Rewind: ‘G Ü M’ - Enter Through The Exit Part V

Enter The Multiverse

Enter Through The Exit V

Assisted suicide should be mandatory—like, isn't the world over populated anyway?

Aren't we running out of resources, or something?

I forget: what are we at war for?

Fuck this place.

After a certain amount of shitty things, you should just be able to go into a hospital and say

“Hey, fuck this. Just kill me.”

And with no questions asked, they should be able to administer a lethal dose of something good enough l—maybe not to get you all the way home, but at least get your started on your way.

Death is a long journey. It's a long walk; and you know what? You don't have any feet.

No. In fact, you have to start all over from literally nothing. By the time you ever remember what feet are, or that you had them—by the time you remember all that you did before you pass, and get to the ‘remorse' part—thinking about all the things you missed and didn't do—all the wishes you made before that didn't have time to come true—you do get home. And guess what.

You're not done.

You finally get to God, and God says ‘go back'

And depending on how far you even got, that might just mean you have to go all the way back to the start.

Oh—like, the beginning. Not “birth” no.

Think more “The Big Bang”

And you think that's crazy; that's just a reference point, really. When I say “start all over”, I really mean start at One; don't let anybody tell you the first thing that ever happened was The Big Bang—in reality, all that was was the last thing that ever happened, somewhere else.

Life is long, but humans are stupid.

We've lost our sense of magic and all our logic at once. Now the whole world is a grey area; a blurred line—

Survival has become for nothing more than to just ‘get through the day'

If earnest hemmingway was able to sense that he was being watched and followed, long before the organizations that had taken interest in him would ever admit to observing him, or release any information about it at all— do you know what that means?

Certain things will take place secretly or behind the scenes for years before there's anyone to say or do something about the truth coming out;

I myself like the secretive nature of certain things—some things simply don't need to be said, and if said wouldn't be believed either way. Maybe this is the most important lesson I've learned in my journey with Skrillex.

What goes up, must come down—I never really asked for an exploration of the social classes via psychological excavation of my own innerworkings; my shift of consciousness has been manufactured and forced, only to come to find “I Am” as the external force for anything that happens.

My theory up to now is that, at a certain point, I must have had both the potential and intelligence it would take be be the revolutionary force which needs to take place in order for our country and species as a whole to survive—perhaps my trump-era outburst of panic and despair set in motion all of the events and happenings leading up to The Skrillex Incident; I no longer have any evidence which would compel me to believe in either coincidences, or paranoia.

Some of my most ‘prolific' writing has from from being faced with the obstacle of realization that, at least so far—life just isn't fair.

Although, now knowing what I know about Fame, nothing comes without a cost—whether monetary or otherwise paid.

I can pass no judgements, as any intelligence I might have once possessed has seemed to have diminished—and any porential I may still have has been for the most part squandered; I am aware of my God-given gifts, talents, and abilities—but will always have to compare myself to those who were given the recourses and advantage of privilege—or those strong enough to overcome the adversities to become the product I see on the thousands of screens in all the places one goes in this country— because of my outstretched belly and natural features, I lack the sex appeal it would take to interest the masses by simply “being”; as a black woman, my existence is an expense, as the hair, nails, clothes, and shoes I must use as a tool to attract positive attention and respect from my outward appearance burns holes in the finances I struggle to keep stable—the truth is, my basis for material possession and financial gain comes from a flawed foundation—however. As I've been given the time to reflect on my upbringing, my background supports the failure I have not yet become, but am faced with becoming.

When I awoke from my unconscious journey through the infinite at Audiotistic, it was from a place to horrible I could not bear for it to be—somewhere on skid row, shopping carts full of trash and miscreants—or, at least, other miscreants, wandering about. A dark place so cold, so dirty, so horrible that I willed myself out of the death-sleep I had somehow wandered into l, halfway between the malnutrition of a days-long fast and an overdose of something—and although I had at that point built a tolerance to LSD, something that night took me away—which was perfect, as ‘away' was all I wanted to be.

I've been technically homeless since I left Alaska—I suspect that either my ex husband was paid to psychologically torment me, as once I had made it clear that I would be leaving to get my own apartment across town, there was no peace, no rest—and certainly no joy.

