LOV. -Ū.

[The LA Standard] Oh, You're on my mind Your on my mind My mind My, my You're on my mind You're on my— My, my— You're on my— You're in my My—mind You're on my mind You're in my mind You're on my Thought I should say That I just like the way you Say my name Then you walk away— Thought I should say Oh baby You really drive me crazy Thought I should seize the day But now I can't escape Now at night I lay away and think of you (Think of you) Now I know there's nothing else left to do Why'd you have to all in With that look on your face That you always had Goddamn, had to laugh It has been a long time “The Dead Mouse” As I trailed behind -king, silently waking in synchronicity and cadence in a triangular formation with his friend, not really a musician but more of a third wheel, the squirming of a small creature under the sole of my special edition Air Force One's which I could only feel, and not hear sent shivers rom up the base of my foot into the bottom of my spine. I thought to myself , “that's a dead mouse.” Not even realizing the semi-humor in it; I was running at full speed away from anything I had thought to love, but honestly God had been working on it's sense of humor in almost-delectable ways. “Oh, I get it .”, i thought to myself once more, before piping out into the silence of the Long Beach air, “You picked the wrong day, Mr. Mouse,” chucking, but under my breath for some reason worried that Deadmau5, or Joel, whichever thing, seemed to be foraging its way deeper into my conscious mind, and further out of my subconscious, where I kept almost everything, especially after Dillon Francis. I hate him. Okay. i guess we hate him. I hate all of them. What? no… I HATE MEN. But that–wasn't true. I loved men—I just hated that they all seemed to need so many women–or plain and simply just one, but that ‘one' was never me, unfortunately, either in their mind, or mine; like -king; Entering his dilapidated apartment, I of course had the urge to clean and remedy it, Egyptian hymns scryed into the walls and the cosmic lights of the universe cast into the ceilings–but, the space was in desperate need of a feminine touch–one I knew not to give to just anyone anymore, as I had done with my first love and all the others, becoming entangled more in the needs of man than my own; Then, I was, as Nick said, a true submissive, and I had been given specific instructions to be weary of the darkness that would result from submitting to the wrong kind–and-while in my mind All Is One, I was all in-and-nothing in love with whatever I had created in my own mind with lust, sapiosexuality, and the love of creativity and imagination all rolled into the goulish overkill of what might have been with any or all of them, had I been born with the right skin tone, the right figure–and of course, the right connections. I woke up the next morning–Saturday morning, Christmas Eve, pissed as all get out–all of my roommates were scrolling drones–room dwellers with less to do than just sit on their phones in bed, not moving much and taking up way too much of my precious alone time, which was rare; I had been given a bunch of particularly annoying roommates; One, a 22-year-old from New York who liked to talk on the phone and drink too much–who apparently had a boyfriend kind enough to pay for her room, but was nowhere to be found, and just-as-well was probably getting along with someone else, as she seemed to need more male attention than I could even stand. I thought, “Maybe some Techno music will make her leave.” “Earplugs still firmly planted in my brain, I queued up ‘Techno House Elephant”, probably opting for something even harder–something like ‘The Shell', by Snails, if she decided to stay around beyond the 30 or 40 minute playtime of the EP- but then again, I myself might just leave by then, as it was reaching towards noon, and, after a disappointing Acai bowl just the night before, I was craving a more put-together one–and though my aversion to the Whole Foods across the way which I still loved, I was growing tired of the place, and probably of all y surroundings–I was stuck with too many people who I didn't like, with no other choice at all really but to just sit through it, unable to afford more privacy and my body unable to work two full time minimum wage jobs. I was horny, hair disheveled, and in bad need of a manicure and pedicure, which I could afford, but hadn't the energy to pursue; It had been a long week, and I was haunted by my failed dreams of becoming someone, anyone other than who I was -likable, of course, but not pretty enough to have any real fun in the city, and of