‘-complications’ II - “The Skrillex Project” /“The Jungle”

What are you doing? –dying. Die faster. Q: How do you break up with deadmau5. A: You don't. JOEL TALK TO THE HEAD. Oh, come on! What is this. Idk. I figured if there was a dimension where SUPACREE is dating DIPLO– Ew. What. Ew. –Then there's probably one where she's got somethin' going on with that guy. How do you figure. Hm. Hm. Interesting. Very Interesting Grow up. We all have –girlfriends. –jobs to do. –secret fetishes. Sick. This is retarded. Turn this off. I want to die. WHERE IS SKRILLEX. Skrillex is playing mountain man with a bunch of fake models and rapper dudes, Woah. He looks different. What happened. More on that later. Or not. Oh, come on! Everybody. Shut up. Not me, right? Especially you. *eyes* what's 9x9? Uhhh– Are you serious? This isn't math! Everything is math! HOW IS THIS MOVIE CAST? CAN DEADmAU5 ACT? –short anser: YES. Long Answer: By The time this movie gets made, we'll all be dead. We're all dead now. Dead *and* gone. *crowd gasps exaggeratedly* I THOUGHT THIS MOVIE WAS ABOUT SKRILLEX. It was- he didn't like it. Why wouldn't he like it? You called him a “nigga” 47 times. Was it 47? At the SUPERBOWL. I guess that makes him the champion of niggas. I guess so. Whatever happened to Dillon Francis. Idk he's pussywhipped or something. I guess. Nice. Still gettin it. Shut up, fans. Okay, ouch. How. How–?? How does someone with THIS MUCH pride and THIS MUCH ego get THIS MUCH power? Probably with all that pride and ego. This is correct. ____ {JOSHrushes in violently.] DRAKE Uh huh… SOMETHING IS WRONG. …what makes you say that…? LOOK AT ME. I see you… I DON'T HAVE ANY MONEY. –how am I supposed to tell that just by looking at you? YOU ARE SUSPICIOUS. [suspiciously] No I'm not? [He violently grabs DRAKE by his lapel; gripping him with a fierce and wild look in his eyes] Look Motherfucker; I am looking! I have always wanted to kill you–and now there's NOTHING stopping me. EXCEPT THE LAW– [MEGAN/MIRANDA/CARLY enters mysteriously.] Unhand the boob. BOTH ….MEGAN?! JOSH (er…wait) Sure. [They stare at her in awe; her silhouette grasping at the shadows of the dimly lit space; she is dressed in a sultry black dress, sheer panty hose, and knee high boos, with a matching fedora and puffs seductively on a long and narrow cigarette from the extra long holster. ] Separate. [They obey, bewildered.] Sit. You smoke now? Sometimes. For dramatic effect. This is uncomfortable. Very unsettling. Wait. Wait. Are we filming right now. Is someone filming? [Breaking 4th wall.] Camera's always rolling. ;;PAUSE. Oh, that's why Drew Barrymore was in my dream last night. This is a lot of celebrities. GOD I'm working on something. ::||ALRIGHT, UNPAUSE. Hold on a second. No, we're rolling. –I am one-hundred percent heavily medicated right now. I second that. Ditto. –I'm also slightly intoxicated. Also that. Hashtag “me too.” No “hashtag me too” DOn't say that in Hollywood! It was a joke! I was kidding! That's not funny. Nobody's laughing! C'mon! I meant–I'm like, drunk right now– Still though– Very tacky… I've been day drinking. Drinking and smoking?! I don't believe you! Oh, you don't? [beat] hmm . [Shrugs, admittedly.] Wait, wait–hold it. No holding, we're rolling. Are we rolling–? Holding… And…We're rolling! I'm definitely rolling. Drake! I'm rolling. Ballsacks. C'mon, man! *drake being dumb* I'm being serious! So am I. This is serious. *smokes* Gross. Stop doing that. Doing what? This is what I do… No, I mean: I woke up this morning and I swear to God– Woah! Don't do that. I did everything under the sun EXCEPT go to work to be on TV for a show I wrapped like 15 years ago! You–WHAT? Uhhh… Is this real? … … … Damn. this just got super existential; I have to take a second to summerize this, I'll fill in the dialogue late , I guess The scene was running on anyway. What? I liked it. Anyway, So what we have here is a cross-dimensional triad: DRAKE has been running throughout the interdimensions of time, but unbeknownst to the audience is which DRAKE this is; is this the real life DRAKE BELL, actually a fictional character written into the fabric of SUPACREE'S reality as fate would have it–or the fictional DRAKE from DRAKE & JOSH; Although apparently heavily medicated, JOSH PECK, the actor has been tossed into a nightmarish infinite loop along with other various HOLLYWOOD CELEBRITIES, as SUPACREE has opened various portals throughout the known universe in order to life-switch timelines without having to shapeshift into anyone's body, simply switching her own timeline–with that of her ideal career; Only having done this once, however, triggers an inescapable loop of infinite switches, resulting in a massive disillusion and chaos, as some celebrities go missing entirely from any known reality (in which SUPACREE omnisciently exists, typically, intermittently