***HAPPY NEW YEAR’S 2016***
The year 2016 is only hours away, which means it’s time to make some resolutions. Whether or not I keep those resolutions remains to be seen, but I’m keeping a positive attitude about it. The year 2015 was one of awesomeness for me with all the concerts I’ve been to, the Canadian vacation I went on, and all the creative work I got done from reading to writing to editing. I know 2016 will be all that and more, but with a few slight additions and modifications:
1. I spoke about this in a previous journal, but I’d like to lose weight and have good cardio again. My target weight is a long ways away, but I’d like to shoot for light heavyweight status, which if you follow UFC means I want to weigh 205 lbs. How do I plan on doing this? More water-walking, less fast food. It’s going to take a lot of discipline (which I already have) and more importantly, it’s going to take support from my family. I need someone to drive me to the gym every day and I need people to stop offering me burgers and fries. A Subway or Quizno’s sandwich is fine, but burgers and fries are no good. I am ready to be thinner and more energetic. I’m also ready to stay that way for the rest of my life.
2. I want to work with my beautiful beta reader Marie Krepps in editing Occupy Wrestling a second time so that it can achieve a higher rating on Good Reads and Amazon. Round two will focus on two different aspects: showing instead of telling and making the protagonists likeable. Showing is something that all authors struggle with, but it basically means to use sensory details, body language, thoughts, and dialogue to portray a character’s emotions rather than simply stating it. For example, telling would be, “Mitch McLeod is fucking pissed off.” and showing would be “Mitch McLeod’s eyes were bulging, his face was reddening, and his muscles were tensing up. His fists were clinched tightly like he wanted to knock someone’s fucking head off.” As far as likeability goes, Mitch’s emotions will focus on the guilt he feels after crippling Jack Finnegan and killing Jason Finnegan. It’s a long road, but I won’t travel it alone. I’ve got Marie Krepps by my side for another January in the trenches.
3. When Occupy Wrestling is in tip-top form, the next order of business will be Poison Tongue Tales, which will be comparatively easier since short stories demand less attention than full-blown novels. The show vs. tell principle still applies and having likeable characters will be a must. I’ve already edited a whopping six stories (eye roll) and I’ve only got forty-four more to go. When I had to do the same thing with American Darkness, I put myself on a “bulldozing schedule”, which means I edited three short stories a day until they were all ready for publication. No breaks, no vacations, just straight up hard work. It worked with American Darkness and I’ll be damned if it doesn’t work with Poison Tongue Tales.
4. Remember how I often say that I always keep my creative commitments? That includes reading and editing other people’s works as well. I told Zero Urrea countless times that I’d help him with editing his debut novel “Rake”, but I kept putting it off due to exhaustion or prior commitments. This time around, I’m going to push myself to get him a chapter-by-chapter analysis. Yes, his book is a doorstopper that could be mistaken for a medieval weapon, but that’s not an excuse for me to put it off. Zero, I said I would help you and in 2016, I’m going to make it happen. You’ve obviously worked hard on this novel and it should be the best that you can make it.
And then there are smaller goals like collecting more CD’s and books, building a bookshelf, and attending concerts and vacations. Those things are easy-breezy to take care of, so I’m not going to list them with everything else. Come to think of it, I’m not a very demanding person when it comes to New Year’s resolutions. My life is as relaxing, happy, and easy as it’s going to be and I’m grateful for all of it. For the things I want to get done, when I start dropping my weight, I’ll have more energy and I won’t be able to use mental tiredness as a crutch anymore. We’re going to do this and we’re going to do this right!
***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“Come on, Sheamus, I thought you Irishmen were supposed to have potatoes. Turns out you’re just smuggling some tater tots.”
-Roman Reigns-
***MOST DISGUSTING PROMOTIONAL TACTIC***
Once January starts getting into the 20th days of the month, the Wrestling Observer Newsletter awards will be released. As you all know, my favorite award is the Most Disgusting Promotional Tactic because I enjoy shocking the shit out of people. My prediction for 2015? It’s a no-brainer: WWE exploiting the death of Reid Flair. I’d bet money on it. Then again, I’ve been wrong before.
Thursday, December 31, 2015
Wednesday, December 30, 2015
Violence, Blood, and Gore
VERSE 1
Enough of this G-rated garbage
Don’t cater to a flowery market
It’s time to put on our gloves
Fight like it’s all we ever love
Broken skulls, shredded flesh
Electric wire, steel cage mesh
Someone’s getting knocked out tonight
It’s a brutal battle, it’s an epic fight
CHORUS 1
Let’s see some violence!
Let’s see some blood!
Let’s see some gore!
Come get yourself some!
VERSE 2
I’m sick of this PG-rated sewage
I’m getting ready to fucking lose it
Beat some ass, smash some heads
One of us is going to end up dead
Swing that Singapore cane with style
Watch the bruises bleed for a while
Leaking with pus and other sickly stuff
This is what we are, this is what we love
CHORUS 2
Let’s see some violence!
Let’s see some gore!
Let’s see some blood!
Let’s beg them for more!
VERSE 3
TV-MA has gone out of fashion
Lost forever to violent passion
Rated-R Superstar falling far
Down like a brawler in a bar
NC-17, you must be dreaming
Triple X, you’re not steaming
Lost innocence doesn’t have a limit
Bloodthirsty warrior’s my only gimmick
CHORUS 3
Let’s see some blood!
Let’s see some violence!
Let’s see some gore!
Let’s break the silence!
HOOK
EC-dub, bitch! EC-dub!
Join the party! Join the club!
The janitors will clean and scrub
The bloody stains, puked up grub
This is what I call mortal combat
With a drunken brawler and a conman
Nobody gets out alive tonight
Lace up your boots, get ready to fight!
Enough of this G-rated garbage
Don’t cater to a flowery market
It’s time to put on our gloves
Fight like it’s all we ever love
Broken skulls, shredded flesh
Electric wire, steel cage mesh
Someone’s getting knocked out tonight
It’s a brutal battle, it’s an epic fight
CHORUS 1
Let’s see some violence!
Let’s see some blood!
Let’s see some gore!
Come get yourself some!
VERSE 2
I’m sick of this PG-rated sewage
I’m getting ready to fucking lose it
Beat some ass, smash some heads
One of us is going to end up dead
Swing that Singapore cane with style
Watch the bruises bleed for a while
Leaking with pus and other sickly stuff
This is what we are, this is what we love
CHORUS 2
Let’s see some violence!
Let’s see some gore!
Let’s see some blood!
Let’s beg them for more!
VERSE 3
TV-MA has gone out of fashion
Lost forever to violent passion
Rated-R Superstar falling far
Down like a brawler in a bar
NC-17, you must be dreaming
Triple X, you’re not steaming
Lost innocence doesn’t have a limit
Bloodthirsty warrior’s my only gimmick
CHORUS 3
Let’s see some blood!
Let’s see some violence!
Let’s see some gore!
Let’s break the silence!
HOOK
EC-dub, bitch! EC-dub!
Join the party! Join the club!
The janitors will clean and scrub
The bloody stains, puked up grub
This is what I call mortal combat
With a drunken brawler and a conman
Nobody gets out alive tonight
Lace up your boots, get ready to fight!
Tuesday, December 29, 2015
Take a Swing
Karl Wight stood in the middle of Renegade Gym’s wrestling ring with his muscular arms crossed over his protruding chest and his fierce eyes staring daggers into the wall clock. With every tick-tock of the second hand, his muscles got tighter, his eyes bulged out, his lips were tightly pursed, and the vein in his bald head looked ready to explode. He wore his gray Renegade Gym’s sweatshirt, black wrestling shorts, and blue wrestling boots with pride, part of that pride being he always showed up to work on time and ready to go.
And then there was Josh Tweed, a skinny twenty-something in a black tank top and purple sweatpants. He strutted into the gym with no concern about rushing, just bobbing his head to his iPod music, which was blasting into his oversized headphones. He approached the ring with even more swagger before dropping his gym bag, iPod, and headphones to the floor. He jumped up to the ring apron and stepped through the ropes to start his lesson with the much larger Karl Wight, who was still fuming after staring at the clock for so long.
In a low wolf’s growl, Karl said, “I thought we agreed to start training at eight o’clock. It’s eight-thirty. You’re a half hour late, buddy. What’s your excuse this time?”
“Look, man, I’m sorry about showing up late, but I was caught in traffic and there was no getting around it,” said Josh while waving his hands defensively.
The 300 lb. man beast of a trainer popped his protégé on the forehead with his palm and then waved his sausage finger in his face. “You’d better listen to me good, Mister. I’d better not hear another lame ass excuse come out of your mouth. Show up on time, get your ass in gear, and get ready to exercise. You really think Vince McMahon or Dixie Carter are going to hire you if you keep coming up with bullshit excuses?!”
“I’m sorry, coach, it is what it is,” said Josh, for lack of a better way to sooth his teacher’s nerves.
The enraged behemoth grabbed Josh Tweed by the shirt and rammed him back into one of the turnbuckles, eliciting a response of quick breathing, wide eyes, and stuttering from his pupil. “No, you son of a bitch! It’s not like that at all! One of these days I’m going to break you! And when you break, I doubt you’ll ever fuck up again! Do you understand me?!” For good measure, Karl slapped Josh across the face with his meaty palm. “I said do you understand me?!”
“Okay, okay! It’s cool, Mr. Wight! It’s all good! Just let me go and don’t hurt me!” said Josh in a rushed, wimpy voice.
Karl grabbed his student by the hair and pulled him to the center of the ring. The poor kid was on the verge of pissing his pants when Karl ducked his protégé’s head down, double under-hooked both arms, and threw him backwards. Josh let out a feral cry as the resounding thud of landing on the mat sent a lightning bolt up his spine.
“If you would have been here thirty minutes ago, you could have learned that move in a less destructive way!” bellowed Karl. “That move is called a Butterfly Suplex. As you can tell, it’s just as painful for your arms as it is for your back. If you would have landed on your head, that would have spelled disaster for your neck too. I’m glad to know at least some of my teachings are paying off.”
Josh grabbed onto the ropes and pulled himself off the ground, still sore, still bruised, still wobbly. Karl ducked down to get in position so that his student could try the move on him. Josh would have loved nothing more than to dunk this jerk-off on his back, but his arms were trembling and too pain-wracked to get a good double under-hook.
“For Christ’s sake, man! This isn’t a gay porn movie! I don’t want to be stuck here all day long!” screamed Karl. Josh tried again to keep the under-hooks in, but the juggernaut of a trainer said, “Time’s up!” and flipped the poor kid on his back. With his back feeling like knives are going through it, Josh tried to roll over on his knees, but he kept getting his face shoved by Karl’s boot. “Get up, damn it! Get up!”
Josh Tweed was on the verge of breaking, but not into a puddle of tears like Karl Wight had hoped. Instead the little beanpole, threw a low blow at his teacher, who caught the kid’s arm, hooked it, and threw him back for another Butterfly Suplex. Karl just kept on giving Butterfly Suplexes to his pupil over and over again. One slam on the mat. Two. Three. Four. Josh’s body felt like he’d been crushed by a falling piano. Standing up was a chore that required a firm, motherly grip on the top and middle ropes.
“You do realize that this is a wrestling exhibition I’m putting you through, right? As such, you’re supposed to fight back and actually gain some leverage over me. That’s how you look good in your matches. But hey, we don’t have to worry about you looking good in the ring. You’ll lose for just about anybody they put in front of you. Hell, I just took you to Suplex City, bitch!” taunted Karl.
“I ain’t no bitch!” screamed Josh at the top of his lungs. When Karl tauntingly asked him to repeat himself, he obliged, “I ain’t no bitch! You are the worst teacher in the history of wrestling! Even if I showed up on time, you’d still act like a spoiled little boy! Screw you and your family too!”
“Oh yeah?” asked Karl as he raised his eyebrows. “And what’s the alternative? Because no matter which wrestling school you go to, there’s always going to be a teacher who treats you like this! It’s called tough love! All wrestlers go through it eventually! You think you’re getting a free pass just because I hurt your damn feelings?! Newsflash: there are no handouts in this industry! If you want a handout so badly, then go back to your job as a convenience store clerk and go on welfare! Hell, given your performance today, Tax Day is my new favorite day of the year!”
The stress of Karl’s words brought Josh to his knees. It took a lot of strength for him to keep from bursting into tears. There was no way he was going to let this asshole see him like this. He lifted one leg and from there he stood up without the aid of the ropes. He was still sore all over, but his newfound aggression allowed him to block out the pain.
Karl got out of the ring temporarily, dug into his own gym bag, and returned to the squared circle with a gold and diamond-encrusted championship belt. “You see this, Josh? You see this piece of hardware? I earned it back when I was your age by fighting through the pain, scratching and clawing, and never giving up. Here, I want you to hold it for a minute.”
Josh took the title and stared at it in his arms with eye-bulging intensity. He loved the way it felt. Just holding something that expensive looking made him feel like a hero. This too was his dream: to scratch and claw to the top of the mountain and never look down. But of course, Karl pissed in his Cheerios once again with, “That’s as close to a world championship as you’re going to get my friend.”
