.” But my money, until I returned to the decks, at least—was in short supply—and I was even more offset than I had been before, in returning to work as a DJ, after waking from a dream in which Sonny had said “Nobody wants to hire you.” And since then, I had been almost relentlessly discouraged from even trying, though I thought perhaps that since returning to my ex's care, perhaps I was again being haunted by the curse set on my soul—my son, did in fact—have my eyes, and was probably excusaitiny unhappy with his father—but I had chosen to let go, or at least try to, and though I wasn't entirely devoid of love from it all, I remained detached, and focused on becoming someone, anyone else, besides the ex wife of a fat wifebeater—I had no other thoughts of my ex than this, simply “a wifebeater” he was and would remain in the back of my mind, and with every haunting cough and thought, with every energy that seemed demonic enough that it would follow me, I returned his karma. I wanted it gone, but for that to happen it would be more likely that I would have to kill myaelf again—a fate to which every thought brought me closer to at all. lil biiiiiiiiitzzzz People are too social. I mean, I'm wrong to be on the exact opposite of the spectrum, I'll admit, I'm anti social. “Don't talk to me.” The devil used to show up every once in awhile to try to discourage me. He's like “Nobody wants to be around you.” I'm like “Good, then it's working.” I put that in my vibration. “Don't come over here.” “Stay over there.” “No.” The devil was like “Nobody likes you” I'm like “Good. I don't like anybody either.” “Get. The fuck. Away.” I don't like people. But especially— You know what? I hate Latin men. They're fucking horrible. It's a cultural thing. They call it “machismo” But I'll tel you what it is. Is the most selfish thing ever. I hate it. They front as so masculine, it actually comes off as femme. And— Go ahead, cancel me. This is something I don't understand about the Latin culture at all: Why be obnoxious—on purpose? Like, Why do you guys laugh like jackals? “Hehehehehehehehe” You sound like a pack of retarded hyenas. It's— You haven't heard this? It's an egg aerated, pitched -up laugh. It's a fake laugh. But they do it on purpose. It's purposely obnoxious! “Hehehehehehehe!!!!” What the fuck. Shut up. The funny thing is, I actually appreciate a lot of the Latin culture. I really do. I love a lot of it. Believe me. I do. But not that. Not that at all. “Hehehehehehehehe”” WHY. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©