throughout the series); However, in this scene the audience must suspend its sense of belief, as it takes place in a multidimensional environment; DRAKE and JOSH perhaps, has been running throughout it's entirety, never having been canceled and JOSH PECK has arrived on set in a drug-fueled delusional meltdown; A Parrallell JOSH at some point perhaps even switching timelines; This mysterious, shadowy version of MIRANCA/MEGAN/CARLY is written as such so that this character can be placed or moved to or throughout various specific timelines: Adhering to the plot however, JOSH PECK is an actor, out of sorts with himself, meanwhile– This version of DRAKE is the fictional character from a TV show, in his own fictional world; He is a 4th dimensional device However, The audience should remain unaware that MIRANDA COSGROVE has already merged with her 4th dimensional counterparts, after joining SUPACREE in her Hollywood crusades, traveling through time, space, and the inter/multidimensions on missions to answer the SOS Hollywood originally signaled to SUPACREE during The Legend of Supacree in the first season. That should do. Wow. Hold it What. You looked this deep into that boy's eyes? Not on purpose. - The ‘-complications.' mixtape compilation series which focuses its internal monologue on the ideology of exploratory existentialism, using simple and classic mixing techniques into smooth transitions which mirror synconocities in time, musical elements, and lyricism to illustrate a vortex of collisions in cosmic omniscience, theming its recurring dominant soundscapes into a singular foundational focal point, and centering its multidimensionality into a gripping pull to return its emphasis on reflecting at checkpoints as if to reiterate a greater hidden meaning; the highs and lows of falling in love, it's consequences, long days and nights, missed connections, lost and unrequited love—capturing overall the rock and roll darkness of the neo-moden dance music scene—moving about from world to world—night after night, song after song—bodies on bodies and the escapism of rave and dance floor culture, connected through the pulsating and throbbing heartbeats bridged by light waves, and spread across neon skies across the globe. Featuring dearly beloved hit and dance classics alike from global and legendary super-artists and masters of the dance floor, deadmau5, Kaskade, kx5, Skrillex, Fred Again.., Claptone, and more—featuring new music by and mixed with heart & soul by underground swamp creature and ancient rave God ‘- Ū.' as she explores the outer realms of dance music pre-and-post existence in the guttural haze of the afterlife. Wow, You're funny, God. If i must say so. I mean. Wow. I didn't do this all myself, you know; I had help. What?! Help From Who?! Dillon Francis, Apparently Oh, I highly doubt that, Oh, I wouldn't . I need a lover— I need a lover; Call me your lover (I want just a lover) I need a lover (I need a lover) Dillon Francis was quite possibly the whitest white man in the ever living world— But maybe, that's what I liked about him. Now that I had time to process that for the most part, I had been tricked into fulfilling some strange prophecy— there was nothing less-alluring about the world I had been peering into, now more than anything Movement at the stillpoint Mark something You've got to balance this shit out— You've got to Turn the world on its head (I don't get it) Now you're into this club (I don't fit in) Now you're into this world (But we've been here) Wait I'm not new to this! Wanna go do it again?! Nothing's new to me! I keep secrets like Fountains keep pennies Plant daisies on mountains —your hand in my mouth says that “Head is the answer” Thanks, Kendrick Now I remember what I wanted in the first place Now I remember what I printed; What I cooked him in the kitchen after— —back to keeping secrets; What's an apron and a hat is all you're wearing when I get there— Just like the man in Manhattan Or cat on the Channel— A special edition of some shit with Mario Lopez That sent me right back to the minion With eyes like you had in that dream I went back to I'd say “Fuck Dillon Francis” If I thought of “fuck” as an adjective, Instead of an adverb. Fuck this whole world — Now I just want to surf, I had just scratched the surface of scratching— Before storing my turntables What. All of a sudden, I'm a DJ?! Gee thanks! But God, I'm still loveless and I hope you Marry that blue eyed girl Pop out a bunch of kids that look Just like you What else would I do with my time Than scroll through Instagram And eat a ham-salmon sandwhich— Thinking of going for pancakes, after god likes me fat, We talk much more that way PASQUALE I need you up at night. CC For what. SUPCREE For what. SUNNI BLŪ I AM UP. PASQUALE: This is for what. THE INSOMNIACS ARE ALL IN . “ALL IN” wtf does that mean. The