[The Yellow One]

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 unassuming Ku “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 Drake Bell once more—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.. SUPACREE TURN UP, TURN UPPPPPPP!!! DRAKE BELL Goddamn, girl. SUPACREE SHUT UP, DRAKE— DRAKE 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? {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.