Mr. Tweed slowly lifted his head and made brutal eye contact with his harsh trainer. They spent the world’s longest minute gazing at each other before Josh did the unthinkable and dropped the belt at his master’s feet. Karl looked down at his belt and said, “Pick that up, you stooge!”
“How about you bend over in front of me and pick it up yourself, you homo,” said Josh with bravery in his voice.
Karl got closer into his student’s face and said, “With that kind of disrespectful bullshit going for you, it’s amazing you’re allowed to work here at all. I’m so disappointed in you, Josh Tweed. Heh, what kind of a last name is that for a wrestler?”
As Karl doubled over to pick up his title, Josh summoned the hulking strength to double under-hook his mentor’s arms and throw him backwards in his own version of a Butterfly Suplex. The loud thud of Karl’s back hitting the mat wasn’t as bad as the surprise of it all, as evidenced by the teacher’s slight yip from taking his bump.
As the master laid on his back staring at the ceiling in shock wondering just what the hell happened, Josh Tweed stood over him and said, “You’re right. That Butterfly Suplex is one hell of a move.”
The other surprise of the morning? Karl Wight couldn’t be mad about it at all. He chuckled and said, “You sneaky bastard. You got me good. You got me real’ good. Maybe instead of being a jobber, you could be one of those tricky heel characters. You’re already sounding like the perfect bad guy to me.”
“Take a good look at the bad guy!” said Josh as he stretched his arms out crucifix style and did his best Razor Ramon impression.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Josh. We’ve still got an entire day of drills to get through. And then I’m going to teach you my favorite move of all time. You don’t see it much in wrestling anymore, but it used to be really popular in the 90’s.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“The pile-driver!”
Josh’s machismo faded into a look of concern followed by a gulp of saliva. Meanwhile, Karl Wight was still on his back chuckling like a madman.
And then there was Josh Tweed, a skinny twenty-something in a black tank top and purple sweatpants. He strutted into the gym with no concern about rushing, just bobbing his head to his iPod music, which was blasting into his oversized headphones. He approached the ring with even more swagger before dropping his gym bag, iPod, and headphones to the floor. He jumped up to the ring apron and stepped through the ropes to start his lesson with the much larger Karl Wight, who was still fuming after staring at the clock for so long.
In a low wolf’s growl, Karl said, “I thought we agreed to start training at eight o’clock. It’s eight-thirty. You’re a half hour late, buddy. What’s your excuse this time?”
“Look, man, I’m sorry about showing up late, but I was caught in traffic and there was no getting around it,” said Josh while waving his hands defensively.
The 300 lb. man beast of a trainer popped his protégé on the forehead with his palm and then waved his sausage finger in his face. “You’d better listen to me good, Mister. I’d better not hear another lame ass excuse come out of your mouth. Show up on time, get your ass in gear, and get ready to exercise. You really think Vince McMahon or Dixie Carter are going to hire you if you keep coming up with bullshit excuses?!”
“I’m sorry, coach, it is what it is,” said Josh, for lack of a better way to sooth his teacher’s nerves.
The enraged behemoth grabbed Josh Tweed by the shirt and rammed him back into one of the turnbuckles, eliciting a response of quick breathing, wide eyes, and stuttering from his pupil. “No, you son of a bitch! It’s not like that at all! One of these days I’m going to break you! And when you break, I doubt you’ll ever fuck up again! Do you understand me?!” For good measure, Karl slapped Josh across the face with his meaty palm. “I said do you understand me?!”
“Okay, okay! It’s cool, Mr. Wight! It’s all good! Just let me go and don’t hurt me!” said Josh in a rushed, wimpy voice.
Karl grabbed his student by the hair and pulled him to the center of the ring. The poor kid was on the verge of pissing his pants when Karl ducked his protégé’s head down, double under-hooked both arms, and threw him backwards. Josh let out a feral cry as the resounding thud of landing on the mat sent a lightning bolt up his spine.
“If you would have been here thirty minutes ago, you could have learned that move in a less destructive way!” bellowed Karl. “That move is called a Butterfly Suplex. As you can tell, it’s just as painful for your arms as it is for your back. If you would have landed on your head, that would have spelled disaster for your neck too. I’m glad to know at least some of my teachings are paying off.”
Josh grabbed onto the ropes and pulled himself off the ground, still sore, still bruised, still wobbly. Karl ducked down to get in position so that his student could try the move on him. Josh would have loved nothing more than to dunk this jerk-off on his back, but his arms were trembling and too pain-wracked to get a good double under-hook.
“For Christ’s sake, man! This isn’t a gay porn movie! I don’t want to be stuck here all day long!” screamed Karl. Josh tried again to keep the under-hooks in, but the juggernaut of a trainer said, “Time’s up!” and flipped the poor kid on his back. With his back feeling like knives are going through it, Josh tried to roll over on his knees, but he kept getting his face shoved by Karl’s boot. “Get up, damn it! Get up!”
Josh Tweed was on the verge of breaking, but not into a puddle of tears like Karl Wight had hoped. Instead the little beanpole, threw a low blow at his teacher, who caught the kid’s arm, hooked it, and threw him back for another Butterfly Suplex. Karl just kept on giving Butterfly Suplexes to his pupil over and over again. One slam on the mat. Two. Three. Four. Josh’s body felt like he’d been crushed by a falling piano. Standing up was a chore that required a firm, motherly grip on the top and middle ropes.
“You do realize that this is a wrestling exhibition I’m putting you through, right? As such, you’re supposed to fight back and actually gain some leverage over me. That’s how you look good in your matches. But hey, we don’t have to worry about you looking good in the ring. You’ll lose for just about anybody they put in front of you. Hell, I just took you to Suplex City, bitch!” taunted Karl.
“I ain’t no bitch!” screamed Josh at the top of his lungs. When Karl tauntingly asked him to repeat himself, he obliged, “I ain’t no bitch! You are the worst teacher in the history of wrestling! Even if I showed up on time, you’d still act like a spoiled little boy! Screw you and your family too!”
“Oh yeah?” asked Karl as he raised his eyebrows. “And what’s the alternative? Because no matter which wrestling school you go to, there’s always going to be a teacher who treats you like this! It’s called tough love! All wrestlers go through it eventually! You think you’re getting a free pass just because I hurt your damn feelings?! Newsflash: there are no handouts in this industry! If you want a handout so badly, then go back to your job as a convenience store clerk and go on welfare! Hell, given your performance today, Tax Day is my new favorite day of the year!”
The stress of Karl’s words brought Josh to his knees. It took a lot of strength for him to keep from bursting into tears. There was no way he was going to let this asshole see him like this. He lifted one leg and from there he stood up without the aid of the ropes. He was still sore all over, but his newfound aggression allowed him to block out the pain.
Karl got out of the ring temporarily, dug into his own gym bag, and returned to the squared circle with a gold and diamond-encrusted championship belt. “You see this, Josh? You see this piece of hardware? I earned it back when I was your age by fighting through the pain, scratching and clawing, and never giving up. Here, I want you to hold it for a minute.”
Josh took the title and stared at it in his arms with eye-bulging intensity. He loved the way it felt. Just holding something that expensive looking made him feel like a hero. This too was his dream: to scratch and claw to the top of the mountain and never look down. But of course, Karl pissed in his Cheerios once again with, “That’s as close to a world championship as you’re going to get my friend.”
Mr. Tweed slowly lifted his head and made brutal eye contact with his harsh trainer. They spent the world’s longest minute gazing at each other before Josh did the unthinkable and dropped the belt at his master’s feet. Karl looked down at his belt and said, “Pick that up, you stooge!”
“How about you bend over in front of me and pick it up yourself, you homo,” said Josh with bravery in his voice.
Karl got closer into his student’s face and said, “With that kind of disrespectful bullshit going for you, it’s amazing you’re allowed to work here at all. I’m so disappointed in you, Josh Tweed. Heh, what kind of a last name is that for a wrestler?”
As Karl doubled over to pick up his title, Josh summoned the hulking strength to double under-hook his mentor’s arms and throw him backwards in his own version of a Butterfly Suplex. The loud thud of Karl’s back hitting the mat wasn’t as bad as the surprise of it all, as evidenced by the teacher’s slight yip from taking his bump.
As the master laid on his back staring at the ceiling in shock wondering just what the hell happened, Josh Tweed stood over him and said, “You’re right. That Butterfly Suplex is one hell of a move.”
The other surprise of the morning? Karl Wight couldn’t be mad about it at all. He chuckled and said, “You sneaky bastard. You got me good. You got me real’ good. Maybe instead of being a jobber, you could be one of those tricky heel characters. You’re already sounding like the perfect bad guy to me.”
“Take a good look at the bad guy!” said Josh as he stretched his arms out crucifix style and did his best Razor Ramon impression.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Josh. We’ve still got an entire day of drills to get through. And then I’m going to teach you my favorite move of all time. You don’t see it much in wrestling anymore, but it used to be really popular in the 90’s.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“The pile-driver!”
Josh’s machismo faded into a look of concern followed by a gulp of saliva. Meanwhile, Karl Wight was still on his back chuckling like a madman.
Sunday, December 27, 2015
"Threads of a Web" by Marie Krepps
BOOK TITLE: Threads of a Web
AUTHOR: Marie Krepps
YEAR: 2016
GENRE: Fiction
SUBGENRE: Vampire Sci-Fi & Urban Fantasy
GRADE: Pass
Ever since humans discovered the truth about vampires existing, the two races have been at war with each other for many centuries. The war continues into the modern era where government agents raid covens of vampires and drag them into the sunlight to be burned. And now the vampires are learning to stick together and fight back against those who want to commit genocide against their race. As the story progresses farther into the future, the secret war between humans and vampires becomes a triple threat battle royal with the inclusion of a mysterious alien race known only for killing everyone they see with no discrimination. Can the humans and vampires trust each other long enough to thwart this alien invasion or will they continue to spill each other’s blood and ensure complete genocide?
We all have an idea of what science-fiction, fantasy, and horror stories are supposed to be like. But what if you took the best elements from all three of those genres and combined them into one bloodthirsty, emotional narrative? Genre mixing has always been a fascination of mine and this story of vampires and aliens is a match made in heaven. Ms. Krepps isn’t combining these genres just to be cool. She still has a solid story beneath all of the geeky tropes. That story includes vampire/human romances, loyalty toward the great leaders, the value of friendship, and of course, ass-beatings. Lots and lots of ass-beatings. This story is both emotional and exciting on so many levels, which is why I believe it will please a wide variety of audiences instead of just one.
The cast of characters in this thrilling novel is also something that deserves high praise. The first of which we’re introduced to is Marla, a stripper with a no-nonsense attitude and a badass aura. Even when she comes face to face with the ultra-powerful vampire elder Mertuk, Marla toughs it out like the warrior she is. And then you have William, a young and handsome vampire who has a nasty habit of falling in love with beautiful women at the wrong times. And then there’s Morgan, a vigilante hacker with a supermodel body and less tolerance for bull-crap than Marla. I could go on and on naming all of the characters who come together for the sake of fighting off humans and aliens. So many cool characters, all of them with kick-ass intentions, stone cold emotions, and only a hint of romance when the tears truly count. No sparklers here.
In writing this novel, Marie Krepps isn’t just telling a story. She’s building an entire world of high action and emotional drama for all of these solid characters to live in. If you’re the kind of person with a fragile backbone and no guts, you wouldn’t survive ten minutes in this dangerous realm of blood hunger. This is the kind of danger audiences want in an action-packed novel. There will be no peace until complete annihilation has overtaken the entire world. Racial supremacy is a deadly way to look at life weather it’s vampires vs. humans or in today’s world with whites vs. blacks or Americans vs. Iraqis. The violence that takes place in this book not only makes for a fun ride, but it’s also realistic of how some scenarios are just zero sum games. What does the narrator from the Fallout videogame franchise like to say? War. War never changes.
Marie Krepps isn’t the kind of author who knocks at the door of opportunity. She smashes it down and brings an army of bloodlust-driven vampires with her. If she wants success in the literary world, she will get it one way or another. This woman represents the reality of an author’s life: tireless work and overcoming obstacles. If Threads of a Web is any indication of what she’s capable of, then Marie Krepps could very well be the role model Generation Y needs to move ahead. A passing grade for an A+ author. How does that sound?
AUTHOR: Marie Krepps
YEAR: 2016
GENRE: Fiction
SUBGENRE: Vampire Sci-Fi & Urban Fantasy
GRADE: Pass
Ever since humans discovered the truth about vampires existing, the two races have been at war with each other for many centuries. The war continues into the modern era where government agents raid covens of vampires and drag them into the sunlight to be burned. And now the vampires are learning to stick together and fight back against those who want to commit genocide against their race. As the story progresses farther into the future, the secret war between humans and vampires becomes a triple threat battle royal with the inclusion of a mysterious alien race known only for killing everyone they see with no discrimination. Can the humans and vampires trust each other long enough to thwart this alien invasion or will they continue to spill each other’s blood and ensure complete genocide?