grey streaks in his beard drive me wild-his eyes even wilder; “it's best I not look into them”, I thought, “when giving him this stone..” or maybe, even at all; I knew that if I were to look into his eyes, I would fall in love—all the way in, and not just the lust that I had been struggling with, noticeably for years, now; I would see him from the inside out, from the outside in—and any way in between. I already knew that I wanted him—but for exactly what and how long seemed to allude me. It ha: been a long day with no end yet in sight, and though I was tired, accidentally having fasted throughout the day — namely because I had been out of water the night before, dethawing ice from the hotel's machine into an emergency supply—and having awoke with an immovable force to head straight to the gym, promptly after doing laundry. Though I left what was considerably late, conforming my sleep patterns to my roommate's schedule had not been the easiest of tasks; I found it to be true that energy—or rather, a lack therof, was remarkably contagious. I had been more tired than usual, and more “down” than my normal waves—in fact—it was easy to differentiate this energy from my own, and though I was thankful to have a quiet, moderately clean, and near silent roommate—lucky, even—it was nearly impossible to escape the grip of empathy as it grew into me, our time together short but stifling enough that I was up into the early mornings as she dawdled away on her phone—and, having spent the entirety of my stay offline—becoming increasingly sensitive to her phone's radio signals, sometimes seeming to blast into my brain and penetrating the deepest of sleeps, and though I thought to return to deadmau5 to set myself to rest, for the most part I had been enjoying peaceful enough rest once she finally did get to sleep—in the early morning, which meant that I would more naturally wake closer to noon, eating up most of my morning with sleeping and battling the force of inner city traffic to make my way into the gym, or the library—whichever suited the day and the time—though, for the last three days, I had made it a point to get to the gym daily, rather than every other day, which I had missed, but become a hassle—and though I had found a gym that was decent and clean, it was rather small, the sauna never hot enough—and of course, as it had appeared from my first day having arrived at the club, I was of course being watched and followed—and though I had briefly wondered by “who”, I knew it was of the through forces of The Eye, otherwise known as the Illuminati, if there ever were such a thing— (but of course, there wasn't) often blasting Skrillex every other song as some means of torture, which I could attempt to ignore, but my body couldn't—failing to lift under the pressure of a weakened state by about the third Skrillex tune, confirming my suspicions entirely—a drastic jump from conspiracy to the conformation of psychological terrorism via Skrillex—but for what? By now, of course, I had begun to figure out that I wasn't entirely normal, —that something wasn't right, or maybe even that I had done something exceptionally right, and though I didn't know exactly what, I began to think about the amount of writings I had published online, as well as the significantly “extraterrestrial” recordings that went along with them, and though having used Skrillex as a springboard, the longer I went mulling over all that had happened I realized that there appeared to be something bigger at place—Perhaps I was, indeed, incredibly enlightened—and there seemed to be a greater, outer force that indeed knew and saw all, even deeply into my psyche, and into my dreams. Though I had darted down with excruciating detail into my Google documents the latest dream that I had with Dillon Francis, I didn't know what exactly to make of this particular cadence of synchronicities on this otherwise ‘normal' morning, not that anything at all had actually been normal in any way by far, as long as I could remember backward. Things had indeed been strange for years, which had culminated in the conglomeration of documents, recordings, and other odd-end and unfinished projects that had so far been created under the umbrella of The Festival Project—but it was this day that I truly began to realize that there was something more than circumstantial or coincidental at all about whoever I was, and whatever I was doing—and even with all of my theoretical writings of supernatural, subliminal, and subconscious circumstances and happenings, I wasn't, having existed for the most part broken, homeless, and unpaid for my efforts—sure of either who I was, or what I was doing—let alone how. In all of the strangeness, I only attributed “God” for whatever weird strange thing would happen next— and here it was. I had been thinking about Mario Lopez a lot recently or