course, anything I was attracted to at all only reminded me of y awful placement as a black girl in a white girl's world. I hadn't thought to be jealous, at least, of jy roommate , which seemed to be her placement in the Matrix: making me jealous that she was beyond petite, toting a child's figure, which of course men seemed to adore – the notion of pedophelia being a blurred line between attraction and sexuality I still had yet to understand. The men I seemed to find myself particularly attracted to were of course out of my league, my sapiosexuality of course always getting the better of me– and now, a new tipping point in the alt-right insanity that had to have been the confines of my inner mind itself. It shouldn't have been bothering me as much as it was, but it was–and there was going to have to be an elemental change in my coping mechanisms, before I altogether dropped off into an intricate world that seemed to be designed to torment me with remnants from an old world; though I was no longer married, it seemed as though there was nothing else really in the world left for me It wasn't working. My roommate had asked very nicely twice for me to turn down my music, but I just wanted her to leave. I needed a moment of calm and clarity to myself, after a week of too much nonsense at all to make anything worth it, I wasn't making any real music, and my mixtape series had come to a plateau, after posting [The Next Level] and feeling that the energy of that mix couldn't be topped– if I was going to be a real DJ, I knew I needed to play that way every time, but it seemed that day that a new energy entirely had taken over for exactly 1 hour 8 minutes, and had resulted in the perfect mix. Now my other callings were beckoning–remembering that I was, in fact, a gifted writer, having just the day before publisted a telling entry based on my surreality, merged with my sexuality coming to a peak and noone to be found in my realm worth breaking my celibacy for; It wasn't fair at all that Drake Bell had to buy his own whippets–nor that I had to be the reciprocate, working at the smokeshop with just enough time to be reminded of my own failures, my childhood dreams, or what seemed to be the curse of a body literally not even a mother could love. I wasn't pretty or well to do enough for anyone I actually liked, and though I could have at any point easily gone to the dark side for what may have been decent dick, It wouldn't have been worth it in any effect to lay down with anyone who actually wanted to lay down with me–or at least who had made it apparent, of course–black dudes I would have been happy to keep just as friends, as if there ever was such a thing between myself, apparently in a body attractive to black men, and repellant to my type “Goddammit” I thought. Drake Bell looked good: too good, actually– the reason I had ignored him intentionally the first time he came into the store, and before I had realized who he was; not that I would have believed Nick if he hadn't come back a couple nights later. “Fuck this.” What's a girl to do in the midsts of being reminded of What? Nevermind. What. I don't know how to word this. Well, try. ‘Nick' Get it? Very funny, God. But God is Funny, Undoubtedly. WHY. Why what? WHY would you do this? By the end of The Shell, I was ready to leave myself; I wanted an acai bowl, and had no intentions of heading towards the gym, but needed to– I was, at least for the moment, okay with my figure–though something about the experience had pissed me off just enough to know that I needed to return to ‘The Hollywood Diet' ; there seemed to be an attraction to the vibration of fame and fortune that was ever fleeting, and with a plethora of one-dimentional fuck-boxes that paraded around in model hot bodies, spending upwards of thousands in whippets – of course, there were the upper echelon women, too– the high bar, classy and well-achieving type I knew I wouldn't see any time between the Graveyard hours of tomfuckery at which I was posted in this Downtown Los Angeles Smokeshop–and it was surprising even to me that I had chosen this employer over Aziz, who had insulted my intelligence enough that I felt no need to explain my disappearance–but now God was playing tricks with my mind. WHY GOD. Because. WHY. Because. IT ISN'T REAL. A strange thing was happening inside my sick and twisted mind ; Repressed sexuality collided with rage in the seat of my soul, and there could be only one thing left to blame for any of it. Hollywood. It's always Hollywood. And it was–always Hollywood. They know how to pick ‘em. That's the point. The miniature pinata, my only real prize