We all have an idea of what science-fiction, fantasy, and horror stories are supposed to be like. But what if you took the best elements from all three of those genres and combined them into one bloodthirsty, emotional narrative? Genre mixing has always been a fascination of mine and this story of vampires and aliens is a match made in heaven. Ms. Krepps isn’t combining these genres just to be cool. She still has a solid story beneath all of the geeky tropes. That story includes vampire/human romances, loyalty toward the great leaders, the value of friendship, and of course, ass-beatings. Lots and lots of ass-beatings. This story is both emotional and exciting on so many levels, which is why I believe it will please a wide variety of audiences instead of just one.
The cast of characters in this thrilling novel is also something that deserves high praise. The first of which we’re introduced to is Marla, a stripper with a no-nonsense attitude and a badass aura. Even when she comes face to face with the ultra-powerful vampire elder Mertuk, Marla toughs it out like the warrior she is. And then you have William, a young and handsome vampire who has a nasty habit of falling in love with beautiful women at the wrong times. And then there’s Morgan, a vigilante hacker with a supermodel body and less tolerance for bull-crap than Marla. I could go on and on naming all of the characters who come together for the sake of fighting off humans and aliens. So many cool characters, all of them with kick-ass intentions, stone cold emotions, and only a hint of romance when the tears truly count. No sparklers here.
In writing this novel, Marie Krepps isn’t just telling a story. She’s building an entire world of high action and emotional drama for all of these solid characters to live in. If you’re the kind of person with a fragile backbone and no guts, you wouldn’t survive ten minutes in this dangerous realm of blood hunger. This is the kind of danger audiences want in an action-packed novel. There will be no peace until complete annihilation has overtaken the entire world. Racial supremacy is a deadly way to look at life weather it’s vampires vs. humans or in today’s world with whites vs. blacks or Americans vs. Iraqis. The violence that takes place in this book not only makes for a fun ride, but it’s also realistic of how some scenarios are just zero sum games. What does the narrator from the Fallout videogame franchise like to say? War. War never changes.
Marie Krepps isn’t the kind of author who knocks at the door of opportunity. She smashes it down and brings an army of bloodlust-driven vampires with her. If she wants success in the literary world, she will get it one way or another. This woman represents the reality of an author’s life: tireless work and overcoming obstacles. If Threads of a Web is any indication of what she’s capable of, then Marie Krepps could very well be the role model Generation Y needs to move ahead. A passing grade for an A+ author. How does that sound?
WWE NXT Takeover: London: Bayley vs. Nia Jax
MATCH: Bayley vs. Nia Jax for the former’s NXT Women’s Championship
PROMOTION: WWE NXT
EVENT: Takeover: London
YEAR: 2015
RATING: TV-PG for violence
GRADE: Pass
When you have a dream, the only way to achieve it is through lengthy journeys and honest-to-God hard work. Attaining such a huge goal may take weeks, months, years, possibly even decades, every second filled with the highs and lows of soldiering on. There may be moments when you feel like quitting, but if you do, all of the heartache will be for nothing. You fight, you scratch, you claw, and you bleed until what you want is within your reach. NXT diva Bayley wanted to not only wrestle, but to be a champion that little girls can look up to. When she defeated Sasha Banks in a grueling five-star match at Takeover: Brooklyn, she exceeded expectations. Congratulations, you tough chick. You’ve earned it.
But of course, winning a prestigious championship is only part of the equation. It takes a shit ton of hard work and sacrifice to win it, but it takes even more guts and brutality to keep it. Not only did Bayley successfully do so in a 30-minute Iron Man rematch against Sasha Banks, but also against Alexa Bliss and Eva Marie. That totals three different divas that Bayley scratched off the long list of those gunning for her diamond-encrusted championship. At Takeover: London, she had quite possibly the toughest challenge a woman of her size could possibly have. She had to defend her title against Nia Jax.
Who exactly is Nia Jax? She’s well over six-feet tall, her weight is well-established within the 200’s, she’s a former plus-size model, she has more strength than an entire African jungle full of wild animals, she fights like an army of barbarians wielding blood-stained axes, and she’s a cousin of WWE legend and movie star Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. NXT color commentator Corey Graves wasn’t kidding when he said Nia Jax vs. Bayley was like watching Mike Tyson vs. Manny Pacquiao. In other words, they were both talented fighters, but the weight discrepancy is mind-boggling. Needless to say, Bayley was outgunned big time.
When the actual match took place in London, England, Bayley had two things that kept her alive throughout the match: a speed advantage and a crowd support advantage. About the latter, of course they’re going to fall in love with Bayley. She’s everything a role model should be: strong, positive, and tireless. Since the event took place in England, it was only appropriate that the crowd sing parodies of Beatles songs and change the lyrics to conform to Bayley. Crowd support can bring any wrestler to life, but in the end, that’s all they can do. When it comes to the actual fight, you’re on your own, lady.
Being so many sizes smaller than the ogre-like Nia Jax, Bayley stuck to her own advantages and used her superior speed to avoid being readily disposed of. She threw quick elbows, quick dropkicks, quick forearms, and although these moves kept the giantess at bay for a little while, they didn’t faze the bloodthirsty bitch at all. It would only be a matter of time before Nia Jax would have her turn at offence and goddamn, did she deliver.
While Bayley’s offence could only be comparable to an annoying fly buzzing around, it was Nia Jax who did the swatting. Turnbuckle body splashes turned Bayley’s insides into mush. Three consecutive fireman’s carry back drops smashed her bones into sugar bits. How about a leg drop from a leg that weighs about as much as a fallen tree. How about another leg drop that feels like a falling building, but this time across the left shoulder? All of these hard-hitting, body-smashing attacks were coming from a woman that outweighed Bayley by at minimum 100 lbs. After suffering it all, the super positive super heroine just laid on the ground lifeless, limp, and ready for a hearse. Rest in peace, Bayley-Pie. I’m not The Undertaker, but I’ll say it to you anyways.
But if the RIP analogy is true, then why does Bayley continue to kick out of these bone-crunching moves? The referee’s hand was only a micrometer from hitting the mat a third time and the little angel that could got her aching shoulder out of the pinning combination to avoid losing. Coming back to life repeatedly was only delaying the inevitable according to the sad saps at the commentary booth, which were the Millhouse look-alike Rich Brennan, the always dorky Byron Saxton, and the heavy metal stud muffin Corey Graves.
Bayley wasn’t going to give up that easily. Nia Jax was getting ready to slam the smaller wrestler on the mat in what would be a modified spine-buster. But the little chick wrapped her arm around Nia’s neck and squeezed so hard that her rhino skull was going to pop like a zit. But then Bayley was slammed down hard and lifeless once more. Nia knelt down to pin her and was again caught in that headlock choke. Once again, Bayley was slammed hard on her back and was ready to meet Jesus with a firm handshake.
After a few wheezes and coughs from Nia Jax, the heavier diva knelt down again for a pin attempt and for the third time in a row got caught in the headlock choke. Bayley’s arms don’t look at that big on television, but she might as well have had 24-inch pythons like the immortal Hulk Hogan. She squeezed so tightly that she would prove why that technique was called a guillotine choke. Before the monstrous diva could be decapitated, she tapped out and the referee awarded the victory and the NXT Women’s Championship to Bayley.
Walking through the fiery valleys of hell is a necessary part of achieving hard-fought victories in the WWE. Not only did Bayley walk them in this match, but she dragged her lifeless body across them until she was fingertips away from her milestone. When she slew the beast known as Nia Jax, Bayley was exhausted. She spent the longest time lying on the ground and trying to get to her knees. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she was taken to the hospital after the match was over. But she did it. She’s the biggest example in women’s wrestling of a strong heroine who overcomes the obstacles put in front of her despite the insurmountable odds. Little girls don’t have to grow up to be spoiled princesses. They can grow up and be raging warriors like Bayley. The example she sets for women everywhere is why this match gets a passing grade.
Okay, all you male supremacists out there. I’ve got a question to ask you. Do you still think a woman’s place is in the kitchen? Do you still expect your wives and daughters to cook and clean for you while popping out babies left and right? Raise your hands if you feel this way. Raise them high so that Bayley and Nia Jax can see them and beat the living piss out of all of you. These two women put on a show that nobody is going to forget for a long, long time. If you’d like to forget it so badly, go ahead and trust Bayley with an iron skillet. With one whack upside the head, you’ll probably forget pretty easily. A janitor will have to mop up your brains afterwards, but you’ll forget anyways. For the rest of us who live in the 21st century, we’ll enjoy this classic women’s wrestling match.
PROMOTION: WWE NXT
EVENT: Takeover: London
YEAR: 2015
RATING: TV-PG for violence
GRADE: Pass
When you have a dream, the only way to achieve it is through lengthy journeys and honest-to-God hard work. Attaining such a huge goal may take weeks, months, years, possibly even decades, every second filled with the highs and lows of soldiering on. There may be moments when you feel like quitting, but if you do, all of the heartache will be for nothing. You fight, you scratch, you claw, and you bleed until what you want is within your reach. NXT diva Bayley wanted to not only wrestle, but to be a champion that little girls can look up to. When she defeated Sasha Banks in a grueling five-star match at Takeover: Brooklyn, she exceeded expectations. Congratulations, you tough chick. You’ve earned it.
But of course, winning a prestigious championship is only part of the equation. It takes a shit ton of hard work and sacrifice to win it, but it takes even more guts and brutality to keep it. Not only did Bayley successfully do so in a 30-minute Iron Man rematch against Sasha Banks, but also against Alexa Bliss and Eva Marie. That totals three different divas that Bayley scratched off the long list of those gunning for her diamond-encrusted championship. At Takeover: London, she had quite possibly the toughest challenge a woman of her size could possibly have. She had to defend her title against Nia Jax.
Who exactly is Nia Jax? She’s well over six-feet tall, her weight is well-established within the 200’s, she’s a former plus-size model, she has more strength than an entire African jungle full of wild animals, she fights like an army of barbarians wielding blood-stained axes, and she’s a cousin of WWE legend and movie star Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. NXT color commentator Corey Graves wasn’t kidding when he said Nia Jax vs. Bayley was like watching Mike Tyson vs. Manny Pacquiao. In other words, they were both talented fighters, but the weight discrepancy is mind-boggling. Needless to say, Bayley was outgunned big time.
When the actual match took place in London, England, Bayley had two things that kept her alive throughout the match: a speed advantage and a crowd support advantage. About the latter, of course they’re going to fall in love with Bayley. She’s everything a role model should be: strong, positive, and tireless. Since the event took place in England, it was only appropriate that the crowd sing parodies of Beatles songs and change the lyrics to conform to Bayley. Crowd support can bring any wrestler to life, but in the end, that’s all they can do. When it comes to the actual fight, you’re on your own, lady.
Being so many sizes smaller than the ogre-like Nia Jax, Bayley stuck to her own advantages and used her superior speed to avoid being readily disposed of. She threw quick elbows, quick dropkicks, quick forearms, and although these moves kept the giantess at bay for a little while, they didn’t faze the bloodthirsty bitch at all. It would only be a matter of time before Nia Jax would have her turn at offence and goddamn, did she deliver.
While Bayley’s offence could only be comparable to an annoying fly buzzing around, it was Nia Jax who did the swatting. Turnbuckle body splashes turned Bayley’s insides into mush. Three consecutive fireman’s carry back drops smashed her bones into sugar bits. How about a leg drop from a leg that weighs about as much as a fallen tree. How about another leg drop that feels like a falling building, but this time across the left shoulder? All of these hard-hitting, body-smashing attacks were coming from a woman that outweighed Bayley by at minimum 100 lbs. After suffering it all, the super positive super heroine just laid on the ground lifeless, limp, and ready for a hearse. Rest in peace, Bayley-Pie. I’m not The Undertaker, but I’ll say it to you anyways.
But if the RIP analogy is true, then why does Bayley continue to kick out of these bone-crunching moves? The referee’s hand was only a micrometer from hitting the mat a third time and the little angel that could got her aching shoulder out of the pinning combination to avoid losing. Coming back to life repeatedly was only delaying the inevitable according to the sad saps at the commentary booth, which were the Millhouse look-alike Rich Brennan, the always dorky Byron Saxton, and the heavy metal stud muffin Corey Graves.
Bayley wasn’t going to give up that easily. Nia Jax was getting ready to slam the smaller wrestler on the mat in what would be a modified spine-buster. But the little chick wrapped her arm around Nia’s neck and squeezed so hard that her rhino skull was going to pop like a zit. But then Bayley was slammed down hard and lifeless once more. Nia knelt down to pin her and was again caught in that headlock choke. Once again, Bayley was slammed hard on her back and was ready to meet Jesus with a firm handshake.
After a few wheezes and coughs from Nia Jax, the heavier diva knelt down again for a pin attempt and for the third time in a row got caught in the headlock choke. Bayley’s arms don’t look at that big on television, but she might as well have had 24-inch pythons like the immortal Hulk Hogan. She squeezed so tightly that she would prove why that technique was called a guillotine choke. Before the monstrous diva could be decapitated, she tapped out and the referee awarded the victory and the NXT Women’s Championship to Bayley.
Walking through the fiery valleys of hell is a necessary part of achieving hard-fought victories in the WWE. Not only did Bayley walk them in this match, but she dragged her lifeless body across them until she was fingertips away from her milestone. When she slew the beast known as Nia Jax, Bayley was exhausted. She spent the longest time lying on the ground and trying to get to her knees. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she was taken to the hospital after the match was over. But she did it. She’s the biggest example in women’s wrestling of a strong heroine who overcomes the obstacles put in front of her despite the insurmountable odds. Little girls don’t have to grow up to be spoiled princesses. They can grow up and be raging warriors like Bayley. The example she sets for women everywhere is why this match gets a passing grade.