However, since one of our final interactions just so happened to be the carving of the Eye of Ra onto the side of my face with my house key—that perhaps he wasn't paid by white supremacists, as earlier suspected, but that ancient prophecies themselves were becoming, through this process.

What is this process? I still can't say.

Once I began to voice my so-to-be political ambitions, things became strange—and while I will admit to a breakdown of sorts—what I came to learn about the mental health and justice systems we use in this country now shows me a clearer picture of the misogyny, racism, terrorism and we use as a power.

By the time I made it to Gabby Petitio, I had developed such distrust for the American media that I could not believe any of what I was being showed to be anything more than theater—I felt like I was being talked to, or at least beckoned to realize everything that I was seeing in this picture, which appeared falsified at best. Because some of the best brainwashing I've ever witnessed took place in none other than Utah itself—but the curious case of Gabby Petito took the cake: all I saw were paid actors, improvising lines—and in the background, an unspoken message from The Eye of the Media itself: look what we can do.

As a I read the comments, I realized that a mass majority of people could be swayed to be on one side of something, or another. People will argue endlessly about anything other than what really matters.

Outwardly, if Gabby Petito was a real person, and not just someone I've painted in my mind as just another ploy, all I can offer is condolences to her parents—but I don't sense any existence of truth in what I could see.

What I could see is, why the Caucasian woman is so highly cherished and regarded as ideal—that Gabby Petito could literally be anyone, anywhere and probably was—the “police footage” of her and her boyfriend, the man suspected of killing her, appeared to be on amphetamines or opioids. at least at one point—and the very petite, little white girl also appeared to show signs of what I know to be the beginning of a drug habit— how much money would it take to get two tweakers to disappear?

The truth is, I don't care enough—by the time I was processing all this, I had decided not to say, do, or write anything about it, almost as a covenant—we'll just keep this a secret. But, as I again face homelessness, and homelessness, this time, I mean—actually, sleeping in my car, using the gym as a hygiene station and figuring out why it is I've been kept alive the numerous times I've tried to rid the world of the burden of my presence—I don't care about anything. At this time, it's hard to care about much else than hitting the gym, sleeping in a bed at night while I have the luxury, or spending time with my son—who is too young to understand his father's bad habits, limitations, and bad mental health.

My ex husband knew that I was close to moving into my own two-bedroom apartment, in a nice complex on the other side of town, nearer to the job I hated, but nonetheless had kept, in addition to another just to be able to get away from him; he knew it would be nicer, cleaner, and overall better than the slummy, grimey place we'd been crammed into for the better part of a year—I planned to leave amicably—however, his pride, I believe, got in the way of my exit plan—it would probably be hard to watch someone improve themselves so drastically in the town you grew up in; it would allow the understanding of the small-minded people in the small-town setting to evaluate that it was in fact your shortcomings which caused the separation at all;

Just as it has caused a considerable tension between myself and my “brother”, who is actually my step-brother, (and not even that, as my mother has chosen to stay married to my actual father) to be unable to consume the only thing he truly desires, as we share a “living space”, as of now.

But this isn't home— while it is a blessing, a warm place to sleep for the time being, a place to keep my things, and spend time with my son— it isn't “home”. My first few weeks here were plagued with the lesson of living with a man who considers himself “single”—the traffic of women in and out of the house at random times, and for only one reason was a showing of cards in his true weakness. After I paid my rent, cash of course, I began coming “home” to less-than-savory visitors—now I have become dignified in the belief that men—but especially black men—possess such insecurities that they must deflect this emotional void of empathy, without understanding the karmic effects, by collecting these women.

Perhaps impacted by too many negative events and people, I've come to view most rap music as residual ignorance—though compelling to watch, as the overall lesson I take is that women become objects the moment they subject themselves to competing for the attention and/or adoration of men who boast material wealth; however, as I've learned from Mr. Sonny Moore, material wealth will eventually attract the most “ideal” or desirable outcome?

Could the Skrillex that worked at Terrible's have ever scored any attention from a woman like Kayla Lauren—? And once again. because I've become so jaded in this being, this woman is merely figure I believe to not exist at all, but rather put in place to continue to degrade my own self worth— not that I would have ever even thought to hold myself to such a standard that I may ever attract attention from anyone important myself, but I am however amused at myself for trying so hard in the beginning, perhaps especially because I do love Johnny Depp. But, more on that later.