from having worked at Higher Livin, for all and none of what it was worth; I felt myself sinking into an abyss of carelessness, on the verge of a bender of sorts, sexual or otherwise–I had again fallen victim to the cruelty of Hollywood's chaotic clammerings of magic and insensible display of wonder, and what could be. Now I had an array of men I desired ranging in a spectrum, not all together alike, but not altogether separate: I did seem to have a type, and a tendency to be attracted to what was clearly out of my league, at least for the moment I knew that Hollywood had had it's cyclops eye on me since my early years, and perhaps even at birth– but I was unaware of how to break the barrier between this– poverty and mediocrity–, and the limelight of success in the entertainment industry. For some or any reason, Drake Bell and his Whippets had caused a flat-out degradation of my exterior and formerly safe reality; My multidimensional world was blending together almost harshly with the taste of reality that I was still working an almost-dead-end job, which required too much of me. I was a easy egg to crack: my attraction to anything could be calculated in an algorithmic cocktail of 1 + 2 = 3. Hollywood could do anything. After throwing Skrillex in my tent of course, there was absolutely no denying how easily I could be manipulated with the wrong type of attention: not to ever think I would be lucky enough to get any dick out of it, but at least I was writing; First about Jon, Then about Sonny, Then About Dillon Francis –Sometimes about Joel, And now about Drake Bell, Who, to be fair, I had begun writing about some time ago in Mexico, when I had decided that all of the characters and personalities of the fourth dimension were still alive out there somewhere, and the only way tha SUPACREE could ever exist is if they did too. I wanted to cry. I felt I was being tormented, played with–and of course, rather than to act in rebellion, I submitted, as probably at least somewhat expected, still upset at any of the aforementioned for living my dream life, or probably just as jealous of the innumerous women that they had their pick of at any moment because of it, my ugly, too-blacl-too-fat self included from anything I might have once wanted, besides a peaceful and restful peace of death, suicide once again in my mind's eye and in my grips. “Maybe I should just do some whippets,” SUPACREE was nowhere to be found, really–but Sunni Blu was making the rounds in another word away, just a parallel and a stones throw from mine. “Fuck it.” –And, I'm not into you, I'm just that miserable I ain't got much to do But think about my every move And every movie I've seen you in, For the moment. At least this Flum gives me a headrush, And just enough Remove my trust, Perhaps, move from this gloomy room I just assume that this is what you do To keep me moving So much for an encore So much in store; A bargain for a robbery, A sob story on your arms; An informant, A mormon, an adorable girl, an honorable martyr, a star, A scar across my heart, For all you are, And all I wanted, Too far gone, But not quite yet forgotten On my awful God: A mockery, we all are Aren't we? Stop. I just can't go on any longer, I– I can't go on anymore. It's just a storefront, it's , It's just a front, or something What do you want from me? What more than just a start, To stop working too hard, At the corner market, (and more on my art) I'm up in arms, And out of armor, All at once “What did you do this for?” –I asked my God, And now, she won't respond, She just laughs harder and harder. Do I scare you? Only a little. Huh. What? Nothing.. I hate you. ihateyou. Eventually, The Ascended Masters will intervene. They already have. Oh, Christ Almighty. He's not coming. JESUS CHRIST ALMIGHTY [Answering Phone] Jesus Christ Almighty –WHERERU? JESUS CHRIST ALMIGHTY I TOLD YOU I'D GET THERE GODDAMNIT. Fascinating. Do my eyes deceive me, Or Is there a secret between us: A secret illusion; Should I bury it, Or keep it neatly And unseen, Between my knees, And where you need me? Is there a thing that I should need, But never speak– I'll keep it in my sweet release To dream beliefs of evil Seen, aquamarine revines, And pulsing veins, –and stolen hearts, Not passing judgment, But just passing by To hide, to pass the time To find a high, Align in color Fly, Write another rhyme, Or wire fireflies a transfer of light, Like blue eyes reflect to mine. WHY would you write this? WHY. I hate blue eyes. That's racist. No it isn't. Congratulations on making it into my aerospace, unscathed. A coincidence, this is not. I have something for you. I don't need anything from you. That's because I gave you everything you need. Right. I have everything. RIght. So you should know whatever you need comes at a high price. What makes you think I need something? You said you have something for me? Yes I do. You don't seem the gift giving type. I'm not. So, what do you want from me? