02. WAFFLES. (Instrumental)

02. WAFFLES. Level one Level up: Go Brooklyn has a surf club (Where am I supposed to surf in Brooklyn— Coney Island? How am I supposed to surf in Coney Island There's a hydroponic needle in my hot dog That's gross (2 chainz style) If you grew up in The projects I'm sorry; You should run for governor Or the Oval Office— I would trust you to protect us -31 I'mma change the words up I want Roscoe Waffles with some syrup— Serve holdup; Guess I'm on the wrong coast On a greyhound bus, now Just to go to Roscoe's Waffles and Shrup [chicken and waffles Chicken and waffles Chicken and waffles Chicken and waffles] -Sunni Blū You expect me to go surfing in the projects Fuck is Coney Island? (Nonsense!) All the trash– (trash) and tug boats (toot toot) I can't get my surf on! I am on the wrong coast! Oh shit, it really was originally I took a flixbus just to go to… I fly Spirit Airlines, Just go to go Roscoe's Been a long time since I been in it Do my dance and trance I'm spinnin Cameras flash And I look different I make dubstep Bitch I'm [NO!] —that's like yoncè x Yoncè crosses NOTHING Got it. I don't care I got flair I'm from LA They love my hair They always stare And glaring Imm aware of them Imm Karen under All these shades I wear Chicken and some waffles Guess I'm on the wrong coast (nicki style) None of these niggaz can't rap like me; I am present; under the tree Can't lock me up, My love is free Killing this bEA Arthur T-e-a (I got a secret) Bitch I'm the best Bitch I'm bless Bitch you call me a bitch I will dismiss you Listen, kids I'm dead! Not regrets Butter, bread Suck my twists Or braid my hat But your verse sound like murder Deadmau5 forges an appearance o— Is it the Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon or is it —late nights with Jimmy Fallon? I don't know. I don't care: Just— look me UP. NO, Jimmy Fallon! WHYNOT. BECAUSE, SIR, YOU ARE A FIGMENT OF MY IMAGINATION, and therefore DONOTEXIST.. NO, YOU DONT EXIST! Not yet, anyway,.. *dissappears* Oh, the irony… [Ū/SUPACREE is invisible, and has therefore made this man— “JIMMY FALLON” “Presumably” “Presumably” We don't know! — look crazy, which isn't a good look for him, considering…] JIMMY FALLON stops short, realizing everyone has stopped shopping to stare at him. —he is famous.] TMZ (But is the dude from Lilo and stich with a camera) (Snaps photo) JIMMY FALLON [expletive] After his appearance on the talk show as Deadmau5, “JOEL ZIMMERMAN, an extraterrestrial secret agent and top level hacker, entraps THE COSMIC AVENGER, aka “JIMMY FALLON” in an inescapable void beyond the interdimensional jurisdictions, imprisoning him in an undetectable and inescapable time hol; a synthetic VOID. What. What is this. I don't know yet, what to call it actually. You look like a T-Rex. You look like ….like what? What do I look like? I don't have time for banter, Fallon. I'm a mastermind. Put me back. Can't do that. You're gonna pay for this! (Shrugs, texting in a slide out keyboard device] I'm sure I can afford it. Bye. [the device opens a portal, into which TESTPILOT disappears] So wait, why is he DEADMAU5, then JOEL, then TESTPILOT. Cause, that's just now it goes. I told you, stay away from this guy. I did! but then— HEEEEEEEYYYYYY. What. HEY, What, Jimmy Fallon? Oh, so that's what he did. TINA FEY That's it, I'm gonna kill him. I'm gonna kill— *gasp* …Tina? WHAT. Can you see me? Barely! Who are you?! WHAT. Okay, but— Don't be so angry. (Angrily) I'M NOT ANGRY. I'M JUST STRESSED. Well, don't be. DONT TELL ME TO (She pops her stress ball—) My stress ball!! Don't worry—! (Worriedly) I'm not worried! I'm STRESSED! (Almost crying) It's okay. Don't cry *almost very ugly crying* No. Don't do that *almost even uglier ugly cry* No— *sniffs m* No— *heaves, super almost ugly-ugly* It's okay, Tina! Look I have another one! See! I DON'T WANT THAT ONE, I WANT— *goddamn, that's almost the ugliest cry* HERE. [beat] [though her biggest-ever brown eyes are welled up with tears, she sees the new ball and is instantly mezmerized] But— —just—don't cry— That looks—just like— my old one! Ta-dah! It is your old one! But! Hi! Remember me? [TINA FEY suddenly flashes back to the 90's, where she obtained her stress ball, and remembers the strange and yet kind “old woman” she once followed along her rise to success, skyrocketing her through time—the ‘great spirit' who walked with her along her rise to fame] Oh