The state of music so adequately displays the wavelength at which young minds operate: sex, drugs, and rock and roll—only now it is easier to see the divide of money as a variable.

A man does not have to be attractive to have all there is in the world, but wealthy. The world is full of ugly men with lots of money, trophy wives and a slew of others—prostitutes, or, on the higher end, escorts—and let's not forget the very special evil species of women, the home wreckers; women who cost nothing and everything.

So where are we now?

Another suicidal tangent—everything that's wrong with the world is what's wrong with me.

So what's wrong with you?

I like white men; I'm a sapiosexual—this limits my potential for a desirable relationship by almost any probability. Setting the bar at Skrillex, or Sonny, rather, everything pales in comparison—and, if I take all I have learned about the world in this time, not that all men are the same completely, but at least in one way certainly—the woman, or, mostly, women you choose represents your power as a man—insecurities are almost always reflected in the actions and choices people make,

Whether or not Kayla Lauren and Sonny Moore are even still an item is beyond me—what I do know, is that the moment I became aware of it at all, I began to withdraw my bid for existence.

There's nothing particularly special about Kayla Lauren at all—in fact, she's a cookie-cutter carbon-copy example of the most basic individual possible; a blank slate—perhaps this is why people in this condition typically choose to paint themselves with artwork—as tattoos, I have learned, are a sort of talisman —

Again, more on that later.

It was heartache to begin with, but the final blow was dealt in the automatic intervention which prompted the scrolling through Instagram as I discovered the turmoil I had been facing was all-for-nothing; Meet Kayla Lauren, a retired porn star—or, at least, by the looks of it.

Many times along my path, and especially in California, I learned that the term “Fitness Model” was used by porn actresses, low end models, cam girls (before everybody was one) or anyone at all whose true careeer in some kind of sex work had to be concealed in some sort of way

“I'm a fitness model”

Oh yes, that explains the body modifications in addition to a usual athletic body type; the fake tits, fake lips, and overall fakeness one's presentation would illicit such a job title to be true “a fitness model”

For Skrillex, who is not a person, but a project and a brand, this makes sense; however, for Sonny Moore, I would imagine, or rather can consciously gather that after all one would learn from the luck that granted him the freedom of fame, a genius of sorts would also be dapiosexual in nature—-that therefore Kayla Lauren, though dull to simply look at, were it not for the professional photography, photoshop, plastic surgery, and of course display of wealth that it actually takes to keep up such a lifestyle—must be some kind of special person in more than a way that she represents the beacon of everyone's ideal fucktoy.

I find almost nothing interesting anymore, let alone entertaining—but the sense of respect, though without as much admiration that I have for Sonny himself at least allows me some room for reflection; although my affinity for being “fit” was truly born in the chaos and destruction of homelessness and poverty, the “push” to take my workout and fitness to extremes was met with the ghost of Kayla Lauren—not someone I believed to be actually better than me, but luckier.

Because, had j been able, I would have taken the same path to perceivable “success” as she seemingly had; like any woman, I would have used my sexual attraction to ease my way through college, into the workforce, and out into the free world; Gazing into the evil-looking blue glare of Kayla Lauren's truly hazel eyes gave me insight on the physical pain and damage caused by my own upbringing— it answered questions that go without asking, such as; Would Kayla Lauren even notice the Skrillex that worked at Terribles?

Now, as I take a moment to almost laugh at such a ridiculous notion, while Sonny Moore is almost definitely the most attractive person in the world to me , in a physical sense, this unasked and adamantly answered question brings us to two points—

Without having acquired such wealth, the dominant traits of Sonny's true attractiveness—intelligence cast aside— would be hidden by the unhealthy stress of poverty, and more than likely some sort of addiction, perhaps even homelessness or another sort of dependence which are all direct results of poverty, at least in the American sense; his features and aura would be drown in the same burdens as mine do; And,

The instagrammable lifestyle influencing “fitness model” may not even have to pump her own gas, but theoretically, perhaps, goes to terribles for an iced tea she can take a picture with—- does she find herself attracted to the 5'3, too-tired-to-talk but still eerily polite cashier, who, for the sake of this hypothetical, is identical to Skrillex—(who, again, isn't a ‘person')

So,‘let's scratch each other's backs; [as we've learned] being anywhere near, connected to, working with, being mentioned by or attracting the attention of Skrillex boosts ones social status, or status at all, considerably—

In my experience, even listening to or playing the music which has resulted from this project, as a byproduct of the actual person, will change the vibration of the immediate space, or, as the music itself emits certain frequencies layered and sequenced in such a way that it may shift the listener's consciousness.