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? Oh. it's another one. What's he need? Probably nothin, really Oh, it's something. This shouldn't be happening. I agree. why is this bothering me. Google it's self had deleted half my entry, which was admittedly sloppily thrown together, at nearly a full episode's length; probably for the best, as I was becoming more intolerant of my societal responsibility by the moment, and increasingly self destructive asa result. It was stil chaotic; fame kept coming closer towards me and then leaping away, but not out of reach or out of sight, but rather than chase it, I merely calmly strode forward in a never-changing pace, not rushing and always careful to remain calm, even when filled with fury. I had become unrecognizably fit, chaste, and a remarkably healthy eater; I was all together well, besides in the areas of romance and sexuality of course. I was ready to pounce, but timing would be key, and patience the virtue; Man, the Illuminati is high-key hilarious. The first time he wandered into the storefront, I of course immediately avoided any direct eye contact, as I typically did with any attractive Caucasian male, especially in thick glasses—not that I noticed who he was at all before Nick mentioned it—and not that I actually did believe Nick at all when he did; I had immediately looked away, anyhow, and rightly so. “You remember that show Drake & Josh?” , asked Nick coyly, as the man exited “What about it?” , I asked unassumingly “That's that nigga Josh Bell”, he nodded— “Oh”, I bawked, thinking twice to correct him, but instead opting to seem unaffected—mostly I thought he was lying, but it at least had sparked my imiagination enough to remember I had begun writing about Cosmo and Wanda's life after the conclusion of Fairly Oddparents, not yet having returned until now to inspiration—suddenly I was flooded with the remnants of a song I had once loved enough to keep on repeat, which I was of course prompted to listen to as soon as possible, and with which a story unfolded in front of my eyes and beneath my feet, as I left to work the next day with my then-newest mix ringing in my ears—and an actual narrative for Timmy Turner himself, now reaching middle age, as I was— and, to my suprise, a couple nights and a million lifetimes later, when the well-dressed man caught my eye again, after having resisted the urge to waste a Google just to verify what may well have been a farse—God took the liberty of playing show-and-tell—and for some reason, it was his voice, along with a quick and striking once-over, that it was in fact once more as Nick said he was—and rather than his stardom that made me nervous, it was perhaps more so that he was, in fact, extremely attractive, especially my type—and actually, probably at most—the overflow of things I had written and already published about him in my imaginary world—the place where I lived, but wasn't entirely sure anyone else was aware of. His pink sweatshirt and ball cap tempted me to Google exactly what it was Timmy Turner used to wear—in my creative headspace, I thought to myself, blushing a little as he walked away, still swinging to the Detroit Drill music in the background “What's Timmy Turner up to tonight?” Perhaps it was my sex drive getting the better of me—I had wholeheartedly been indulging in the tater tots at the hot bar for three nights exactly—but at least I was back in the gym, where I listened over my mixes, playing over Timmy Turner by Desiigner, envisioning the Fairyless Timmy's trials, intermingling the fictional trademark into my multidimensional science fiction fantasy-action world—and somewhat hoping the real-life Drake has no way to creep into my ultra-conscience hyper sexual fantasies, disallowing my mind to run too wildly. It was late at night, or rather, early in the morning—and I was just the girl at the smokeshop—meanwhile, in the fourth dimension, Timmy Turner was more than likely.. TIMMY TURNER open the registers. CASHIERS Fuck that, bro— —no, way, man —on God— TIMMY TURNER produces a Glock. OH SHIT —OH HELL NAW. The cashiers raise their arms in surrender. TIMMY TURNER Now open the register. —Alright man, ok Oh, fuck, man— [The cashiers obey his command—the registers spring open, clinging.] TIMMY TURNER Cool, now—in the bag. CASHIERS