Maybe I'm not afraid because it just feels temporary.
The noise in the apartment made it easy to let go, and better yet, because of the noise— the only way a pro bono lawyer might speak with me is if I was evicted— then, explaining away that from the day I moved into the apartment my mental health began to spiral and, that recovery from homelessness and having left an abusive relationship became impossible with motorcycles and modified cars circling like buzzards, gangsters slanging on the corner banging music I hated, and an all around environment of unwellness, in which I was unable to cope with the mechanisms of even the simplest tasks, after being bombarded by these hellish people. I was sure that speaking with one sort of lawyer and explaining my heavily documented case would eventually lead to meetings with another kind of lawyer who would see my case and agree that I had been attacked, and severely wounded— and eventually, probably, compensated.
It simply wasn't facet of my imagination but seemed there was sort of hate group targeted to stalk and harass me— even in Manhattan, after visiting the Apple Store, a random pair of motorcycles approached and revved their engines thunderously as I walked back to the studio, even startling another passerby, as she shook her head as if to say “that was horrible”, with this look of fear and disgruntlement. It had been two years of this for me, though, and so I was somewhat used to it. It still hurt, but not the way it used to. Inside, sort of like the way a boxer knows how to take a punch because he's trained for it.
But this was not my job, and I was not getting paid, unless I could actually put my mind together enough to assimilate some sort of strategy; a lawsuit against the property management and the city itself for allowing the harassment, and at the end of the day, it didn't much care who was responsible, and whether it was politics or street theatre— I just wanted it to stop. I could honestly say that any sort of legal action was indeed not about the money, but rather an escape. Would I live in New York if I did not have to? Not by any means, anyway, in the way I did.
Just the view alone set me off, and anytime one of the foam panels fell out of the window from sun or dust and the lot of cars and busy intersection peered through, a gut wrenching anxiety came over me like the way it did when I first saw it; even then, when I first viewed the apartment, I knew that something bad had happened here before I even moved in— and it was bad, the constant motorcycle attacks, and at one point they were not at all writeable enough off as “normal noise”, the way they used to wait until I was almost a sleep to rip through the block and create sonic booms that sounded like bombs—eventually these kinds of attacks stopped but it was around the first year that I started to realize due to these series of traumas my brain was wired differently.i understood that she's were acts of war, but why? I had no intentions of stirring anything up in this place and honestly, from the start, because I was stuck, I had just wanted to get out.
Hold on. I got two jokes.
Ok.
What was the one about—
Oh, it's so simple but since they hate black women so much it would probably make a white audience laugh.
My ex punched me so hard, I thought I was going to run for president in 2028.
That's it?
That's the joke.
That not a joke.
You're right. That's not a joke.
I'm not though.
I realized that.
Please. Don't hit me.
[beat]
Unless you hit me hard enough that I actually become the actual president.
Then, you're free to assassinate me.
Thats the joke?
Yeah.
What a horrible joke.
Yeah. Kind of.
Okay. What's the other one?
Ok.
(Who is Sean Ryan)
Idk.
[Sean Ryan was the Showrunner of The Shield, Starring Michael Chiklis and Walton Goggins__which ran from 2001-2007, and also fostered the writing career of Kurt Sutter, who went on to create Sons of Anarchy.]
Anyway.
One of the contestants from hot ones calls Sean and goes,
Sean!
And Sean's like:
Whaddup?
Sean! How do you do this bro?
[sean is eating ghost pepper cereal for breakfast with ice cold horchata )
Ew.
Nice.
It was gonna be milk but
SEAN EVANS
(Aside)
The cinnamon gives it a nice schwing.
Apparently,
The training for hot ones is a non-stop tolerance-topper.
Sean RYAN is always doing his best to outdo himself.
Yeaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!
Thats right.
Any fucking way.
Sean! How do you do this everyday, buddy!
Do what?
My butthole is burning!
I don't have one.
You— what?
I do not any longer have a butthole.
Beg your pardon.
I got it removed.
What.
What.
Hold on, it's a multilayer joke.
2x Joke multiplier!
Are we still playing this game?
OH YEAH!
goddamn. I really wanna see this fictional koolaid movie.
WHERE'S SETH ROGEN?
ROB LOWE is directing an episode of ENTER THE MULTIVERSE.
DIRECTOR
Quiet on Set!
He turns to DRAKE BELL who is reprising his role as TIMMY TURNER.
ROB LOWE
Sorry, is that triggering to you?
Nothing is said but instead he just shoots him a look.
really on it with the zingers today.
What can I say. I juice fasted and then ate like a normal person so maybe— I don't know.
What's that supposed to mean.
Everything is temporary.
My next run isn't scheduled until after midnight but I might climb on the Peloton for an ironic spin.
I owe everyone money.
Not in the way that I ever wanted to be this bum, but in the way that all of my jobs have been awful enough that— honestly, I never quit, it just eventually all falls apart.
I've been almost fondly remembering the—
{Season 5}
—summer in Las Vegas I had two awful jobs, no car, no place to live, and
One boss who looked like Dillon Francis—
And well.
INT. LAS VEGAS ATHLETIC CLUB. WHENEVER.
ITS OPEN 24 HOURS!!!
WHEEEEEE!!
Omg that guy looks just like Jimmy Fallon.
BEFORE
Oh, hi Jimmy.
Hey! You finally noticed.
I been noticing.