But, on the subject of the person himself, Who has of course by now learned to maneuver and function as both the human person Sonny Moore and also exist as Skrillex, a worldwide phenomenon—all evidence supports that anyone who is able to surround themselves in or even around the inner circle, aka OWSLA will, as a result of Sonny's fame, or the legacy of Skrillex itself will inevitably become more popular; people, including myself, have a tendency to want to know about the world this man lives in or the life he leads in whatever way possible; coughs, Marilyn hue, softest hard, and now even Kayla Lauren can all be assumed to possess a superiority of some sort—as I've said before aloud, but perhaps not In written form as of yet, the company you keep is indicative of your own true nature.

“When someone shows you who they are, believe them.” -MA

NIGGA.

What.

DID YOU WRITE A BOOK— In your DEATH SLEEP?

X . x maybe I did?

Oh my god .

What are you doing?

I don't know? I guess I'm like retarded?

What.

Like a really special kind of like—?

I don't know.

I don't know.

What's wrong with me.

That's a chapter heading.

What's Wrong With Me . / ?

Everything.

Oh fuck.

This doesn't taste like reeces!

This doesn't taste like anything. What is this?

It's sugar free.

What's the point of sugar free candy!

What's the point of music-free music?

Hey, watch it.

Hey, watch yourself

—

I TOLD YOU! IM FROM HERE!

WHAT THE FUCK CHAK CHEL.

Ah, you see!!

Fuck you, lady—

Fahk you. Now,

Oh, my God.

—where's Dillon Francis?!

WHAT THE FUCK—how should I know?!

You should know!

Well, I don't. What the fuck.

—

I don't get it.

—

I'm just a kid in the crowd

And you're just a guy on the stage

Don't like to play lost and found

Got to start acting my age

I like the music up loud

Writing my book, turn the page

One day, I'm making my sound

But tonight,

I'm just a kid in the crowd

—

People think I'm Cuban

Cause I'm black and I speak Spanish;

But I'm an American who kinda had to vanish

I end up in Mexico I thought I'd learn the language

But back home I never go—Alaska is for penguins

—

The Dillon Francis from the Sunni Blu timeline crosses dimensions into The Legend of SupaCree

DILLON FRANCIS

...Sunni—?!

SUPACREE

Uh…

C'ESMET (to CC)

Don't say anything.

CHAK CHEL (to Either)

Just act natural.

[They both stand in ultimate awkwardness.]

CHAK CHEL

Not that natural.

—-

Elbows off the table!

Ugh. My bad.

Take smaller bites!

Okay, alright!

Cross your legs!

I hate this.

What do you think this is?!

Uh—fucking breakfast—

Wrong as always—

Of course I am—

—yes you are—because it's BRUNCH.

—

JESUS AND ALL THE CHRIST!

All of them?!

The Jesus Convention

Oh Lord.

(Literally)

Well, here it goes.

—

No, no, no—Wait—go back to Dillon Francis—

Which Dillon Francis.

This one.

So I guess, when you have a nice body, it changes the way your face looks to a man?

Like/-it just makes it…better

Van Life— Spotify

Mitchell Heritage

@heritage_travels

Hmm. Blue eyes

Blue Eyes Tell Lies

You really think he does music?

I mean, hey.

Doesn't really matter.

Don't do this.

I didn't—

She's...easily distracted.

[supacree explores her surroundings]

Huh.

Oh shit, it's syndicated?

C'esme't, after giving half her heart to Petrutheio, is then ‘betrayed', when he is caught giving some of it away—afraid of the other half breaking completely, she places it into a chest, locked away for safe keeping; Gían, after becoming aware of this, then steals the other half, in a desperate attempt to dissuade her from her foretold fate

Go easy, shit!

I'm now a size 4–and that's with the excess skin around my midriff that plagues me.

You're not cursed!

It's a curse!

That's...fucking disgusting.

“It's not that bad.”

I hate this.

This is a size 4?!

It's size 4.

Well, okay.

Then she's gotta be a double zero!

Why does that matter?

It doesn't.

It obviously does.

Of course it does!