Okay, all you male supremacists out there. I’ve got a question to ask you. Do you still think a woman’s place is in the kitchen? Do you still expect your wives and daughters to cook and clean for you while popping out babies left and right? Raise your hands if you feel this way. Raise them high so that Bayley and Nia Jax can see them and beat the living piss out of all of you. These two women put on a show that nobody is going to forget for a long, long time. If you’d like to forget it so badly, go ahead and trust Bayley with an iron skillet. With one whack upside the head, you’ll probably forget pretty easily. A janitor will have to mop up your brains afterwards, but you’ll forget anyways. For the rest of us who live in the 21st century, we’ll enjoy this classic women’s wrestling match.
Thursday, December 24, 2015
Merry Christmas 2015
***MERRY CHRISTMAS 2015***
As I begin writing this journal entry, it’s seven o’clock at night, which means we’ve got five hours before Christmas day officially begins. As long as we’re this close to the holiday season, I want to wish all of you a Merry Christmas. Those are two words I could listen to over and over again. As I’ve said in the past, I don’t see Christmas as catering to a religion I’m not a part of. I see it as a magical time of year that we can all enjoy. It’s about families and friends being closer together and continuing that theme of closeness all throughout the years to come.
But Christmas isn’t without its negative connotations. I look all over the internet and no matter where I go, I always see someone acting like a Grinch. “Oh, Christmas is such hard work!” “Oh, I don’t want any presents this year!” “Oh, I hate Christmas, blah, blah, blah!” What could possibly be so wrong with such a happy time of the year? If you don’t like going out to shop for presents, order them on Amazon. If you don’t like the people you spend this holiday with, get some new people. Having a negative attitude toward Christmas is a lot like going to Disneyland, the happiest place on earth, and shitting on all of the seats to the roller coasters. Negativity never did anybody any good.
Last year’s Christmas was such a magical time for me that I held onto that spirit all throughout 2015 and became a happier person over the proceeding months. December 2014 will always be remembered as the month I went to San Diego to spend a day at Lego Land, another theme park that could be considered the happiest place on earth. That vacation was so much fun in so many ways: there was Lego Land, the San Diego Wildlife Park, strolling the beaches to guzzle eye candy, and it was all capped off by watching a movie at the cinemas called St. Vincent, which I’ve done a review for and gave a passing grade.
I held onto that feeling of happiness all throughout 2015 and a lot of positive things happened that year as a result. I rekindled my friendship with Marie Krepps and we’ve been beta reading for each other ever since. I vacationed in Victoria, Canada with my family and had a relaxing time. I saw Cavalera Conspiracy in concert and rocked the fuck out. I saw a symphonic band called Distant Worlds, whose music of choice was the Final Fantasy soundtrack. I got to see Slipknot, Lamb of God, and Three Days Grace on the same show and rocked the fuck out yet again. I got to wear a Slipknot costume for Halloween and I scared the shit out of everyone around me. The year was also a good one for reading, writing, and editing books. I currently have three active books on the market right now and despite their star-ratings, I can safely say I’m proud of all of them.
The point I’m trying to make is, don’t let Christmas become a disdainful experience for you. Find happiness in this generally happy holiday. If you get a CD as a present, rock out to it as much as possible. If you eat a big dinner, savor every last bite. If you’re spending the holiday with people you love, love them even more. Being a Grinch or a Scrooge is no good for no one. This is a day of celebration no matter which god you worship (or lack thereof). Be thankful for every good thing that happens to you on this day and bypass every bad thing. The more thankful you are, the more things you will have to be thankful for. If I sound like I’m parroting Rhonda Byrne, it’s because I am. Squawk! Squawk! Polly wants a cracker! Squawk!
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
***WWE MATCH REVIEW***
Last week, my television burned out, so I used money I saved up to buy a replacement. Thanks to that replacement, I was able to watch WWE NXT Takeover: London. It was a superior show top to bottom. Even the crowd was alive and well for these matches. They used S and F words despite the show being rated TV-PG and they even sang Beatles songs during matches. Although every match was great, the one I’d really like to give my next passing grade to is the NXT Women’s Championship match between Bayley (the champion) and Nia Jax (the challenger). Corey Graves referred to the size discrepancy of this match as being like Manny Pacquiao vs. Mike Tyson: two talented competitors from FAR different weight classes. Even so, it was the heart and the guts of the much smaller Bayley that won her the match by submission.
***PARODY LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“Here’s a little story about Garrison Kelly. He ate a bunch of food and got a big belly. He tried to exercise, but he got winded. His gym membership was rescinded. You don’t bring a knife to a gunfight! You’ll lose!”
-Sick Puppies singing “Gunfight”, but with my lyric modifications-
As I begin writing this journal entry, it’s seven o’clock at night, which means we’ve got five hours before Christmas day officially begins. As long as we’re this close to the holiday season, I want to wish all of you a Merry Christmas. Those are two words I could listen to over and over again. As I’ve said in the past, I don’t see Christmas as catering to a religion I’m not a part of. I see it as a magical time of year that we can all enjoy. It’s about families and friends being closer together and continuing that theme of closeness all throughout the years to come.
But Christmas isn’t without its negative connotations. I look all over the internet and no matter where I go, I always see someone acting like a Grinch. “Oh, Christmas is such hard work!” “Oh, I don’t want any presents this year!” “Oh, I hate Christmas, blah, blah, blah!” What could possibly be so wrong with such a happy time of the year? If you don’t like going out to shop for presents, order them on Amazon. If you don’t like the people you spend this holiday with, get some new people. Having a negative attitude toward Christmas is a lot like going to Disneyland, the happiest place on earth, and shitting on all of the seats to the roller coasters. Negativity never did anybody any good.
Last year’s Christmas was such a magical time for me that I held onto that spirit all throughout 2015 and became a happier person over the proceeding months. December 2014 will always be remembered as the month I went to San Diego to spend a day at Lego Land, another theme park that could be considered the happiest place on earth. That vacation was so much fun in so many ways: there was Lego Land, the San Diego Wildlife Park, strolling the beaches to guzzle eye candy, and it was all capped off by watching a movie at the cinemas called St. Vincent, which I’ve done a review for and gave a passing grade.
I held onto that feeling of happiness all throughout 2015 and a lot of positive things happened that year as a result. I rekindled my friendship with Marie Krepps and we’ve been beta reading for each other ever since. I vacationed in Victoria, Canada with my family and had a relaxing time. I saw Cavalera Conspiracy in concert and rocked the fuck out. I saw a symphonic band called Distant Worlds, whose music of choice was the Final Fantasy soundtrack. I got to see Slipknot, Lamb of God, and Three Days Grace on the same show and rocked the fuck out yet again. I got to wear a Slipknot costume for Halloween and I scared the shit out of everyone around me. The year was also a good one for reading, writing, and editing books. I currently have three active books on the market right now and despite their star-ratings, I can safely say I’m proud of all of them.
The point I’m trying to make is, don’t let Christmas become a disdainful experience for you. Find happiness in this generally happy holiday. If you get a CD as a present, rock out to it as much as possible. If you eat a big dinner, savor every last bite. If you’re spending the holiday with people you love, love them even more. Being a Grinch or a Scrooge is no good for no one. This is a day of celebration no matter which god you worship (or lack thereof). Be thankful for every good thing that happens to you on this day and bypass every bad thing. The more thankful you are, the more things you will have to be thankful for. If I sound like I’m parroting Rhonda Byrne, it’s because I am. Squawk! Squawk! Polly wants a cracker! Squawk!
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
***WWE MATCH REVIEW***
Last week, my television burned out, so I used money I saved up to buy a replacement. Thanks to that replacement, I was able to watch WWE NXT Takeover: London. It was a superior show top to bottom. Even the crowd was alive and well for these matches. They used S and F words despite the show being rated TV-PG and they even sang Beatles songs during matches. Although every match was great, the one I’d really like to give my next passing grade to is the NXT Women’s Championship match between Bayley (the champion) and Nia Jax (the challenger). Corey Graves referred to the size discrepancy of this match as being like Manny Pacquiao vs. Mike Tyson: two talented competitors from FAR different weight classes. Even so, it was the heart and the guts of the much smaller Bayley that won her the match by submission.
***PARODY LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“Here’s a little story about Garrison Kelly. He ate a bunch of food and got a big belly. He tried to exercise, but he got winded. His gym membership was rescinded. You don’t bring a knife to a gunfight! You’ll lose!”
-Sick Puppies singing “Gunfight”, but with my lyric modifications-
Fear
VERSE 1
Fear is a hangman’s noose on my throat
Fear is the one that chokes out the hope
Fear chills my blood like frozen death
Fear takes me like a shot of crystal meth
Fuck fear and everything that comes with it
Fuck fear and everyone selfish and wicked
Rise above anxiety and breathe clean air
Conquer the battle that is so damn unfair
CHORUS
There’s nothing to fear but fear itself
So put your cowardice on the shelf
Your only hero in life is your own self
Set your soul on fire and give them hell
VERSE 2
Did you really think your taller stature
Would cause my backbone to fracture?
Did you really think your toothless face
Would burn my eyes like a can of mace?
Did you really think all the drugs you took
Won’t make you just a footnote in my book?
Bitch, please, you’re not in my league
You don’t have the power to rape and siege
CHORUS
There’s nothing to fear but fear itself
So put your cowardice on the shelf
Your only hero in life is your own self
Set your soul on fire and give them hell
VERSE 3
The monsters in my closet are hallucinations
Brought about from childhood devastation
I see the world for what it truly has become
An insane asylum for the wicked and dumb
Fear is something that used to take hold
Now I have the courage to do something bold
Iron gauntlets with a hint of dragon’s fury
You’re the one who should stutter and worry
CHORUS
There’s nothing to fear but fear itself
So put your cowardice on the shelf
Your only hero in life is your own self
Set your soul on fire and give them hell
Fear is a hangman’s noose on my throat
Fear is the one that chokes out the hope
Fear chills my blood like frozen death
Fear takes me like a shot of crystal meth
Fuck fear and everything that comes with it
Fuck fear and everyone selfish and wicked
Rise above anxiety and breathe clean air
Conquer the battle that is so damn unfair
CHORUS
There’s nothing to fear but fear itself
So put your cowardice on the shelf
Your only hero in life is your own self
Set your soul on fire and give them hell
VERSE 2
Did you really think your taller stature
Would cause my backbone to fracture?
Did you really think your toothless face
Would burn my eyes like a can of mace?
Did you really think all the drugs you took
Won’t make you just a footnote in my book?
Bitch, please, you’re not in my league
You don’t have the power to rape and siege
CHORUS
There’s nothing to fear but fear itself
So put your cowardice on the shelf
Your only hero in life is your own self
Set your soul on fire and give them hell
VERSE 3
The monsters in my closet are hallucinations
Brought about from childhood devastation
I see the world for what it truly has become
An insane asylum for the wicked and dumb
Fear is something that used to take hold
Now I have the courage to do something bold
Iron gauntlets with a hint of dragon’s fury
You’re the one who should stutter and worry
CHORUS
There’s nothing to fear but fear itself
So put your cowardice on the shelf
Your only hero in life is your own self
Set your soul on fire and give them hell
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
Alpha Female
As he trekked up the stairs of the apartment building, Bart Kenny stuffed his hands in his leather jacket pockets and replayed those negative messages in his head over and over again. “Women don’t rape men!” “You got raped by a fat chick!” “You just want attention!” “You WISH you were raped by her!” These hurtful slogans came from multiple sources, among them his own friends, his own family members, and even law enforcement. Bart’s eyebrows furrowed and his crooked frown was leaking a little bit of foam. It didn’t make him any safer to be around knowing he had a pistol in his jeans pocket.
In the week that had gone by since this moment, Bart allowed his blond hair to become dirty and disheveled. The stubble on his cheeks and chin as well as the smell of his bad breath gave away the fact that something was wrong with him. The dark circles underneath his eyes suggested that he didn’t sleep or pay attention to his personal hygiene. How could he sleep with the image of that horrible woman on top of him? How could he focus on his job when that sick pudgy-faced smile was haunting his imagination twenty-four hours a day?
Just a few more steps and this was about to be over once and for all. If the police wouldn’t help Bart, maybe he could help himself. Once he got to the apartment of his alleged female rapist, he took a deep breath to try and calm himself down. His blood still ran cold through his veins and his stomach was boiling with anxiety. It didn’t matter how many breaths he took, because no amount of oxygen could prepare him for this. He considered turning and running away, but then reminded himself that his was his only opportunity to make things right.
Bart Kenny cleared his throat and knocked on the apartment door. “Maxine! I know you’re in there! Open the goddamn door!”
“Relax sweetheart, the door’s unlocked. Come on in and take a seat,” said the woman known as Maxine Tiago. Her name was known all throughout Paulson City since she was a high demand plus-size model. Who would ever believe that she was a sexual predator? Bart believed it and that was why he opened the door to confront her.