my— [the festival project] BLOG. Gazuntite. I started a BLOG. What's that mean: I don't know. We'll see. “Illuminati Dreams 103” [Tales of a Superstar DJ] Seemed as if it was some kind of movie set or backstage at a major event, or maybe both—I finally had the opportunity to be alone with Joel, so I took my first chance, massaging his back and kissing him, beginning to make love to him—then, —of course, once I started actually having sex with him, another girl cut in—she was short, extremely overweight, and dark skinned, not very pretty at all—she started talking and then said that she wanted her phone, and I got upset and told her to leave—she didn't seem too mad, and once she left I started to more passionate make love to him, now that I had him alone—then, Joel for some reason became cold, and stopped me saying “You Are Not Welcome Here”, which made me sad, but I didn't cry—he went on some kind of rant about wanting his phone, and I became annoyed that people were so worried about their phones; I let him go, but as he was leaving, still upset with me, he said something like “maybe it will work out next time around”, and I knew he meant next lifetime—I told him “it's a long life without you”, and I became extremely sad—although was glad this lifetime I had at least seen him, and though we didn't finish lovemaking I was somewhat satisfied that we at least able to love a little, and was gentle with him. I didn't blame him ‘—it must have been my OWSLA tattoo.' It's always a long life without Joel Zimmerman. I couldn't say for a fortune even how that happened—although for a fortune I might think of some kind of explanation that would go along with the way I had started to feel about this man, unfortunately and albeit, without actually knowing him beyond his music, but— [Tales of a Superstar DJ] Something really was off about Mr, and yet all was well; I was correct in that my ex husband had Formed new offspring, and even better yet, however, off of my prediction, this new woman had come to the same conclusion I had: that he simply was not fit for partnership, but at least, perhaps, parenthood would keep him working—and now, with the most recent picture of my son that I had, I was back at work, although not with the clarity as I had once had, and it did appear that indeed something was off, and had been for some time. I had left my skateboard in the gym the night before, and luckily for me, no one had taken it, and I once again began counting my blessings, knowing that I needed to move on and out of the rut I had been in—I was finally at least kind of willing to work, but only now was left the monotonous task of actually finding a job which would allow me to continue to grow in my artistry, with the unsettling understanding that I was just maybe and perhaps wasn't cut out for the luck it would take to hit superstardom as immediately as I needed to, however, I was at least filled with light and hope in that my son had become a big brother, and though whatever the situation was had been something like an overshadow, I was now overjoyed and elated, with it seeming at least almost as if I myself had a newborn son, even though I would probably not ever know the child, nor did I wish to know my ex husband at all. My son's eyes showed that he looked more like me than even I remembered, and perhaps was stretching out a bit as to not be so heavily affected by his obesity, and I gleaned with pride. I would do almost anything for the money it would take to raise him myself, and make him into the beautiful young man he was meant to be—but still, even as I signed up for college open houses and readied myself to at least obtain a GED in my own name, as my other diplomas were tarnished with such a cursed name— always stricken with horrible luck using my old one, and to avoid not only confusion, but disaster. I needed and wanted complete separation and anonymity from my old life; the next chapter, it seemed, had officially begun, and now I wondered a way to allow myself to believe that I could succeed in some sort of way in entertainment. Yet, alas, I had been scorned, once again, the headlights flashing into my room and some mirrored reflection just another reminder of the disgusting world and person I had left behind, which according to this new woman, I was betting, hadn't much changed— I had cursed out ‘the industry' as a whole, and though I was inwardly still committed and dedicated