{“A Waste Of Time.”}

YO, WHERE'S THE ICE? SELENA GOMEZ …In the fridge. *sips straw smirking* [FROM INSIDE THE FRIDGE: The ice has completely melted–the ice cream is now simply a creamy pink sludge.] UGH. ICE DOES NOT GO IN THE FRIDGE, SELENA. [SELENA GOMEZ is exaggeratedly inebriated.] SELENA GOMEZ (Hiccups) Sorry. The coffee appeared to have been resealed–which I almost hoped meant it contained some some sort of magical additive that would allow me to overcome the sort of rut I had been so unsettled in; it really had seemed the last roommate had done somewhat of a number on me–the bite marks on my left hand now turned to a perfect crescent-shaped scar, forming a remarkable C-shaped half circle, and I knew now that no one could be trusted, as she truly had been possessed by The Devil, or some sort of Demon, or she had been paid or hired by some agency to attack me, as the way she had lowered the room temperature to freezing so that I had been sitting in the cold hours before our fight–and of course, had chosen such a night which I had intended a well-deserved feast, after weeks of malnourishment, unintentional fasting, and still with all of my might trying to the best of my abilities to train for at least an hour per day with overall success in the endeavor–it seemed something eerily odd about the encounter, and though I considere myself a paranoid conspiracy theorist at best, there was still something shattering about the experience, so much so that I felt I had been at once dragged into Hell, and also somehow elevated–having captured the experience inadvertently all on tape, having forgotten that I had even been recording for the first place, still collecting bits and pieces for the album I was trying to make, but taking my time on–it had to be worth all of the work I had so far put into it–which was a lot, and it still seemed that something was trailing behind me–I remained neutral entirely to the matter, not to deconstruct such bizarre circumstances as one thing or another, either good or bad–but I had become irritated by now at the very least, as my new roommate, though sweet, was too sweet, and I found it too good to be true that she appeared to be so clean, neat, and tidy that she wasn't as well up to something, or also hired by someone–seemingly to collect information, or to study me . “Not too much…” I thought to myself, filling the filter only so slightly as to test its contents, and careful not to upset my nervous system; I was, actually still on edge, but today in particular; it seemed everyone that I collided with wanted to know something strange, as if if they already knew who I was–and still in the haze of all that had happened, i let go to expectation, embracing myself as I knew only I could, and finally allowed myself the understanding that I was, actually, entirely alone–with no friends, no family, and no allies–but certainly no trust to be had. “What do you know about Shamans?” My new roommate asked; This was entirely the wrong way to go about opening up a polite conversation with me, as I had had discovered that along with my estranged and abusive ex-husband, and also my former roommate, had excruciatingly noisy Bruxism–and though I had been working closely with the spirits to undo anything which might have been a curse, demonic spell, or hex–I had never not believed in coincidences at any other time in my life: I thought “She must be some kind of spy.” Perhaps a psychologist intended to collect information after the ridiculous amount of synchronicities and circumstances which had become otherwise outwardly apparent to the exterior world in whatever realm I happened to have found myself in– not that it mattered, as I considered all to be done to me was to eventually to be returned to sender, and the extreme amounts of poverty, homelessness abandonment, lovelessness, hunger, and overall dehumanizing Hell that I had otherwise been put through to simply be a test of wills, a sign of better days, or, merely, a subhuman existence in which my place in the universe had been deemed somewhat ‘useless'. In any event, I still hadn't wished for any of it to be cast upon even my worst enemies, if they existed–and because I didn't believe them to exist at all in any form besides my darkest and most unhinged, ludacris self–unraveling at the core and grasping at the throes of suicide simply for the supposed peace and rest of ‘non-existence'. My new roomate often and out of nowhere brought up things that I had been psychologically tortured with–and at the very least I knew of course that I was indeed being watched and perhaps even studied–and I knew undoubtedly that whatever information I gave her would without any doubt be used against me–and so, once more, I toiled away at The Festival Project, the mockery of my own judgment a stone cast upon the glass house in which I lived, at least in my mind–not shielded from but subject to whatever cruelty my very own mind and consciousness saw fit to suffer through in this lifetime, without promise or evidence of relief in the next– it was, afterall–an infinite eternity; Loveless, penniless, and without a soul or song in the world to love again. Are you ok? I'm fucking fantastic. That's awesome! Good to hear. Yep. Polar opposites, My solar plexus is off or something, Dropping stuff, Walking like I'm drunk, Talking strange, voice is strained Look me in the eye and lie to me; I walk the line from just behind Or where I lead. And lately, I've been dreaming of bleeding on the streets Or not needing to be seen, l. Oh. Olden rings, one million streams and Putting things in places Make no mistake, I'm a wreck I ain't been loved in a long time Take a good look at the mark on my neck You wanna step up, it's a long line I'mma hit you up later Gotta go grind I'ma pull up in a Wtf is this That's a-/ I don't get it. Okay. It's a van full of trophies. I fuckin guess! What's that supposed to mean? I don't know, I hate my life. Yeah. Fuck. What. I'm leaving. When. Tonight. This isn't the right dimension. Well.good luck What happened now?! Dillon Francis seems more obnoxious than usual [DILLON FRANCIS BEING EXTRA] Mm–I don't think so. This is out of control. It's not out of control I'm in control This is out of control. we;re going to play a game. What kind of game. A minigame. What does this game entail. haha. **sidenote: Laidback Luke is not laidback at all. He seems calm. That's just his demeanor. Haha. Okie. Whats wrong with al these guys Nobody sleeps here. What about him. He looks asleep. No. [waves hand gently] See he's– You're on in 5. [Suddenly, Very awake.] Oh wow. See. Superstar DJ. Well, fuck, man. What is this Just stand here What. For what Just– wait here. Wait?! For what?! Just – [Leaves] LAIDBACK LUKE (eyes) I don't like this. (eyes) I don't like this at all. MA, MORE COFFEE. WAAAT? MORE COFFEE, MA!!! Lol these guys again. I love these guys. How did we get here? Technically, we're still in a deadmau5 construct. I dont think he's okay. I Don't think anybody's okay. Are you okay? No. (eyes) … Oh. “Oh” FUCK YOU SO HARD, IT HURTS TO STAND UP. FUCK YOU, DILLON FRANCIS. FUCK DILLON FRANCIS. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.