Disqualified!

It had been raining for nearly two weeks straight, besides for one day, during which I slept through its entirety; I had not been so seriously, physically ill in years— the combination of undue stress from the job I mostly hated, the crippling depression of working full time and still never having enough money for anything, and sharing my living space with 3 other, typically irritating, messy people with seemingly no home training—or perhaps, as I was learning—a common low standard of cleanliness was almost guaranteed amongst any group of people, but especially men; and I was growing to hate and resent men more and more (not that I fancied women any better, but at least respected them for being women.)

I hated everyone now, but especially myself— the grand illusion of success had been shattered living amongst the lower drudges of society too long, and working too hard—not that anyone else wasn't—in fact, my coworkers were all tired, overworked, and miserable in some way, which empathically aligned with the way I had been feeling—absorbing every toxic thing that happened into my perception for whatever reason and twisting my world into a hellish nightmare once more; at least I was willing to admit it was partly my fault; I had given up on all of my dreams, just about—abandoning them in exchange for hopes of finally having my own apartment. I just wanted to cook again—to walk around perhaps in the nude, to workout regularly enough that I felt like a human, rather than a ticking time bomb—-and I was, a ticking time bomb—forced to believe in time by the simple notion of clocking in and clocking out just to be able to afford my humanity.

It was clear that it wasn't only a homelessness crisis; there seemed to be an honest-to-God race war, blacks littered all over the streets and those of us with any energy left being depleted of it in the trade of modern slavery—most others turning to side hustles, filling in the deficit of the cost of living by selling drugs, or pussy—both of which, by now, I was sure I had no talent for.

In fact, I wasn't sure if I had any talent at all; my mantras sank into unrecognizable, unbelievable chatter in the back of my mind, which seemed more delusional than doable—I hadn't stepped foot inside a gym, even for a moment since the new year; I only felt like crying, trying to either figure out a palpable plan for suicide or escape, and though things still seemed to strangely add up, I was still out of sorts and malaligned; I was willing to admit for the first time in years that I actually needed love, rather than just wanted it—and yet the reigning white supremacy seemed to take pride and joy in knowing I'd rather die alone than to set my standards any lower—with my own circumstances too out of range for any one decent to actually consider.

I wasn't myself—in fact, I was a little bit of every single person I had been forced to be around, for the worse or for the better, and nothing at all was benefiting me besides the sleep that so easily came after sunrise, even on my nights off—Fridays and Saturday's, which I might have enjoyed, or somehow found a way to work myself into the Los Ángeles DJ circuit, which seemed, again, out of my reach and even tinged with an ever slight hint ot racism as well.

A friend of a friend of a friend of Pasquale Rotella, no coincidence, had happened into my midsts by way of joining the night crew at DTLA smoke shop, which ran about 5 other stores in within a one-mile radius of each other and scattered it's ten or so employees, including myself across the locations to fulfill the needs of the business, of course, for a humble 17.00 an hour, placing us all exactly on the poverty line and well-below a living wage, which I had dermined did not exist anywhere in the United States anymore.

I wanted more than anything to leave, but knowing that if I did leave LA again, I would probably never come back; I felt disturbed and disgusted by the lack of humanity in the city alone, but all knowing full well that the globalist state had altered even Mexico to its standards, and Mexico, being as honest as ever, even to former residents—and especially myself, after being accustomed again to climate control and flushing toilets—was pretty crappy.

My stomach pains had crippled me for the last two days, and with the amount of stress and pressure building up I had nothing good left to give the world. At all.

Strikingly suicidal, I wanted nothing to do with the with the world around me at all—I wasn't in the right place, I thought, or the right mindset; I had lost all but my last bit of strength and the energy it took to push forward, somehow, still, though, getting out of bed on time and to work early or just on time, but only because my space in a clean warm bed depended on it—just like anyone else in the city.