All of it?! Come on, man. TIMMY TURNER Oh yeah, I want all that shit! [He leaves, palming a soda on the way out.] TIMMY TURNER Suckas. Timmy Turner- Acoustic Version, Various Artists BLŪ / SUPACREE skates to work in the heart of downtown Los Angeles 3 weeks later: Cosmo. What. Get up. What. What do you want. Get up. Stop touching me! No! Get up! What?! —just get up. What is it? It's Timmy. TIMMY. TIMMY WHAT. He made a wish. He—he did?! YES. WHERE IS HE? —I don't know. INT/EXT. SMOKESHOP - 5:50 AM GET LOW It's too early for this. Can I get some whippets? Yes. LEGENDS: EPISODE 3 “Hoes Love Whippets” Timmy, what happened? ...I don't remember. The True Origins of the Bampheramphs are Unknown. I know what they are. No you don't--nobody knows. Yah. I'm nobody. *Running at exactly 140 BPM* SAMMI! SAMMI! SAMMI!! WHAT? Listen to me! I'm—listening to something else— What is it? Something more important. That cannot be! Why?! LISTEN TO ME: What?! Something very strange is about to happen to you. To me? Yes, to you— I just said that. Just making sure. LISTEN TO ME: I've been listening… Bampheramph Camp Welcome to your dwelling. This is disgusting. I don't care. I'm beat! Yeah, me too. Dibs on top!!! Aw, no fair! [he jumps onto the top bunk; amattress spring quickly protrudes from the top of the bed] Oh, well, never mind. [another camper opens the bathroom door, to find only the foundation of plumbing for a toilet] Uhhh… where's the toilet? (From afar) It's...over here. What. You're welcome. You're welcome?! For what! Not all the cabins even have toilets. That's seriously disturbing. It's supposed to be— And why is the bathtub separate from the toilet— —or where the toilet should be— Right— Because— there are 43 of us in this quadrant; some of you are gonna have to shit and shower at the same time. What! 43 of us?! Are you blind? There's like 16 of us! I'm pretty sure there's only 9; we lost those guys. [a group of dilapidated campers huddled in a pile] Nah, they're alive… well, maybe like five of them. [immediately, the front door swings open— a drove of campers come pouring in] Alright guys, single file lines. [not even close] Perfect. What the fuck. Who are they?! Who are you? What the fuck! There's 10 beds! Learn to share. Get off me! GET OFF THE FLOOR. Mm—no, probably not… Ughuhhhuhhh—- [blows gym whistle] OH MY GOD! THEN GET UP. I'm so drunk. I've been drunk for three days. Flicker the lights. I WANT MY MOM. Too bad—she's with me! Noooo! The rise<> free your mind>< I still care Cosmo and Wanda share stories of their lives as Fairies (before becoming Godparents) with their androgynous offspring. Poof, this is reckless. You can't just go granting every wish he makes-- Why not? One, It's dangerou-- He isn't evil. Secondly, it's irresponsible. SUPACREE TURN UP, TURN UPPPPPPP!!! DRAKE BELL Goddamn, girl. SUPACREE SHUT UP, DRAKE— DRAKE (THE SINGER) WHAT I DO?! SUPACREE attempts a whippet—but the can is empty. SUPACREE not you, dumbass. DRAKE continues dusting. DRAKE BELL enters the suite. CONT'D This dumbass. She attempts another huff from the empty can. SUPACREE this shits out. DRAKE BELL Jesus Christ. JESUS CHRIST WHAT? BOTH NOT YOU. SUPACREE CONT'D —you get my whippets? Okay, this is bothering me too much. Okay. Okay. A man in colored graphic motorcycle helmet popped up on a wheelie, aligning with and then passing by me, reminding me of something that had not quite left my mind since the time of its reentry. Come on, Don't let me take this on Come on, I'm unremarkable, Honored, but on one Come on, I'm tired I'm on one You're ok one Come on! Are you alright, my guy? It's gonna kill me inside Kill me inside Just one look in your eyes It's gonna kill me inside Kill me inside Kill me inside Now, my idol— Rest your eyes and Set your mind on Fire On fire Come on! I can shrug it right off, If I want I can rub it right off on the morning With soap Are you suffering? What! Have you lost God? God, this is awful, God, I don't want it no more And I'm on one Gotta be on love Gotta be on something Watching the stars Coming on as I follow, They fall in my honor And I'm not a God— Come on, I'm just watching it all From my awesome apartment Or loft, Turn it off, though, I'm done with it God, this is awful You turn me on And the world keeps on turning I'm falling apart In the heart of Los Angeles Honestly, God, You're a Dog, (And adorable) I should be jotting my thoughts, But I'm lost in a document, Mocking my mantras And talking to God, All in awe with the colors of Love Come on. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2022 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.