Nothing's really mattered,
Since I found this hat—
They're all handsome, and
Attractive and a half,
Even Pasquale,
But after Holly Madison
If I walked in and asked for a dance,
He'd surely laugh,
Like I did at the meat circus,
When I walked past—
I go to insomniac
Looking for answers
My past is so tragic,
I'm surprised that I haven't just blasted
Off my head, but I'd rather that—
Than live the rest of infinite
This fat and this black
—And I haven't smoked crack
Since the surfer who asked,
As a wish,
And that's when I found out I could grant them
If I go back to Alaska
(I can't, but)
I'm convinced that someone would flag me,
alert them I'm back,
And have me tagged, and haggard,
Looking like a raggedy-anne,
On candid camera
*coughs* I don't care,
You can have em!
And lately I keep having dreams about Annie,
And Dillon Francis—
The best friend, who stabbed me in the back,
And a man I've never met,
Except in astral projections, reflecting subconscious transgressions I keep repressed,
For lack of expression, and regrets,
Cause I'm still attracted to his friend
And actually spend some astral projections with him,
But now and then, I'll admit I'll get some emissions
From either of them.
Damn.
Well, if half the rap is about fucking multiple bitches,
What's the difference in admitting I'm attracted to Dillon Francis—and his friend—?
(His name is—)
No, it isn't.
It doesn't matter, I can't have ‘em
Hated the album, but blasted it just for connection,
Almost wrecked and landed back in Skrillex
And I'd kill myself again if I'd be absolutely finished with this shit
But it never is.
Wherever Heaven is,
I'm losing it,
Like watching Fuckin fisher pretend to mix
In front of fucked up kids
Who probably only like him,
Cause they're racist; I don't give a shit
I've heard a billion times Chris Lake writes all of his music—
I refuse to even light the fuse,
I've been abused by everything I once considered beautiful:
Been tortured and used and prefer to sniff glue
Than try to rap the bars I wrote for Sunni Blu
And now there's two of them;
I love to watch the Dandelions bloom,
I fuckin hate Zoom,
But maybe it would be different, if I had my own room—
I mean inside the USA,
I mean the rent keeps fucking raising,
I mean, my own son called me clumsy and lazy,
I mean, my ex, he called me crazy—
I mean, I'll claim it, maybe,
Just electrocute myself with an electric Daisy
RAVE.
Hey, these days, I'm mainly eclectic
I hate LA, cause it's hectic,
Plus, I get disrespected;
Knife in my neck, as expected—
Never get to trek before breakfast
Wet for a check, reflect the wreckage
Never on guest lists;
Clever one, Westwood,
Ever wouldn't ever forget this,
(If she existed)
Ahem;
Better off getting pregnant with Skrillex,
Than being left read on Tinder—
But I'd just end up giving birth,
to another nigger.
—and that just doesn't fit the picture, does it?
They just wouldn't let it happen, hun—
Knew it was a set up,
Just to fuck my head up, when I discovered Kayla Lauren— whatever she does.
The net says she was born in either 90 or 91,
I get it,
Everybody lies about their age,
When they get paid to be on pornhub.
Haha.
First of all, you can't unsee it…
Ooh, what's this.
Don't open that.
Hm. why not?
Don't open it.
NOTE: A really good way to do something, is to tell me specifically not to do it.
DON'T OPEN THAT.
WHY?!
BECAUSE I SAID–
…Especially if you won't tell me why.
*opens door*
Oh, shit!
I JUST SAID–AGHH
–and even then, it has to be a really good reason.
What does this have to do with Pasquale's game.
Pretty much everything has to do with Pasquales game.
Is that even his name?
Yeah, I guess,
Please, I doubt that.
What is ‘doubt'
I doubt this really means anything.
{Enter The Multiverse}
[The Festival Project.™]
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