There she was, all 250 lbs. of Brazilian hot mama laying seductively on her leather sofa watching TV. She dressed for the job she wanted with her black cocktail dress and fluffy pink slippers. Her chocolaty skin, sassy curves, coffee eyes, and curly blue-dyed locks were definitely her moneymakers.
Maxine clicked off the TV with her remote and sat up in her sofa with her legs crossed. “Hello there, Bart. That was quite the party we went to last week. I was beginning to think you weren’t going to call me again.”
“Cut the crap, Maxine, you know why I’m here,” said Bart Kenny, who stepped inside the apartment and slammed the door shut with all of his angry strength. “I certainly didn’t come here for hot sex on a platter. But apparently, you wanted it so badly that you were willing to do…” Bart wiped his eye to suppress his tears. “…those things to me.”
“Honey Bear, I know the accusations you’ve leveled against me. I’m truly sorry that nobody believes you. You’ve probably heard the women don’t rape men spiel hundreds of times. Well guess what, sweetheart: it’s true. Look at me. Just take one good look at me. Do I look like the kind of woman who needs to rape men? I’m a model, for Christ’s sake,” said Maxine, who waved her hands over her body to show off her good looks and to further her debating strategy.
Bart couldn’t suppress his tears any longer. No matter how many times he wiped his eyes with his jacket sleeve, they wouldn’t stop coming. He soldiered on anyways. “That’s all I’ve ever heard for one whole week. Women don’t rape men, women don’t rape men! Whatever happened to never blaming the victim? Whatever happened to rape isn’t defined by who the people involved are? Did we suddenly forget that shit a long time ago? For fuck’s sake, when did rape become normal?!”
Maxine stood up defensively and snapped, “I don’t know, Bart, you tell me! Or better yet, maybe you should ask that question to someone who actually has the time to fritter and waste away with you! You know what I should do right now? I should sue you for slander! I could use a cool million dollars right now! Maybe I can move out of this apartment and get me a mansion or some shit like that!”
“So that’s what this is about? You’re strapped for cash, so you rape me and file a lawsuit against me for complaining? How sick do you have to be to do something like that?” The shaky voice was replaced with a fiery tone when Bart said, “What kind of sick disgusting piece of shit are you?!”
“Alright, that’s it!” Maxine reached under her sofa cushion and brandished a machete that she supposedly kept for security purposes as opposed to a gun. She waved the blade in the air and shouted, “I’ve had just about all I can take of this bullshit! Either you get out of my apartment or I’ll stick this fucking blade right through your chest! And don’t worry about me going to jail over it, because if the cops didn’t believe you then, they’re not going to believe you now!”
Bart Kenny didn’t want this confrontation to come to this, but Maxine Tiago forced his hand and it was time for business. He pulled the gun out of his pocket and clicked it to get it ready to fire at any moment. With nine millimeters of steel pointed at her, the hefty lady slowly put down her machete and raised her hands to the sky.
Despite the change of events, Maxine’s brows remained furrowed and her angry voice was still blasting like a bazooka. “Okay, tough guy! Go ahead! Shoot me! I’ll be a hero in the eyes of the public while you’re just another con man! The entire city will be at my funeral while you’re just going to burn to ashes without a second thought! Shoot me, you son of a bitch! Shoot me!”
Bart’s scratchy and low voice gave away no signs of intimidation. He had the gun, therefore he had the power. “Before I put a bullet in that oversized watermelon head of yours, I just have one thing to ask you. Be honest with me. When you put that Xanax and Viagra in my drink, did you really think I was going to forget everything? You can deny it all you want, Maxine. But I know what you did. The whole world knows what you did. They won’t do anything about it because of your celebrity status. If you were just an average woman, you’d be in prison right now. Go ahead, deny it. You’re well-guarded and that’s why you’re free. Rich assholes never go to jail. That’s the law of the land.”
The seductive and charming smile returned to Maxine’s face and was accompanied by a giggle or two. “Okay, Bart, you got me red-handed. Now I have a question to ask of you, my dear. Was your first time with me everything you wanted it to be? Did you have wet dreams the next night? Put the gun down and let’s talk some more. Let’s talk about how awesome you would look in a red rubber ball gag.”
“I’d love nothing more than to pop you in the head right now. There’s just one problem…” Bart trudged over to Maxine’s stereo and waved his gun around it. As he did, the sounds of radio feedback and interference filled the apartment.
Maxine’s eyes widened when she said, “What the hell…?”
Her worst fears were confirmed when Bart put the “gun” to his face, clicked it, and said, “You can come on up now. I got her confession.” Bart Kenny hadn’t smiled in over a week, but in this moment, he finally did when he said, “Word of advice, you psycho bitch: don’t bring a knife to a gunfight. You’ll lose!”
Three black uniformed police officers entered the apartment with zip ties and proceeded to lash the supermodel’s arms behind her back. One of them said, “Maxine Tiago? You’re being placed under arrest for the sexual assault of Bartholomew Kenny.”
Maxine’s eyes bulged out in shock as she left out a few soft “No’s” before unleashing a loud storm of them while being dragged away by the cops. One of the cops stayed behind and patted Bart on the shoulder while saying, “Nice work, kid. This plan couldn’t have worked out any better.”
As Maxine was being dragged down the hall, she yelled a firestorm of obscenities at Bart, who was standing in the doorway sarcastically waving goodbye at her. The model screamed, “I will kill you!” and Bart responded with, “You’re gonna have to!”
The cop from earlier patted him on the back and said, “Easy there, tiger. You’ll have all the time in the world to rage when you see your therapy bill.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” said Bart.
In the week that had gone by since this moment, Bart allowed his blond hair to become dirty and disheveled. The stubble on his cheeks and chin as well as the smell of his bad breath gave away the fact that something was wrong with him. The dark circles underneath his eyes suggested that he didn’t sleep or pay attention to his personal hygiene. How could he sleep with the image of that horrible woman on top of him? How could he focus on his job when that sick pudgy-faced smile was haunting his imagination twenty-four hours a day?
Just a few more steps and this was about to be over once and for all. If the police wouldn’t help Bart, maybe he could help himself. Once he got to the apartment of his alleged female rapist, he took a deep breath to try and calm himself down. His blood still ran cold through his veins and his stomach was boiling with anxiety. It didn’t matter how many breaths he took, because no amount of oxygen could prepare him for this. He considered turning and running away, but then reminded himself that his was his only opportunity to make things right.
Bart Kenny cleared his throat and knocked on the apartment door. “Maxine! I know you’re in there! Open the goddamn door!”
“Relax sweetheart, the door’s unlocked. Come on in and take a seat,” said the woman known as Maxine Tiago. Her name was known all throughout Paulson City since she was a high demand plus-size model. Who would ever believe that she was a sexual predator? Bart believed it and that was why he opened the door to confront her.
There she was, all 250 lbs. of Brazilian hot mama laying seductively on her leather sofa watching TV. She dressed for the job she wanted with her black cocktail dress and fluffy pink slippers. Her chocolaty skin, sassy curves, coffee eyes, and curly blue-dyed locks were definitely her moneymakers.
Maxine clicked off the TV with her remote and sat up in her sofa with her legs crossed. “Hello there, Bart. That was quite the party we went to last week. I was beginning to think you weren’t going to call me again.”
“Cut the crap, Maxine, you know why I’m here,” said Bart Kenny, who stepped inside the apartment and slammed the door shut with all of his angry strength. “I certainly didn’t come here for hot sex on a platter. But apparently, you wanted it so badly that you were willing to do…” Bart wiped his eye to suppress his tears. “…those things to me.”
“Honey Bear, I know the accusations you’ve leveled against me. I’m truly sorry that nobody believes you. You’ve probably heard the women don’t rape men spiel hundreds of times. Well guess what, sweetheart: it’s true. Look at me. Just take one good look at me. Do I look like the kind of woman who needs to rape men? I’m a model, for Christ’s sake,” said Maxine, who waved her hands over her body to show off her good looks and to further her debating strategy.
Bart couldn’t suppress his tears any longer. No matter how many times he wiped his eyes with his jacket sleeve, they wouldn’t stop coming. He soldiered on anyways. “That’s all I’ve ever heard for one whole week. Women don’t rape men, women don’t rape men! Whatever happened to never blaming the victim? Whatever happened to rape isn’t defined by who the people involved are? Did we suddenly forget that shit a long time ago? For fuck’s sake, when did rape become normal?!”
Maxine stood up defensively and snapped, “I don’t know, Bart, you tell me! Or better yet, maybe you should ask that question to someone who actually has the time to fritter and waste away with you! You know what I should do right now? I should sue you for slander! I could use a cool million dollars right now! Maybe I can move out of this apartment and get me a mansion or some shit like that!”
“So that’s what this is about? You’re strapped for cash, so you rape me and file a lawsuit against me for complaining? How sick do you have to be to do something like that?” The shaky voice was replaced with a fiery tone when Bart said, “What kind of sick disgusting piece of shit are you?!”
“Alright, that’s it!” Maxine reached under her sofa cushion and brandished a machete that she supposedly kept for security purposes as opposed to a gun. She waved the blade in the air and shouted, “I’ve had just about all I can take of this bullshit! Either you get out of my apartment or I’ll stick this fucking blade right through your chest! And don’t worry about me going to jail over it, because if the cops didn’t believe you then, they’re not going to believe you now!”
Bart Kenny didn’t want this confrontation to come to this, but Maxine Tiago forced his hand and it was time for business. He pulled the gun out of his pocket and clicked it to get it ready to fire at any moment. With nine millimeters of steel pointed at her, the hefty lady slowly put down her machete and raised her hands to the sky.
Despite the change of events, Maxine’s brows remained furrowed and her angry voice was still blasting like a bazooka. “Okay, tough guy! Go ahead! Shoot me! I’ll be a hero in the eyes of the public while you’re just another con man! The entire city will be at my funeral while you’re just going to burn to ashes without a second thought! Shoot me, you son of a bitch! Shoot me!”
Bart’s scratchy and low voice gave away no signs of intimidation. He had the gun, therefore he had the power. “Before I put a bullet in that oversized watermelon head of yours, I just have one thing to ask you. Be honest with me. When you put that Xanax and Viagra in my drink, did you really think I was going to forget everything? You can deny it all you want, Maxine. But I know what you did. The whole world knows what you did. They won’t do anything about it because of your celebrity status. If you were just an average woman, you’d be in prison right now. Go ahead, deny it. You’re well-guarded and that’s why you’re free. Rich assholes never go to jail. That’s the law of the land.”
The seductive and charming smile returned to Maxine’s face and was accompanied by a giggle or two. “Okay, Bart, you got me red-handed. Now I have a question to ask of you, my dear. Was your first time with me everything you wanted it to be? Did you have wet dreams the next night? Put the gun down and let’s talk some more. Let’s talk about how awesome you would look in a red rubber ball gag.”
“I’d love nothing more than to pop you in the head right now. There’s just one problem…” Bart trudged over to Maxine’s stereo and waved his gun around it. As he did, the sounds of radio feedback and interference filled the apartment.
Maxine’s eyes widened when she said, “What the hell…?”
Her worst fears were confirmed when Bart put the “gun” to his face, clicked it, and said, “You can come on up now. I got her confession.” Bart Kenny hadn’t smiled in over a week, but in this moment, he finally did when he said, “Word of advice, you psycho bitch: don’t bring a knife to a gunfight. You’ll lose!”
Three black uniformed police officers entered the apartment with zip ties and proceeded to lash the supermodel’s arms behind her back. One of them said, “Maxine Tiago? You’re being placed under arrest for the sexual assault of Bartholomew Kenny.”
Maxine’s eyes bulged out in shock as she left out a few soft “No’s” before unleashing a loud storm of them while being dragged away by the cops. One of the cops stayed behind and patted Bart on the shoulder while saying, “Nice work, kid. This plan couldn’t have worked out any better.”
As Maxine was being dragged down the hall, she yelled a firestorm of obscenities at Bart, who was standing in the doorway sarcastically waving goodbye at her. The model screamed, “I will kill you!” and Bart responded with, “You’re gonna have to!”
The cop from earlier patted him on the back and said, “Easy there, tiger. You’ll have all the time in the world to rage when you see your therapy bill.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” said Bart.
Sunday, December 20, 2015
"A Naughty New Year's Eve" by Marie Krepps
BOOK TITLE: A Naughty New Year’s Eve
AUTHOR: Marie Krepps
YEAR: 2015
GENRE: Fictional Short Story
SUBGENRE: Vampire Erotica
GRADE: Pass
If you’re a reader of Marie Krepps’ “Some By Day, Some By Night” series, you’ve probably had this fantasy at least five or six times: the curvy Marla and the supermodel Morgan getting it on. Not only will Ms. Krepps’ short story make your wildest fantasies come true, it’ll make them last for as long as it takes you to climax. Forget the bed of roses, the sugary chocolates, and the silly cheese balls. No formalities here, just good old fashioned love-making between two of the sexiest vampires in the world of literature today. These two have had enough violence and war to last them an eternity as vampires. Let them have a little fun every once and a while!