I was fed up with men, women, and only really ever took pure joy in dogs and children; again, at a breaking point, combing the streets for glass to slit my wrists and rest peacefully, wondering how long it would take anybody in LA to notice I was dead and not just another black woman slewn across the streets to sleep in filth (probably awhile), as sometimes the homeless smelled dead and acted like it, too, which seemed enough of a red flag at the time to speak for the white supremacy's outright hatred for people of color; it wasn't simply a homelessness crisis, income inequality, drugs, or mental health; it was a targeted gentrification as it had always been, by the same proprietors: who brought the ancestors of the modern day African Americans overseas to work, in the midsts of slaughtering the ancestors of the modern day native Americans; and there wasn't a thing you could do to convince me that Beverlywood Becky worked just as hard as anyone else did, as she complained daily over her oat milk latte of HOW HARD THINGS ARE, boasting about the cash and prizes she swept up over the holiday season from mommy, daddy, and family galore, and just looking for “the other flavor Elfbar”

‘Excuse me, while I try not to vomit and wonder what the fuck a Christmas stocking is, while trying to be as invisible to white people as we are to them'

What the Fuck is a family;

Hang me from a tree and cut some turkey

It's too early for this shit

I need to hurl, I think

This lady smells like pee

And wants me to buy her something

But yo, I'm homeless, too—

I mean,

I finally got a room,

But this is what I go through for it:

THE LA CRISIS:

UNLEASHED.

(Ew)

Fuck this,

But don't fuck the government;

They're already trying to kill us over nothing

Nothing's prosperous, no

No political ambitions, actually

I just want to disappear from this

Don't have the energy to work 2 jobs,

I need to rest

I need to sleep

I need to eat more super greens,

And honestly,

I might just be a vegetarian,

Not a vegan, I've been thinking

But I dont know;

(I don't care anymore)

I lost love

(It's just not there anymore)

I never sold my soul;

But for a home alone,

I'd probably sell it,

And roll over—

In the rain, dang

Hey,

I feel your pain,

It's crazy how debilitating

Telepathy and empathy can be

I need a week at least,

Just free from human beings,

But

8 billion and counting, damn

Your racist grampa's still alive, (and voting)

And laws keeps passing,

And employers just don't care,

Cause they're not there

They're somewhere enjoying

Self employment, and business ownership

Damn,

I wish my dad hadn't talked my mom out of the abortion,

I'd have more fun never being born

Than being born this.

Fuck this.

Fuck this.

Fuck this.

But they say,” you are the world, “

So I guess I ain't shit,

I'm racist,

And never on vacation —

Oh wait,

I'm just American,

And not some lucky Caucasian

Or Asian,

With parents who inherited greatness

(Or worked harder, in another generation)

All my parents ever did was

Mix

Go. Be a DJ.

I don't want to be a DJ.

Be a DJ.

I don't want to be a DJ.

Be a DJ.

Das my boss;

She make tha bread—

I just make croutons

Mothsfuckinin genius you could call me Jimmy neutron

Not a rapper. A DJ.

No, I'm black, so I gotta be a rapper.

No, that's not how that works.

Not everything is black and white;

I just keep writing, day and night

I want to blow my brains out,

And my heart is turned to ice,

If Jesus Christ ever arrives,

I really doubt it would be nice.

This place is pretty.

Right?

Alright. Back to the 9-5s

I can't smoke crack, but meth sounds nice

If it'll help me stay alive

And pay my bills on time.

I'm kidding.

No you're not.

Maybe not.

I might be living just the same in any city,

Check-to-check;

I don't need pity—

Just a pistol,

Or a penny

Just remember to remember

Jimmy

When shit gets interesting,

(I pick up every penny, every penny)

JIMMY FALLON:

THE COSMIC SORCERER

Was that it?

Had to be.

Are you sure?

We need a cosmic sorcerer!

There's only one person in the universe who specializes in cosmic soecery!

Are you serious?

I must be a writer or something.

(Or something.)

BE A DJ.

No.

why.

Cause I'd have to be skinny and I really like croissants in the morning.

Welcome to 30.

Cooool. I'm a deadbeat.

[beat]

Fuck! I'm a loser!

Wtf is the world on?

Idk. We're in a matrix simulation thingy.

TWEAKER

Excuse me, do you know how to exit The Scope and The Dome?

…

TWEAKER

I mean—ahem—The Artificial Intelligence Simulation?

…

…

…

…

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

-U.