You know I'm in a screen, right?
You're in all the screens.
Not all of them.
ALL THE SCREENS
A large wall of paneled Televisions hangs above the cardio center.
…
…
MEANWHILE
For while, the dude was everywhere. And I mean—
Yo! I swear to God—
—don't do that!
— every time I look at a fucking tv, you're on it!
shhh—watch your language!
For what! You're on the Telivision, I'm not.
You are on the Television!
I'm not!
—look just— trust me I don't have enough time before we're about to cut to co—[mmerciial!]
[cuts to commercial]
That dude is weird.
Hm. That dude does look like Jimmy Fallon.
— and one boss that looked like—
Well, you get it.
Yes he does.
Very much so.
Hm.
Should I fuck him?
Ew!
No!
What!
Gross .
No. Take his job!
What?
This incompetent drunken loser was, for a very short time— my manager.
Just then when the car alarm when off, I express my not so subconscious, and must remark
To remind my dear audience that this SUPACreature
Is exponentially explicit, hence the
Sexual exploitation of he who is hereby known
As
[Not] Jimmy Fallon.
He was maybe the worst boss I ever had.
If not the worse, definitely one of them.
He was always drunk,
Slept on the job,
Was inappropriately explicit,
Sexualized everything,
And bitterly racist,
Lived with his mother,
Had social problems
And was,
Of course—
Completely incompetent.
Two hosts sit watching the serason premiere with popped corn.
Oh. That's clever
That's funny.
See, those redactions could have been anybody.
They were anybody.
M— Jimmy!?
Which Jimmy?!
Last time I had a visionary dream about Jimmy Kimmel he was holding a white candle.
At any rate, they were out of black, and I have no idea what that's supposed to mean, but I can only assume that when any host takes an extended hiatus, it's some kind of
Contractual agreement.
Ah-hem…
Sign it.
I don't know… about… that.
And why not?
This creature is one of the most powerful in the multiverse.
[Jimmy Fallon]
TINA FEY
What. Are you serious.
—and that's my time.
Just trust me on this—
NO.
Pretty please!
Oh, welL, since you made it pretty.
Really?
NO. Absolutely not.
You are increasingly difficult.
I learned to brew at thought at wishing wells
Again, I gallop, striving to dance past the forced illusions of a non-corrupt decision,
The end is near and also, simply
The Division.
ENTER THE MULTIVERSE: L E G E N D S —
The Rock and And the Kite Part X:
The Division Bell
Part 10?!
Yes.
How is it part ten? Where are parts 6 through 9
I don't know.
I have no clue.
(You have no idea)
Oh. I get it.
The parenthesis are the voice of God.
(It's all the voice of God,
These are just more strong dictations.)
Fix your diction!
Fix your Dick Nixon if it don't swing left;
On a finite curve,
It switches with any direction,
Irregular, my guest;
I could have asked that.
I have no tact,
And no talent,
No candles left,
I can't relax!
I just happen to have
What I know I can't stand,
And that's—
High standards for a man.
So I imagined a fantasy.
My next run was scheduled for midnight but I'd spent the month suffocating and suffering in waist trainers navigating vampires and I had even been stood over by the actual Devil herself on the subway ride home.
What even was the point of running all this way and eating all this well If no matter who I tried to love would really turn to the same old evil thing that wanted me dead in the first place?
Being honest, I still didn't know what it was at all— but maybe it was always going to try to bite me no matter what I did.
So It didn't matter much when the overdue balance came equal to the amount I needed to purchase club standard CDJs, I didn't care about anything because I was never treated fairly with honest or good intentions.
Not even from my birth, or my mother, and perhaps that was the problem. My human perception of the world was trained by this thing who could never really see my value or worth in the way that it would take to be fully loved. Something was always wrong with me, and so something was always wrong with the world.
All I knew was, I wasn't panicking though it had been an obvious attack— the email had sent as I orgasmed, after a series of the same old system of stress I'd been in for years— revving engines and long bangs and other methods of keeping me from reaching climax— but it was my body, and so just because I was under surveillance for whatever reason; perhaps they were listening and this self release made them uncomfortable, but I needed it. It had been years since my last loving embrace— since my last touch, or stroke, or kiss— and so yes, while admittedly my senses were out of place, they were also heightened in that I knew what was happening in my apartment was wrong, and the worse it got, the more I kept track of the things that were happening, the better off I'd eventually end up, just by respecting myself and my own time. I needed recovery; running down the the gym to be hatestalker by some half naked model or some egotistical little man throwing and slamming things around was going to do no better for my psyche even with a run considered; instead of a mile of mantras, it would instead become a mile of trying to ignore whatever whoever had followed me into the gym was doing to get my attention.
Luckily I had a Peloton in my room and with any luck at all, by the afternoon I'd have all the focus in the world to ride it— but for now I was writing, and thinking, and feeling my insides out after a long month sonic alchemy, which had also resulted in my finally reaching the conclusion that I was indeed being followed around.
But why?
Lil bitz
Yo imagine if Amazon had a comment section.
Not like reviews but an actual like—
Comment section for the ads and products.
Don't act like it wouldn't be the little place to just, like, go.
[The Festival Project™ ]
{Enter The Multiverse}
L E G E N D S:
ICONS
Tales of A Superstar DJ
The Secret Life of Sunnï Blū
Ascension
Deathwish
-Ū.
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