As someone who reads Marie Krepps’ work on a frequent basis, I know firsthand that she doesn’t fool around when it comes to the sex scenes. Her characters will lick, kiss, suck, and squeeze every inch of each other’s bodies before the story really begins to earn its X-rating with the rough penetration and the endless passion. It should come as no surprise that this woman once had a book of short stories called Box of Chocolates. Trust me when I say, reading this short story will be a more orgasmic experience than swallowing the entire Hershey’s Chocolate factory and chasing it with a Twix bar. And by the way, left Twix and right Twix bars are the same damn thing, so go ahead and pull out your packing tape…but only if Marla and Morgan are the ones doing the binding. Hehe!
On a less perverted note, Marie isn’t just writing short story after short story: she’s building an entire world for these vampires to live in. The entire series of vampire erotica novels and stories is called “Some By Day, Some By Night”. This sexy adventure could be considered a vacation from the bloodshed, gore, and heartache the other stories bring about (not that those things are bad, but we all need a little hot action every once and a while). It’s a reminder just to relax and have fun with your life instead of taking everything too seriously all the time. I could learn to enjoy that message.
One last thing and then I’ll leave you all to your sexily fun reading adventure. In case you guys weren’t aware, Marie has been my personal mentor since the beginning of 2015. As a mentor, she always encourages me to show instead of tell. In other words, don’t tell us that Mitch McLeod is angry, show us his intense body language. In the case of Marie’s short story “A Naughty New Year’s Eve”, she practices what she preaches, and that’s what makes the sexy action so hot and boner-worthy to begin with. We can see with our own eyes what these two horny young ladies are doing to each other. The more we see, the more energetic we become.
Marie is an independent author through and through, but she writes like a pro and speaks like a badass. Every passing and extra credit grade I’ve given to her was earned through hard work and sagely wisdom. I’d like to think it takes a great deal of wisdom to be a writer and a mentor. If that’s the case, then I’m proud to be learning from the best. A passing grade will be assigned to this ultra-steamy sex story. She knocked it out of the park yet again!
AUTHOR: Marie Krepps
YEAR: 2015
GENRE: Fictional Short Story
SUBGENRE: Vampire Erotica
GRADE: Pass
If you’re a reader of Marie Krepps’ “Some By Day, Some By Night” series, you’ve probably had this fantasy at least five or six times: the curvy Marla and the supermodel Morgan getting it on. Not only will Ms. Krepps’ short story make your wildest fantasies come true, it’ll make them last for as long as it takes you to climax. Forget the bed of roses, the sugary chocolates, and the silly cheese balls. No formalities here, just good old fashioned love-making between two of the sexiest vampires in the world of literature today. These two have had enough violence and war to last them an eternity as vampires. Let them have a little fun every once and a while!
As someone who reads Marie Krepps’ work on a frequent basis, I know firsthand that she doesn’t fool around when it comes to the sex scenes. Her characters will lick, kiss, suck, and squeeze every inch of each other’s bodies before the story really begins to earn its X-rating with the rough penetration and the endless passion. It should come as no surprise that this woman once had a book of short stories called Box of Chocolates. Trust me when I say, reading this short story will be a more orgasmic experience than swallowing the entire Hershey’s Chocolate factory and chasing it with a Twix bar. And by the way, left Twix and right Twix bars are the same damn thing, so go ahead and pull out your packing tape…but only if Marla and Morgan are the ones doing the binding. Hehe!
On a less perverted note, Marie isn’t just writing short story after short story: she’s building an entire world for these vampires to live in. The entire series of vampire erotica novels and stories is called “Some By Day, Some By Night”. This sexy adventure could be considered a vacation from the bloodshed, gore, and heartache the other stories bring about (not that those things are bad, but we all need a little hot action every once and a while). It’s a reminder just to relax and have fun with your life instead of taking everything too seriously all the time. I could learn to enjoy that message.
One last thing and then I’ll leave you all to your sexily fun reading adventure. In case you guys weren’t aware, Marie has been my personal mentor since the beginning of 2015. As a mentor, she always encourages me to show instead of tell. In other words, don’t tell us that Mitch McLeod is angry, show us his intense body language. In the case of Marie’s short story “A Naughty New Year’s Eve”, she practices what she preaches, and that’s what makes the sexy action so hot and boner-worthy to begin with. We can see with our own eyes what these two horny young ladies are doing to each other. The more we see, the more energetic we become.
Marie is an independent author through and through, but she writes like a pro and speaks like a badass. Every passing and extra credit grade I’ve given to her was earned through hard work and sagely wisdom. I’d like to think it takes a great deal of wisdom to be a writer and a mentor. If that’s the case, then I’m proud to be learning from the best. A passing grade will be assigned to this ultra-steamy sex story. She knocked it out of the park yet again!
"Warm Bodies" by Isaac Marion
BOOK TITLE: Warm Bodies
AUTHOR: Isaac Marion
YEAR: 2011
GENRE: Fiction
SUBGENRE: Zombie Romance
GRADE: Pass
Being a zombie is an endless cycle: eat flesh, fall down, wander around mindlessly, repeat. In the midst of the apocalypse, zombies are regarded as the enemy while the living are automatically revered as heroes. Little do these living humans know that zombies have their own thought processes and emotions as evidenced by those of R, the narrator of this story. As a zombie, R has no idea what the hell he’s doing half of the time nor does he have any recollection of his former life. His life regains purpose when he rescues a beautiful salvager named Julie and the two of them form an awkward, yet important relationship with one another. The more time R spends around Julie, the more human he becomes in his thoughts and emotions.
The first thing I’d like to applaud Mr. Marion on is the sheer creativity it took to write such a novel. The words zombie and romance don’t normally go together so easily, yet the author made them fit perfectly. R is a sympathetic character despite being a dingy zombie and Julie is the perfect friend for him since she doesn’t concentrate on any of his obvious flaws. Even though R only speaks a few syllables at a time, he makes more sense than most of the military officials who want to shoot zombies left and right without second thought. You know the apocalypse is on its way when a budding relationship between a zombie and a human seems more natural than going with their own kind. Breaking down barriers is the first step in healing this screwed up world. Love of all kinds will save us in the end, both in this novel and in the real world.
The second thing Isaac Marion deserves praise for is his system of rules regarding zombie behavior. They have no memory of their past lives, they walk around with a gimp, the only food they care about is human flesh (even though its tasteless and bland), they only speak a few syllables at a time, and their thoughts (though they do exist) are as limited as their speech. The author sticks to these rules all throughout the book and any surprises we do get come naturally instead of being forced. As an author, it’s good to have a set of rules your creatures can live by. Otherwise, the reader will assume the creatures can do whatever the hell they want without limits and can basically end the story anytime. If it wasn’t for the strict set of rules, we’d have flying zombies who could shoot lasers and fart lightning for all we know.
The final thing I have to touch on is the way this story is written. Because of the poetic and descriptive nature of R’s thought processes, the pacing is slightly taken down a few notches. But thanks to the present tense storytelling, it doesn’t have to be that way all throughout the book. When you’re reading “Warm Bodies”, you’re thrust into the moment and you can never leave until the author says you can. That is what I call true storytelling: showing the readers why R is a likeable person instead of shoving it down their throats. Trust me, you’re going to have enough problems with your throats after reading the painful descriptions of how necks and chests are eaten with such brutal violence. Yes, this book is romantic on so many levels, but let’s not get complacent when it comes to the fact that zombies are zombies and they crave human flesh and organs.
It should come as no surprise that this novel was made into a movie. The descriptions are picturesque and the youth of it all makes R and Julie into perfect movie stars. I don’t visit Rotten Tomatoes that often, so I wouldn’t know how well the movie has done in theaters. The book, on the other hand, no question about it: Isaac Marion is an A+ student of the literary game and he gets a passing grade for it.
AUTHOR: Isaac Marion
YEAR: 2011
GENRE: Fiction
SUBGENRE: Zombie Romance
GRADE: Pass
Being a zombie is an endless cycle: eat flesh, fall down, wander around mindlessly, repeat. In the midst of the apocalypse, zombies are regarded as the enemy while the living are automatically revered as heroes. Little do these living humans know that zombies have their own thought processes and emotions as evidenced by those of R, the narrator of this story. As a zombie, R has no idea what the hell he’s doing half of the time nor does he have any recollection of his former life. His life regains purpose when he rescues a beautiful salvager named Julie and the two of them form an awkward, yet important relationship with one another. The more time R spends around Julie, the more human he becomes in his thoughts and emotions.
The first thing I’d like to applaud Mr. Marion on is the sheer creativity it took to write such a novel. The words zombie and romance don’t normally go together so easily, yet the author made them fit perfectly. R is a sympathetic character despite being a dingy zombie and Julie is the perfect friend for him since she doesn’t concentrate on any of his obvious flaws. Even though R only speaks a few syllables at a time, he makes more sense than most of the military officials who want to shoot zombies left and right without second thought. You know the apocalypse is on its way when a budding relationship between a zombie and a human seems more natural than going with their own kind. Breaking down barriers is the first step in healing this screwed up world. Love of all kinds will save us in the end, both in this novel and in the real world.
The second thing Isaac Marion deserves praise for is his system of rules regarding zombie behavior. They have no memory of their past lives, they walk around with a gimp, the only food they care about is human flesh (even though its tasteless and bland), they only speak a few syllables at a time, and their thoughts (though they do exist) are as limited as their speech. The author sticks to these rules all throughout the book and any surprises we do get come naturally instead of being forced. As an author, it’s good to have a set of rules your creatures can live by. Otherwise, the reader will assume the creatures can do whatever the hell they want without limits and can basically end the story anytime. If it wasn’t for the strict set of rules, we’d have flying zombies who could shoot lasers and fart lightning for all we know.
The final thing I have to touch on is the way this story is written. Because of the poetic and descriptive nature of R’s thought processes, the pacing is slightly taken down a few notches. But thanks to the present tense storytelling, it doesn’t have to be that way all throughout the book. When you’re reading “Warm Bodies”, you’re thrust into the moment and you can never leave until the author says you can. That is what I call true storytelling: showing the readers why R is a likeable person instead of shoving it down their throats. Trust me, you’re going to have enough problems with your throats after reading the painful descriptions of how necks and chests are eaten with such brutal violence. Yes, this book is romantic on so many levels, but let’s not get complacent when it comes to the fact that zombies are zombies and they crave human flesh and organs.
It should come as no surprise that this novel was made into a movie. The descriptions are picturesque and the youth of it all makes R and Julie into perfect movie stars. I don’t visit Rotten Tomatoes that often, so I wouldn’t know how well the movie has done in theaters. The book, on the other hand, no question about it: Isaac Marion is an A+ student of the literary game and he gets a passing grade for it.
Thursday, December 17, 2015
My Cloudland Has a Sense of Humor
***MY CLOUDLAND HAS A SENSE OF HUMOR***
I’ve spoken candidly about my weird ass dreams before and I’m going to continue the tradition on this lovely Wednesday evening. I believe even the weirdest of weird dreams can serve as creative fuel. Marie Krepps, my beautiful beta reader, will definitely stand by my side on this one since she too has some weird ass dreams. Granted, these two I’m going to talk about make no fucking sense whatsoever, but that’s the beautiful thing about having a whacked out mind: it doesn’t have to. We’re going to start with dream number one.
I don’t remember too many of the details from the first dream other than it was a nightmare that made my heart race when I woke up at 11:00 in the morning. What I do remember was that it was about the clown from Brave Little Toaster and how he wanted to cut me up into little pieces. I tried to get away from him, but the only place where I could find refuge was with the Dust Witch from Something Wicked This Way Comes. Tarantulas scare the shit out of me, so I accepted my fate of being chopped up by the demon firefighter clown.
I had every intention this morning of getting out of bed and getting a buzz cut at Hair Masters. It didn’t happen. My hair is still shaggy and my dream world is still knocking at the door. I fell back asleep and started my second dream, which wasn’t necessarily a nightmare, but it was really goddamn weird.
I was doing research at the Western Washington University campus library, probably on graphic novels. I’m waiting for my study buddy to show up and when he finally does, he turns out to be French-Canadian WWE superstar Kevin Owens. He doesn’t try to beat me up or harass me like he usually does to his opponents in the ring. He does, however, offer to walk me home after the studying is over.
By the time we walk outside the library, we’re not in Bellingham, Washington anymore where WWU is supposed to be. We’re in Victoria, Canada, a favorite vacation spot of mine, but somehow different this time around. The Armenian Mafia was patrolling the streets of this normally crime-free city looking for people they could beat up. I guess Kevin Owens was supposed to be my bodyguard, because I was able to make it to my hotel room without being mugged.
Outside the hotel, there’s a large group of fat people doing exercises and being tired after the first few seconds. One of the exercise students was a woman so fat her entire torso was covered with a tool shed. She was sitting on a horse doing nothing and suddenly fell off to the side. The irony wasn’t lost on me when the class of exhausted fat people were laughing at her. But then they found it disgusting when a pair of disembodied legs wearing jeans walked by.
Me and my family minus Kevin Owens left the Canadian hotel and went down to the ferry terminal to catch a ride. We’re sitting on the dockside and there are these two cute British lesbians sitting across from us holding hands and being happy. Even though I know a relationship will never work between the three of us, I started feeling nervous around them anyways. So what did I do? I listened to Three Days Grace’s song “I Am Machine” on my MP3 player and picked my nose. When it doubt, be socially awkward. My social awkwardness has gotten me through everything in life.
