beat my face. (instrumental)

'beat my face. ' Instrumentals for a Higher Purpose Collection 1.1 - Track 01- 'beat my face' (bad girls club) (Instrumental Only) prod by Blū Tha Gürū Now I can chill and do fun things— What fun things. Like this: And *you* can go do the tonight show. Aw what?! I'm not doin the tonight show! SUNNI BLU is doin the tonight show. There's this woman at work… I've been thinking about just l sticking it in her. Do it! Really. Yeah, go for it. You might as well— thinking about it m so much is just as bad as doing it to a woman you would call your wife. Hm. Thinking about it so much anyway, means that you already have. Does it? Besides actually doing it? You already have. I write about white america Then listen to Billie Ellish Isn't it ironic Remember when Billie was niggas Remember her speaking Ebonics And talking like not from highland park God bless Los Angeles Like the animals not on Noah's Ark God bless Brooklyn New York On a walk I saw a copse on rigamortis It's gotten worse Saw a bunch of disco balls mu never noticed Blessed the lord The global war on politics Is actually over water And skin color One time What's trap is I'm just out for bananas Truth is, I don't even want it no more That's when it start comin I don't want no drama, I'm still dumpster diving lord At least walk your dogs l Scooping people and poop off of the sidewalks God I hope I die today Almost got hit by a semi truck Didn't even slow down and shit Didn't even see me I must have been 27 Been up in the parts of Brooklyn ain't nothing beautiful but the baby's breath Only maybe Why why Saw my life in the back of the old Volvo Bring my words and my worlds to the waterfront I found Trader Joe's after all I only came out for bananas and coconut water on markup Call mark wallberg I smell burgers Sweatingbmybhuns off Another small dumb blonde barbie. White people gon steal everything from a nogga Even a name I'll tear down your poster You fuckin poser You not Soleil Your name Kayla or Kaylie You stole it They say a heartbeat at 18 days What difference does that make. I don't have a heartbeat sometimes I'm 30 years old I'm sick He says It's this But that's not sickness She says And if it is, We share it Well, it's a beautiful day in —THE WORST RAVE OF ALL TIME. Damn. That would be Hierovnmus Bosch, The Garden of Eathly Pleasures Oh GOD, What is this place!? YOOOOO. wtf. I realized, at some point— that as long as I wasn't being paid, that there was no need to prioritize anything or anyone—that I could do what I wanted and write what I needed, and do things as I pleased and on a whim because simply put, that nothing else had benefit to it; there was no income in the work that I was doing, and it seemed more for show than my actual benefit, so much so that I felt like a circus act when being made to work out in front of people, and almost entirely unwilling to keep dragging myself out of bed in the middle of the night to ensure that I wouldn't be followed to the gym. It wasn't that I was afraid or paranoid, but that I felt like a circus monkey, especially when the same few people seemed to show up to workout whenever I did, regardless of what time I chose to. As long as it was day time, the same few people showed up almost on que when I was ready for a workout, and I grew tired of the charade at all. I had lost all my weight, and anything leftover was from the stubborn and unfortunate circumstance of having once been so large that I was almost entioy certain that I was in fact a different person. I was at any tigivrn time no more than 48 hours away from being able to see my ribcage through my upper chest by simply drinking water through the day or taking a walk to Trader Joe's; I was no longer in fear of regaining as much weight as I had, lost, and in any sense was so astonishing healthy and clean eating, that even on days I indulged and gorged there was no seeing past the fact that m even bloated, all my extra and extra-extra smalls still fit: I was skinny. Continuing to push myself was a disasterous and pointless charade. I wasn't being paid for being at the gym—and nor had I attracted anything other from what I could see than men already in relationships taking a side eye from their often bland and uncoordinated girlfriends—usually white girls who never learned how to dress or match clothes because they didn't have to—and I often thought of how great it must be to live at the top of the food chain; to be born into a world that loves you and revolves around you and your kind, while the rest subsist under you and fight for survival. Besides the always eager black man, my time in the gym had not resulted in any other suitors that Immight actually arouse my inner beast at all in the way that I thought it might by now— stretch marks at all, as I often realized much larger women with perfectly suitable men enough times to realize that simply put, sometimes it didn't matter. I wasn't going to allow myself to get fat by any means, and was still so fit that the smooth and firm, toned lines of my abdomen often facinated me so much so that I had to touch it to realize that it was true—that even under the skin that I needed removed, there was some kind of six-pack-type abdomen carved out and hidden, defined enough that on the days I did fast, it almost scared me. I squinted in the mirror, even on days that I gorged on whatever I wanted and indulged, bloated from overeating without care—I was still so small that I was proud of myself, and reduced my training schedule to basically whenever I wanted, which was whenever was truly needed. I was nobody's fucking show monkey—I had done more work than most people at all and had achieved more than the average man or woman struggled with, realizing that things such as removing animal product from one's diet, avoiding processed foods, and following a gym ritual at all, never the less 6-7 days a week for a period of years— were things average people said they were going to do over and over, but never did; or started and then quickly stopped upon realizing it was hard. Normal people made New Year's resolutions to do what I had done every year without doing it—and I had. It had taken me this long to realize that most people never escape abusive husbands, or lose 250 pounds— they most people never have to. Most people have never suffered the loss of two children and recovered enough to function properly in the world—and though I wasn't myself ‘in the world' for the time being, I owed myself realizing that I didn't owe the world anything at all besides what I wanted to, or what I could do. That even though I wasn't picked from a Petri dish and born into an industry family like Billie Ellish, I was made just the same to sing and dance around in stage and tour the world doing what I loved as she was— and not being allowed to do that —what i had always wanted— warranted this, an indifferent and almost apathetic protest to whatever it was that was ‘expected' of me, to go out into a world that was rigged against those of my ‘type' and play a game that was harder for me and people like me than It for people born without having to work, sacrifice, and who defined struggle as something so far from what I had come to know as such, that it was almost two different enough things to have been placed in two different worlds at all. Alas, it was all the same world, and all the same game—though some of us with less pieces than others. I had been used all my life, and had finally decided upon some sort of revelation, that I should absolutely not do anything at all, unless I was being paid; not in incentives or windfalls of material things—but cold, hard, cash. The thing that had turned the world evil and dark—but allowed me to get the things that I wanted, when I wanted—without relying on some cheating scumbag loser to provide them for me. Men wanted perfect bodies and the ideal traits to match—and so since I hadn't been gifted such such that would allow it without nearly killin go myself working it away to the bone, I'd find a way to earn a new body myself, so that the world that I had done could be seen. I had a six pack, and nothing was moving at all until I was being paid enough for the world to see it. I was going to wear a bikini, and bask in the sunlight, and do all the things I had been prevented from doing by being poisoned by trauma and processed foods for two decades. I was going to find a job and save for a body that men wanted—the freedom I needed to end the hell that had been 32 years of being a fat, ugly nigger. New York City had made it clear that the world was against us and that Karen, Becky, and Kelsey had ruled in such a way that was meant to destroy us, but I could not be destroyed; If I had to kiss Karen's ass working some bullshio job at some place just to earn the admiration and desire I had always craved and never received, so be it. There was nothing in the world left at all besides money, vanity, and the truth of it all—that men didn't love souls— They loved bodies. All of my time would be spent figuring a way to earn mine. Maybe my mother should have had that abortion after all. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.