lately, in bits and pieces and of course less often than I thought of any other reoccurring figure, but certainly about Mario Lopez, his seemingly ageless and incredibly healthy, youthful appearance, and oddly, even of his children, as I knew that he had them; and I had, of course, along with all of those things had wondered about his wife—the whole of his family, of course. His fame had lasted nearly my entire lifetime, and I was almost always pleasantly charmed by the sound of his voice, or his familiar face; and there it was, now—plastered up on a screen I hadn't realized was even there before, but now somehow stood out broadly against the backdrop of the otherwise drab laundromat, which I of course found to be remarkable, as I had very recently for whatever reason been struck with flashes of not so much a curiosity of the man at all—but rather a form of reflective thought. “Oh shit, there he is!” I thought, finding just his appearance on TV coincidental, at best, before zeroing in on the actual atrocities yet unexplainable by man, or any other force—the only cruel explaination being that The Illuminati itself did indeed have access to my Google documents, even though I had been for the most part of two weeks completely offline, with no intention to publish at all—however—I had forgotten about the dream itself, until this sudden collision of sorts had stirred remnince of at all; a dream I had recorded with implicit detail from my first waking moments, indicating some importance; my dreams had been straightforward and vivid lately, and had been filled with all sorts of reoccurring figures, from Sonny Moore, to Billie Ellish, and of course Dillon Francis-and in moments, of course, the later had come rushing back to me with a vengeance, as a life sized-dancing Minion with two differently colored eyes shifted my attentioj from the screen, directly to recalling that dream— the most vivid dream of all of them—and though Sonny had appeared to me more recently, I thought it best not to record them; I still felt betrayed that he had come to New York and left me to be circulated through the system—which of course I was sure had it's purpose, but didn't make me resent him any less for it, compounding the hurt that he had put me through parading Kayla Lauren around—it seemed the entire model of The Skrillex Conundrum was to make me feel stupid, fat, and in cursed skin— and I was at least no longer two of those things. Still, though, I did carry feelings for the man that were impossible to offload, and though I had quite blatently broadcasted my sexual attraction to Dillon, who was apparently, of course, taken by a blue eyed girl of course—it had somehow become deeper at least to me in the following days and weeks afteer my departure from “Season 6” and it's adjacent episodes, a strange half-season debacle in which the emotional uproar of Sonny's appearance in New York and the upheaval of my surroundings—my entry into the homeless system—allowed me to embarrass myself without reform in the honest and brutally raw, post-season aftermath—a restless and sleepless chaos filled nightmare from which the only redeeming comfort was deadmau5, which may have been the point of it at all—as I fiddled in Ableton, it seemed to become a more natural process, creating drum patterns with ease and the once-tedious challenges and difficulties of music production and engineering having become things of the past—but something in all this had seeded in my mind a crucial element of the cosmic alchemists mindset I had been living in; there seemed to be, as in the Christopher Nolan film Tenet, parallel streams of time running both “forward” and “backward”, and even “up” and “down” respectively, creating where and how i was at any given moment as the perceptive present—as in—there always seemed to be some extension of myself both forward and backward in time, if there were such things, and as I continued to write, evidences of God, extra terrestrial presence, interplanetary mechanisms—mauverability through deep space, and time travel all became increasingly and rapidly relevant; I had to have been right enough about something , somewhere, at some point—but even up to now couldn't wrap my head around trying to get a “normal” job, which might be worth the money to be able to escape from my way-too-many-black-people Hellscape, (not that way ‘too many white people' wasn't a thing, but at least was not as abruptly obnoxious—as I had now realized that overt racists often more tactically employed quiet methods of psychological disengagement, rather than flat-out disrespect and cruelty the black-on-black culture had thus far represented. In my mind, however, race had little to do with my actual placement in the world—at least, or so I thought— and though the appearance of where I had been at this point situated was grim or perhaps