The ferry arrives and we all get on to presumably go home. Except we didn’t go to Port Orchard, Washington. We went to London, England, where a horse and carriage was waiting for us. We’re on a two-way cobblestone street and somehow the different positions in the road lead to different countries. The right side will take us to Norway, the middle will take us to Germany, and the left side will take us to France. We get on the French side of the road and the carriage takes us there at a lightning fast pace.
Our destination ends up being a sandy beach with a lot of pollution and ducks in the water. I pull something mysterious out of my mouth and it turns out to be a baby black duck, which I throw into the water with its family. Reina asks me if this is a great vacation and I steadfastly agree.
I woke up at 1:10 in the afternoon and got on the computer to check my messages. No, this isn’t part of the dream, this is real life. When I was trying to read my Good Reads messages, the lines of text were all blurry, probably because I was still tired. I went back to bed and didn’t officially start my day until 2:20 in the afternoon. Still, no buzz cut at hair masters.
We’ve got ears! Say cheers!
***TELEVISION ISSUES***
Last night as I was watching NCIS: New Orleans, my flat screen TV burned out and stopped working. Prior to that, me and Reina kept smelling plastic and rubber burning, but we couldn’t figure out what it was. It was the TV this whole time. My other electronics work just fine, but not the flat screen TV. I originally wanted to review a wrestling match from WWE NXT Takeover: London, but without a TV, that’s not possible. I could watch it on my computer, but my internet connection isn’t always reliable. I’d have to find a way to download it onto my hard drive. Or I could buy another TV, that’d work too. Either way, I’ve already looked up the results online and I was genuinely surprised by them. Baron Corbin defeated Apollo Crews, Bayley made Nia Jax submit in order to keep her NXT Women’s Championship, and Finn Balor overcame Samoa Joe to keep his NXT Championship. I’m definitely going to have to find a way to watch this show.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
The last entry into this series was Debra Winter, a hero from Occupy Wrestling. The next entry will be Cameron Gillespie, a villainess from Watch You Burn. For my reference picture, I Googled TNA wrestler Awesome Kong, who is a 6’1”, 295 lb. black woman with a nasty attitude and a hard-hitting repertoire of moves. I originally wanted Cameron Gillespie to be tall and lanky, but Awesome Kong’s massive frame will do just fine. Be afraid, bitches!
***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
RANDAL: Do you know how much money the average jizz mopper makes per hour?
DANTE: What’s a jizz mopper?
RANDAL: They’re the guys who clean up the nudy booths after each guy jerks off.
DANTE: Nudy booth?
RANDAL: Yeah. Haven’t you ever been inside a nudy booth before?
DANTE: Guess not.
RANDAL: Aw, man, it’s great. You go into this booth and there’s this glass between you and these chicks and they put on a show for you for like ten bucks.
DANTE: What kind of a show?
RANDAL: Think of the weirdest, craziest shit you like to see chicks do. These chicks do it all. They’ll insert anything into any opening on their bodies. Any opening.
DANTE: Can we not talk about this right now?
RANDAL: The jizz mopper’s job is to clean up the nudy booths after each guy shoots a load. Everybody does it right on the glass. I don’t know if you know this or not, but cum leaves streaks if you don’t clean it right away.
-Clerks-
I’ve spoken candidly about my weird ass dreams before and I’m going to continue the tradition on this lovely Wednesday evening. I believe even the weirdest of weird dreams can serve as creative fuel. Marie Krepps, my beautiful beta reader, will definitely stand by my side on this one since she too has some weird ass dreams. Granted, these two I’m going to talk about make no fucking sense whatsoever, but that’s the beautiful thing about having a whacked out mind: it doesn’t have to. We’re going to start with dream number one.
I don’t remember too many of the details from the first dream other than it was a nightmare that made my heart race when I woke up at 11:00 in the morning. What I do remember was that it was about the clown from Brave Little Toaster and how he wanted to cut me up into little pieces. I tried to get away from him, but the only place where I could find refuge was with the Dust Witch from Something Wicked This Way Comes. Tarantulas scare the shit out of me, so I accepted my fate of being chopped up by the demon firefighter clown.
I had every intention this morning of getting out of bed and getting a buzz cut at Hair Masters. It didn’t happen. My hair is still shaggy and my dream world is still knocking at the door. I fell back asleep and started my second dream, which wasn’t necessarily a nightmare, but it was really goddamn weird.
I was doing research at the Western Washington University campus library, probably on graphic novels. I’m waiting for my study buddy to show up and when he finally does, he turns out to be French-Canadian WWE superstar Kevin Owens. He doesn’t try to beat me up or harass me like he usually does to his opponents in the ring. He does, however, offer to walk me home after the studying is over.
By the time we walk outside the library, we’re not in Bellingham, Washington anymore where WWU is supposed to be. We’re in Victoria, Canada, a favorite vacation spot of mine, but somehow different this time around. The Armenian Mafia was patrolling the streets of this normally crime-free city looking for people they could beat up. I guess Kevin Owens was supposed to be my bodyguard, because I was able to make it to my hotel room without being mugged.
Outside the hotel, there’s a large group of fat people doing exercises and being tired after the first few seconds. One of the exercise students was a woman so fat her entire torso was covered with a tool shed. She was sitting on a horse doing nothing and suddenly fell off to the side. The irony wasn’t lost on me when the class of exhausted fat people were laughing at her. But then they found it disgusting when a pair of disembodied legs wearing jeans walked by.
Me and my family minus Kevin Owens left the Canadian hotel and went down to the ferry terminal to catch a ride. We’re sitting on the dockside and there are these two cute British lesbians sitting across from us holding hands and being happy. Even though I know a relationship will never work between the three of us, I started feeling nervous around them anyways. So what did I do? I listened to Three Days Grace’s song “I Am Machine” on my MP3 player and picked my nose. When it doubt, be socially awkward. My social awkwardness has gotten me through everything in life.
The ferry arrives and we all get on to presumably go home. Except we didn’t go to Port Orchard, Washington. We went to London, England, where a horse and carriage was waiting for us. We’re on a two-way cobblestone street and somehow the different positions in the road lead to different countries. The right side will take us to Norway, the middle will take us to Germany, and the left side will take us to France. We get on the French side of the road and the carriage takes us there at a lightning fast pace.
Our destination ends up being a sandy beach with a lot of pollution and ducks in the water. I pull something mysterious out of my mouth and it turns out to be a baby black duck, which I throw into the water with its family. Reina asks me if this is a great vacation and I steadfastly agree.
I woke up at 1:10 in the afternoon and got on the computer to check my messages. No, this isn’t part of the dream, this is real life. When I was trying to read my Good Reads messages, the lines of text were all blurry, probably because I was still tired. I went back to bed and didn’t officially start my day until 2:20 in the afternoon. Still, no buzz cut at hair masters.
We’ve got ears! Say cheers!
***TELEVISION ISSUES***
Last night as I was watching NCIS: New Orleans, my flat screen TV burned out and stopped working. Prior to that, me and Reina kept smelling plastic and rubber burning, but we couldn’t figure out what it was. It was the TV this whole time. My other electronics work just fine, but not the flat screen TV. I originally wanted to review a wrestling match from WWE NXT Takeover: London, but without a TV, that’s not possible. I could watch it on my computer, but my internet connection isn’t always reliable. I’d have to find a way to download it onto my hard drive. Or I could buy another TV, that’d work too. Either way, I’ve already looked up the results online and I was genuinely surprised by them. Baron Corbin defeated Apollo Crews, Bayley made Nia Jax submit in order to keep her NXT Women’s Championship, and Finn Balor overcame Samoa Joe to keep his NXT Championship. I’m definitely going to have to find a way to watch this show.
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
The last entry into this series was Debra Winter, a hero from Occupy Wrestling. The next entry will be Cameron Gillespie, a villainess from Watch You Burn. For my reference picture, I Googled TNA wrestler Awesome Kong, who is a 6’1”, 295 lb. black woman with a nasty attitude and a hard-hitting repertoire of moves. I originally wanted Cameron Gillespie to be tall and lanky, but Awesome Kong’s massive frame will do just fine. Be afraid, bitches!
***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
RANDAL: Do you know how much money the average jizz mopper makes per hour?
DANTE: What’s a jizz mopper?
RANDAL: They’re the guys who clean up the nudy booths after each guy jerks off.
DANTE: Nudy booth?
RANDAL: Yeah. Haven’t you ever been inside a nudy booth before?
DANTE: Guess not.
RANDAL: Aw, man, it’s great. You go into this booth and there’s this glass between you and these chicks and they put on a show for you for like ten bucks.
DANTE: What kind of a show?
RANDAL: Think of the weirdest, craziest shit you like to see chicks do. These chicks do it all. They’ll insert anything into any opening on their bodies. Any opening.
DANTE: Can we not talk about this right now?
RANDAL: The jizz mopper’s job is to clean up the nudy booths after each guy shoots a load. Everybody does it right on the glass. I don’t know if you know this or not, but cum leaves streaks if you don’t clean it right away.
-Clerks-
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
I Walk Alone
VERSE 1
I walk like a zombie and talk like a child
I scream like a wounded lion in the wild
I block out the world with big headphones
In this massive crowd, I find myself alone
Invisibility comes naturally to little old me
Not that there’s ever been anything to see
Keep on walking and pretend I’m not here
Go home to the real ones you hold so dear
CHORUS
I walk alone no matter where the hell I go
I walk alone in case you fucking didn’t know
I walk alone in the darkness of night
I walk alone and awaken uptight
VERSE 2
I watch you all with a microscopic lens
There’s no way I’ll call any of you friends
You’re all strangers with your own agendas
You’re all conspirators with your own vendettas
Heaven forbid I make it past the surface level
Lord knows that would make me the next devil
I sit here in silence with my own introversion
While all of you pretend to know my burdens
CHORUS
I walk alone no matter where the hell I go
I walk alone in case you fucking didn’t know
I walk alone in the darkness of night
I walk alone and awaken uptight
VERSE 3
Whether you’re a cute girl giggling at nothing
Or a crook on the run who isn’t worth trusting
A cop with a taser that brings down the lightning
A corporate executive with charisma so frightening
A football stud hanging out with your beer bros
A drunken idiot with a broken lyrical flow
You may look different, but your aura’s the same
Forever making me hang my head in shame
CHORUS
I walk alone no matter where the hell I go
I walk alone in case you fucking didn’t know
I walk alone in the darkness of night
I walk alone and awaken uptight
HOOK
The streets are such a lonely place
Always let down after no embrace
Being a shut-in isn’t so damn bad
The most fun I’ve ever really had
I walk like a zombie and talk like a child
I scream like a wounded lion in the wild
I block out the world with big headphones
In this massive crowd, I find myself alone
Invisibility comes naturally to little old me
Not that there’s ever been anything to see
Keep on walking and pretend I’m not here
Go home to the real ones you hold so dear
CHORUS
I walk alone no matter where the hell I go
I walk alone in case you fucking didn’t know
I walk alone in the darkness of night
I walk alone and awaken uptight
VERSE 2
I watch you all with a microscopic lens
There’s no way I’ll call any of you friends
You’re all strangers with your own agendas
You’re all conspirators with your own vendettas
Heaven forbid I make it past the surface level
Lord knows that would make me the next devil
I sit here in silence with my own introversion
While all of you pretend to know my burdens
CHORUS
I walk alone no matter where the hell I go
I walk alone in case you fucking didn’t know
I walk alone in the darkness of night
I walk alone and awaken uptight
VERSE 3
Whether you’re a cute girl giggling at nothing
Or a crook on the run who isn’t worth trusting
A cop with a taser that brings down the lightning
A corporate executive with charisma so frightening
A football stud hanging out with your beer bros
A drunken idiot with a broken lyrical flow
You may look different, but your aura’s the same
Forever making me hang my head in shame
CHORUS
I walk alone no matter where the hell I go
I walk alone in case you fucking didn’t know
I walk alone in the darkness of night
I walk alone and awaken uptight
HOOK
The streets are such a lonely place
Always let down after no embrace
Being a shut-in isn’t so damn bad
The most fun I’ve ever really had
Pull You Under
Spencer Henry spent what seemed like hours at his apartment staring angrily at a photo of himself. His cheeks were trembling. His eyes were burning and watery. Every muscle in his body tensed up. The picture he held in his hand was taken at the age of 21, when life was beautiful and happy. At age 40, all he felt was the fiery sensation building in his belly.
“I hate you,” he finally said to the picture. He said it again. And again. With every repetition came more fire and volume in his throaty voice. He said it so many times that his hot breath started to resemble that of a dragon. He couldn’t care less how thin the walls in his apartment were. He didn’t care how many warnings he got from the superintendent. There wasn’t a whole lot about life that Spencer cared about. Just rage. More and more rage.
“I’ll pull you under, motherfucker!” he suddenly screamed before punching the glass-encased photo. Punching glass probably wasn’t the wisest move of Spencer’s life, but a middle-aged man’s wisdom went away a long time ago when the hateful dialogue poured from his mouth like snake’s venom.
