SUNDAYS @ 8 {SEASON 4}

copy + paste. -ū. a lesson: Per your request. I never truly believed in a world where a girl like me could end up with a guy like Sonny, so I made a much too honest mistake, which was completely eradicated with a punishment so swift I could hardly understand or comprehend it. And the games we played. And it was, a game. I got sick of having Sonny, or the remnants of, hanging over me in such a way I couldn't see past my own nose; and luckily, with Luis, the nose was no match, and neither the lips, or the eyes—when I rarely caught them— so at least now, in my mind I could individualize him entirely, not that I hadn't already tried. But—his striking tribal vibration called out to me, for at least everything I needed to know and see from him; everything I needed, I got—and everything I wanted was so clearly fabricated in chaos right in front of me, that again nothing mattered, and, as awful as it was, I was actually glad to have reestablished my emotions; I was, though body tarnished, at least a woman—and, though easily shifted, now that I had given what I saw not fit to keep for either Sonny, or Dillon—since I couldn't shake the essence of either of them in the most non-traditional sense, though seeming by now that Sonny Moore was the man who owned the world that I was just simply existing in, and Dillon Francis, who I couldn't bear to call “the second choice”, but who had not chronologically been my first, either—was simply a fragment of a figment of imagination, in my mind and in my heart, as my soul was in a state of omnipotence so whole, that it was every part of me together becoming the whole world at once, for a time—or either, no time at all—because truly, I hadn't believed in such a notion for so long. I offered up my everything I could to the man who was willing to give to me shelter in exchange for work, which I was willing to honestly do; I had never sought to take advantage of any of it, and in fact saw from this project a cascading dream—what could be, and what I might make of it, with the proper energy in place. But, at least for now, my energy was once again in a state of recovery, after what may have been foolishly, or with outright wise intention to reveal what would become of such a bold and brutish choice; Luis kept the same tribal traditions and traits I had become so drawn to, in a sense, much longer than I had any He wanted me to take the keys, but I honestly from the bottom of my soul wanted to see how badly he could hurt me in front of my own eyes—I already wore the insignia to match my Deathwish, and any true globalist would know the shape and form of the OWSLA logo, and the moniker from which it came—and which I still stood for, despite the honest-to-goodness wreckage I had been tumbled through; I had given up on Sonny, at least romantically—and by that, I mean to say that I had altered my perception just so that settling became a more likely probability, than keeping my celibacy in the painful waiting, as my maternal body became overripe with sexlessness. What. Is THIS. It's just—nothing. wtf. Now that I had nearly an entire album, there wasn't much else I could do but sit and wait for something else magical in the musical realm to happen; now I hated Skrillex, but there was truly no escaping him, or lt, whatever “it” was—there was something in me that would love him—Sonny, the person— forever, as infinitely promised, but now that I was preoccupied with Dillon Francis and his terrible mustache, it was at least enough of a distraction to act as a decoy; as Luis had displayed, Sonny Moore was himself a rockstar—and if the somewhat dirty, alcoholic but incredibly fit and overly-attractive and nearly-penniless Mexican doppelgänger could snatch up as much pussy as he did, then Sonny—or “Skrillex”— or whatever combination of the two that had collided with my entirety in its ugly famousness could and had done much worse—with Kayla Lauren as the icing on the cake, and his more than likely black-magic practicing photographer following me around for upwards of going on four years in the form of obnoxious coughing, of course— ending in the display of affliction which was Luis—I learned more about myself than anything else: I needed to be loved, but probably would never, I realized, and so—without needing much force, I voluntarily escalated my Imaginary Friendship with Dillon Francis to the next level: I imagined myself as taken, if only not to be distracted by the longing for partnership and comeraderie—no matter what the outcome would be. After reinstating my Instagram in a cry for help, an outburst to the universe, indeed a plea to be located and someway saved from the loveless nothing that had been homelessness, joblessness, blackness, and everything else nobody wanted or had time for—not to mention the irritation in merely having to be, I again fell victim to the insanity of rampant celebrity fascination—of course culminating in sneaking a peak at Dillon—as by now, I could fathom i would at least have a laugh or ten at his antics, perhaps without an exaggerated cascade into the madness of my nature—which would cause me primarily to worry about him, or his mental wellness, knowing full-well in wholehearted omnipotence that the statue on Rose Avenue fashioned in his likeness might have been placed there as a suggestion that a Happy Machine almost always doubles as a Sad Human. Under the harrowing realización that in fact, he may also now be taken, of course by none other than yet another one of those privileged, upper echelon do-nothings…or, rather—do everything's—because, the opportunity not only never needed to present itself, but was readily available from birth, in addition to an array of a plethora of things not only I never had, but—if I did—had fought for. Still, for some reason, it made sense to keep writing either for him or about him, as, if I was going to be followed by coughing soulless bodies, I must have been, in my mind, anyway—somewhat important in some way. The truth of it was, I could love anyone I wanted—but no one wanted to really love me. So I pretended Dillon Francis did, always keeping in mind Sonny didn't (or just couldn't) when I needed him to most, which of course was forced from not knowing I needed it at all. Looking at the clock, it was 10:31 exactly, which both reminded me of the cost of a cold coconut, and the day I had moved to Los Ángeles, after fleeing Alaska—eventually, I would claim to be from Malibu entirely, in a nod to the psychological torture and programming The State had allowed—not a coincidence, after also happening in Utah, but being treated fairly in California, i wasn't exactly as delusional as I was deliberately programming myself; at least I loved myself, and even began to love my body, since no man could—they all had their Kayla Laurens—and I was dead set enough on getting a puppy and disappearing back into obscurity that I could also force myself to pretend none if it mattered. I had coffee in the pot, but didn't know for what, as even writing this very paragraph I was growing sad, reflecting upon all the emotions previously thought to be gone; I had been walking the line between absolute sobriety and a series of out of body escapades in an attempt to reset the planetary alignment, which had somehow—jokingly of course, as I knew exactly how—been thrown off and out of balance—now I was undoubtedly falling in love with Dillon Francis—but, here I was, not completely out of love with Sonny, and, knowing the world of wonder the Illuminati was, knew surely now that anything I loved would be caught by something with a perfect body any man could or would love. Still, I often drifted off into the plot of something I wrote once, but couldn't decide what to call it— but, tried to remember it was… The Missdventures of DJ and CC Of course, a spin-off of—- The Babysitter We'll start with that one. It is like cheaper by the dozen, but more fucked up. Way more fucked.