even bleak, the opposite was actually true; I was now, though strictly under the radar, off the grid, and underground, an extremely accomplished writer, whether anybody knew it or not—and someone did. Low and behold, “The Lopez Kids”, who has been thinking of and new existed were brought the the screen, after a segment featuring Jeannie Aiki had bedazzled me enough to Google her, her familiar voice sparking a curiosity, her own beautiful young one putting a glisten in my eye, along with a tear; I missed my son dearly, and was glad to know that he was with my mother—still worrisome, to say the least, but not as worrisome as he having been with his father, who I knew was fucking up in extreme ways beforehand—but had only been confirmed a few days before, actually exactly one week earlier, as I had toggled off airplane mode just long enough to revive an incoming call from my father—and, having only just the night before having had the dream about Dillon's strange eyes—a dream in which he was not present, but his truck was— promoted me to quickly answer the call, though I had been in the midsts of a whirlwind of transit—a chaotic navigation through unknown territories; he told me that my mother had my son—that my ex husband was unable to care for him any longer. The more right about my ex husband I was, the more peril it felt; I knew my son would be a different person if I had had the ability to raise him. “Something is up.”, I bawled— having seen and heard enough of my own mind scattered across the silver screen— Not only had the Minions eyes reminded me exactly of Dillons—the only dream out of a series of dreams about he, Sonny, and even one with my ex that I had found it important to record—but it was also “National Oreo Day”, which was celebrated with Oreo Doughnuts, appearances from Jeannie Aiko, whose apparent first interview had been with Johnny Depp—who had found his way into my dreams years earlier than nearly anyone else in this lifelong series of bizzare oddities— Ellen DeGenwres discluded—who had more than likely been the first and most random celebrity to make their way into my semi-conciousness; I had never been particularly obsessed or even a fan of Ellen, and yet her appearance in a teenaged dream had stayed with me years into my adulthood—and thiugh during my childhood and adolescent years it had always seemed I had been somehow destined for fame, even before the mockery of the masses and media turned my entire generation inevitably into fame-hungry “artists” , the last few years altogether had been remarkably and even increasingly synchronized; it was as if I had indeed in my lifetime made groundbreaking alterations to the space time continuum. It wasn't until later in the day that I decided to find the document in which I had recorded the dream; I began to laugh reading over my own words as unhinged as it all was—the recording was bizzare and though I hadn't forgotten having the dream itself, I indeed had forgotten many of the details, which of course made me instantly regret not having written down any of the dreams I was having about Sonny—still careful not to let myself feel too much of anything having to with him, even and especially his music, which I only allowed myself to play with purpose, for study. SILVER SCREEN SHOWER SCENE Woah, have you lost your goddamn mind. Yes. I live in a very strange place in the universe. [there are several glitches in the matrix; almost too much to bear.] Very,very strange. What are you doing? Crying? ..I'm not crying… Stop crying, Jesus– –DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY BAGELS I HAD TO EAT TO BE SUPACREE? A lot. You look hideous. I am hideous! No arguments, there. Ugh. Lets Go! Try not to look off into the distance with your finger in the air like that; It makes me feel like we're in a comic book or something What if–we are?! Then we're probably about to get our butts kicked before the scene changes or you have to turn the – {NINJAS OUT OF NOWHERE} “The Noir Episdoe” This is business, not war. What's the difference? [beat] Money. HIIIIIIIIIYAAAAAAHHHHH!!! Oh My God. I'm so fat. YAH! Why do I always have to fight when i'm fat?! YAH! KI-YAH! — [ROundhouse Kick} HIIIIIII_YAHH. DO you have to say “Hi-yah” every time you deal a fatal blow. –they're not fatal, they're gonna wake up, eventually–YAH. Oh yeah? Even that guy? {Super dead guy} Probably not him. “Probably.” YOU are a PR nightmare. I'm an everything nightmare. Ugh. I just found out what PR even was. LAWYER enters furiously You fucking lunatic! It's sunny out– What did you do this time? UPDATE: The Skrillex Reddit is still the cringiest place on earth. It's so gross. I hate this. Worst place ever. WORST FUCKING PLACE EVER. Fuck. What. We have to go back. Why? What'd you lose? –My dignity. Worst place ever. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.