as ever, ‘The Fallon Files' had consumed me, and they now needed to be hidden, if not destroyed—however, probably never destroyed, as some of my most poignant works lie within them. No, they would simply have to be re-distributed and ratified from the trainer's mark, to a series of allegories and parables—they just have had to have been written all along anyway, for whatever reason, but had been disasterously tiring, paradigm shifting, and though my admiration for the actual person, in a sense had deepened, my own almost intensively girlish stupidity intersected in perfect time with the wisdom of my womanhood, putting a quick and timely closure to the subject, moving onward, almost upset with myself that I couldn't even pretend to allow myself to fall in love with a married man, even for the sake of the art— ‘—haha' —and still at one hand, was being at odds with the others, Sonny still just as often on my mind, and Dillon though distant still a designated person of interest, however, as Joel had made his own appearance into a dream I would have never had, if not forcing myself back to sleep after yet another remembered dream about [Redacted], which upon waking up I almost thought to write down, then only deciding to mumble my mantras as I sleepily relieved my bladder, and though rather rested, opted to return back to bed, and happily so—as my dream had featured Joel almost exclusively, who it was strangely nice to see, and the dream was itself some sort of fantasy or fairytale—whisked away to some paradoxical land on some otherworldly planet which, by looking at the futuristic map, would and could not have been earth; which only alluded more and more to the circumstance of having an out of realm and multidimensional relationship with such a man, that I had been happy to be reminded of. Joel, for whatever reason, did make me happy—and even though I hadn't met him face-to-face in the waking world, (and didn't plan on doing so,) actually having abandoned entirely my hopes and dreams of actually becoming a superstar DJ, mostly jealous of the pre-teen looking always extremely skinny, white girls that the industry seemed to prioritize and put up on privileged pedestals, almost seeming as if they were hypersexualized children— However, I still did adore Joel, for what it was worth, even if what it was worth, was nothing—and it wasn't. Just a dream alone was enough to satisfy, and with that, had pushed [Redacted] so far out of my mind that I nearly danced into my waking life afterward, in some sort of a cold sweat, my heat still on as high as it could go and the weather beginning to swelter, though, I knew something was and had been wrong, as instant depression settled in almost immediately within the first few moments of being awake, and at the very very least. I had a new baseline for a dance song ringing around in my head, if only to quickly rush to my keyboard to pluck out the tune, then abandoning my Ableton for other endeavors—finding a job, so that I could cure the horrible disease of being broke in New York. It was good to at least been discouraged enough, after reading through a couple blogs, how hard it would be to become an actual screenwriter— just as I had decades before been discouraged in the same way and more than likely the same group of elites and supremacists of whatever sort, who segregated the industry, dominated it with nepotism, and kept such tight inner circles that I thought not to even bother, and considered even pulling what had been published of the festival project, in order to protect it from plagiarism. For as certain as shit, Becky and Karen were almost never original, always in charge of hiring their favorites and family members, and would always find a way to see to it that I could never get ahead of or worse—over her. Now you got two little kids That's two boys— Two bros, going “Yeah, my dad's a piece of shit” Now that's two boys goin' “Yeah, my dad hits women” Now that's two boys goin' “Well, you know we're fucking native” Now there's two kids goin' “Yeah my dad's a piece of shit' Two little boys goin' “Yeah, my dad's a piece of shit” Bet your money on a dollar That your mommy doesn't get this Betting on a dollar That you'll never be a mother, But big brother don't get it Big brother don't open his old eyes for nothing Big brother's dosing off in the corner But his mother loves him {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.