The shattered glass cut deep into Spencer’s fingers, splattering blood all over his carpet. The screams were much louder and more barbaric, but this time it was out of mind-blowing pain. He wrapped his hand in his burgundy polo shirt, but the bleeding wouldn’t stop. It kept pouring like a raging river and all Spencer could do about it was kneel to the ground and wait for help to arrive. Someone must have heard him and dialed 911 by now. The walls were thinner than a Catholic wafer sometimes.
The last few minutes of Spencer Henry’s consciousness were spent bleeding all over the floor and adding tears and snot to this hodgepodge of emotional fluids. Fading to darkness was probably the best thing that could have happened to him at this point. He wouldn’t have to think those hateful thoughts of himself any longer.
But the thing about being rescued by first responders was that the patient eventually had to wake up. The fuzzy brown and white-haired Spencer awakened slowly and painfully while wearing a paper thin hospital gown. He had wires and tubes going into his body as he lay there on a semi-comfortable bed. His previously bloody hand was covered thickly in white gauze and showed no distinction between fingers, like a mitten of sorts.
“I’m glad to see you awake, Mr. Henry. We thought we’d lost you there for a minute. I’m Dr. Josie Cosgrave. I was in charge of your hand surgery.” The good doctor sat at the edge of Spencer’s bed with a hunched over posture and her chin on her arms. Her pose suggested that she wanted to talk about more than just a few stitches or some medication. The look on her darkly-complexioned face suggested something far more serious. “Is there a reason why you punched a picture of yourself, Mr. Henry?”
He let out a sigh and shrugged his shoulders before saying, “I’m just a little stressed out right now.”
“Yeah, I can tell,” said Josie with a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “There’s just one problem. People who are just a little stressed out don’t unleash a Mike Tyson assault on a piece of glass. They also don’t cry incessantly and fight the same EMT’s who are trying to load them into the ambulance.”
“Wait a minute…I did all of that?” asked a weary Spencer.
“All that and more,” answered Josie. She meandered over to the side of her patient’s bed and held his good hand in a semi-affectionate way. “Something’s bothering you, Mr. Henry. I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to find out one way or another. The answer just might determine if you need psychological counseling or not.”
“Yeah, like my insurance is going to cover that,” said Spencer while throwing his bad hand in the air sarcastically. “Oh wait, I forgot. I don’t have insurance. People who fry fish in the afternoon and write crappy novels at night don’t have that kind of luxury.”
“So is that why you’re so angry at yourself?” asked Josie. “Because you’re pissed off about how life has treated you?”
“What a mind,” said Spencer with even more sarcasm in his voice.
“You don’t have to be a wise-ass with me, Mr. Henry. I’m not your enemy here. I’m your friend. Yes, the hospital bill is going to be expensive, but I personally didn’t take this job as a doctor for a paycheck. It took it because that’s what I love to do. I love helping people like you get through their worst moments.”
Spencer shook his head and smiled unconvincingly when he said, “That’s it, huh? That’s the answer to my problems? Just love what I do and do what I love?” Silence overtook the room before it was broken with a sad sigh. “I really thought I could do it. I thought writing a novel and getting my name out there would give me a comfortable life. I thought I’d be a rock star by now. My novel, ‘Pull You Under’, has been edited countless times by countless people. God knows how many drafts I’ve got.”
Instead of interrupting the flow of the conversation, Dr. Josie Cosgrave squeezed Spencer’s good hand and gave him a look of concern. She didn’t want to talk at that moment, just listen. And damn, did Spencer have a lot to say.
“And then…just when I think I’m finally getting a big break…” A solitary tear rolled down his cheek. “Those asshole editors take their rubber stamp and brand my manuscript with the word ‘reject’ in beg red letters. Reject! That’s what I am to these people! I’ve spent the last ten years sending in that novel and all I ever got was a mouthful of battered fish and French fries for lunch! Every damn day! Every day, another fucking stamp! How many more times are they going to do it?! Why can’t they just say ‘yes’ for the first time in their lives?! Three fucking letters, one fucking word! Yes! Yes! Yeeeeeeeees!!”
The rage has finally boiled over for Spencer Henry. He ripped his good hand from Dr. Cosgrave’s clutches and tried to rip at the bandages and stitches in his hand. Josie tried to pin the furious man’s arms down, but he was much too powerful for her and shoved her to the floor. The man was so pissed off that he started foaming at the mouth with saliva. He was determined to rip his hand to shreds and put an end to his lackluster writing career forever.
Once again, the power of his fiery vocal cords brought help when he needed it the most. Dr. Cosgrave got up again and along with a team of blue scrubs nurses who just came rushing in held Spencer’s tensed up arms down. He put up a wilder fight than a raging bull being lead to the slaughter. Nurses were shoved backwards and more foam poured from Spencer’s mouth.
In one quick motion, Josie stabbed Spencer in the arm and pumped his bloodstream full of sedatives. He fought like a rabid wolverine for a few more seconds and then slowly, but surely descended into darkness once more. By the time he was knocked out, the spittle on his chin looked like he had a Santa Claus beard. The nurses all breathed sighs of relief while Dr. Cosgrave took a napkin and wiped the spittle off.
Spencer Henry didn’t wake up for another hour or so. When he did, his head was pounding and his jaw felt like he’d taken one of his own right hooks. His vision was blurry, mostly from the tears he shed, but it was eventually restored to where he saw Dr. Cosgrave at the foot of his bed again along with a team of nurses in the background.
“Truth is, Mr. Henry,” said Josie in a much more stern voice. “The writing business isn’t all frills and gimmicks. Rejection is common even for the most popular authors who are drowning in a sea of revised drafts. They have a name for going through that kind of hell: it’s called paying your dues. I know you felt like you’ve paid yours with one hundred percent interest, but you have no idea how much further you have to climb.”
“I…I didn’t mean to scare you guys like that,” said Spencer with a weak voice.
“I’m sure you didn’t, Mr. Henry,” said Josie with her arms tensed at her sides. “But we all know why you did it. You did it for the same reason that me and my nurses have: because you feel underappreciated. You’ve paid your dues time and time again. Well, guess what? So have we. So has anyone else who’s ever had a career. We as a society are all in this together. The sooner you let us into your world, the better off you’ll be. Whether you’re a writer, a doctor, a construction worker, a teacher, or otherwise, the struggle and the stress are both real. How will you respond to yours, Mr. Henry? Are you going to give up and flat line in that bed of yours? Or are you going to keep on fighting this endless war? We’ll fight for your life, but only if you fight for yours too.”
Spencer let out a deep sigh and said, “I want to keep going on. I want to believe there’s something out there for me. I just don’t know what it is and how I’ll get there.”
“That’s the beautiful thing about life: you don’t have to know, because it’s not laid out for you. You have to make your own destiny. Your medical chart says you’re 40 years old, but your life is far from over, my friend,” said Josie. She let her words resonate with Spencer for a minute and then she continued. “I’ve been saying that shit for a long ass time now. Some of my patients believed it, some of them didn’t. Those who believed it became successful in their lives or at least happy with what they’ve got. Those who didn’t believe it eventually grew up to be stored in our morgue’s body lockers.”
Spencer tried to calm himself with some basic breathing techniques as he thought about what the good doctor said to him. Was she right? She could be. But she could also be someone collecting more money than a professional fish fryer. Either way, it didn’t matter. The pissed off author was now calm enough to make his decision in his 40 year old crossroads. “Does anybody here know of a good editor I can hire?”
“Not off the top of my head,” said Josie with a satisfied smile. “But I can look it up for you.” As she pulled out her smart phone and did a Google search, Spencer relaxed into his pillow and let out a deep breath, thinking at last that he was on the right path once again.
“I hate you,” he finally said to the picture. He said it again. And again. With every repetition came more fire and volume in his throaty voice. He said it so many times that his hot breath started to resemble that of a dragon. He couldn’t care less how thin the walls in his apartment were. He didn’t care how many warnings he got from the superintendent. There wasn’t a whole lot about life that Spencer cared about. Just rage. More and more rage.
“I’ll pull you under, motherfucker!” he suddenly screamed before punching the glass-encased photo. Punching glass probably wasn’t the wisest move of Spencer’s life, but a middle-aged man’s wisdom went away a long time ago when the hateful dialogue poured from his mouth like snake’s venom.
The shattered glass cut deep into Spencer’s fingers, splattering blood all over his carpet. The screams were much louder and more barbaric, but this time it was out of mind-blowing pain. He wrapped his hand in his burgundy polo shirt, but the bleeding wouldn’t stop. It kept pouring like a raging river and all Spencer could do about it was kneel to the ground and wait for help to arrive. Someone must have heard him and dialed 911 by now. The walls were thinner than a Catholic wafer sometimes.
The last few minutes of Spencer Henry’s consciousness were spent bleeding all over the floor and adding tears and snot to this hodgepodge of emotional fluids. Fading to darkness was probably the best thing that could have happened to him at this point. He wouldn’t have to think those hateful thoughts of himself any longer.
But the thing about being rescued by first responders was that the patient eventually had to wake up. The fuzzy brown and white-haired Spencer awakened slowly and painfully while wearing a paper thin hospital gown. He had wires and tubes going into his body as he lay there on a semi-comfortable bed. His previously bloody hand was covered thickly in white gauze and showed no distinction between fingers, like a mitten of sorts.
“I’m glad to see you awake, Mr. Henry. We thought we’d lost you there for a minute. I’m Dr. Josie Cosgrave. I was in charge of your hand surgery.” The good doctor sat at the edge of Spencer’s bed with a hunched over posture and her chin on her arms. Her pose suggested that she wanted to talk about more than just a few stitches or some medication. The look on her darkly-complexioned face suggested something far more serious. “Is there a reason why you punched a picture of yourself, Mr. Henry?”
He let out a sigh and shrugged his shoulders before saying, “I’m just a little stressed out right now.”
“Yeah, I can tell,” said Josie with a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “There’s just one problem. People who are just a little stressed out don’t unleash a Mike Tyson assault on a piece of glass. They also don’t cry incessantly and fight the same EMT’s who are trying to load them into the ambulance.”
“Wait a minute…I did all of that?” asked a weary Spencer.
“All that and more,” answered Josie. She meandered over to the side of her patient’s bed and held his good hand in a semi-affectionate way. “Something’s bothering you, Mr. Henry. I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to find out one way or another. The answer just might determine if you need psychological counseling or not.”
“Yeah, like my insurance is going to cover that,” said Spencer while throwing his bad hand in the air sarcastically. “Oh wait, I forgot. I don’t have insurance. People who fry fish in the afternoon and write crappy novels at night don’t have that kind of luxury.”
“So is that why you’re so angry at yourself?” asked Josie. “Because you’re pissed off about how life has treated you?”
“What a mind,” said Spencer with even more sarcasm in his voice.
“You don’t have to be a wise-ass with me, Mr. Henry. I’m not your enemy here. I’m your friend. Yes, the hospital bill is going to be expensive, but I personally didn’t take this job as a doctor for a paycheck. It took it because that’s what I love to do. I love helping people like you get through their worst moments.”
Spencer shook his head and smiled unconvincingly when he said, “That’s it, huh? That’s the answer to my problems? Just love what I do and do what I love?” Silence overtook the room before it was broken with a sad sigh. “I really thought I could do it. I thought writing a novel and getting my name out there would give me a comfortable life. I thought I’d be a rock star by now. My novel, ‘Pull You Under’, has been edited countless times by countless people. God knows how many drafts I’ve got.”
Instead of interrupting the flow of the conversation, Dr. Josie Cosgrave squeezed Spencer’s good hand and gave him a look of concern. She didn’t want to talk at that moment, just listen. And damn, did Spencer have a lot to say.
“And then…just when I think I’m finally getting a big break…” A solitary tear rolled down his cheek. “Those asshole editors take their rubber stamp and brand my manuscript with the word ‘reject’ in beg red letters. Reject! That’s what I am to these people! I’ve spent the last ten years sending in that novel and all I ever got was a mouthful of battered fish and French fries for lunch! Every damn day! Every day, another fucking stamp! How many more times are they going to do it?! Why can’t they just say ‘yes’ for the first time in their lives?! Three fucking letters, one fucking word! Yes! Yes! Yeeeeeeeees!!”
The rage has finally boiled over for Spencer Henry. He ripped his good hand from Dr. Cosgrave’s clutches and tried to rip at the bandages and stitches in his hand. Josie tried to pin the furious man’s arms down, but he was much too powerful for her and shoved her to the floor. The man was so pissed off that he started foaming at the mouth with saliva. He was determined to rip his hand to shreds and put an end to his lackluster writing career forever.
Once again, the power of his fiery vocal cords brought help when he needed it the most. Dr. Cosgrave got up again and along with a team of blue scrubs nurses who just came rushing in held Spencer’s tensed up arms down. He put up a wilder fight than a raging bull being lead to the slaughter. Nurses were shoved backwards and more foam poured from Spencer’s mouth.
In one quick motion, Josie stabbed Spencer in the arm and pumped his bloodstream full of sedatives. He fought like a rabid wolverine for a few more seconds and then slowly, but surely descended into darkness once more. By the time he was knocked out, the spittle on his chin looked like he had a Santa Claus beard. The nurses all breathed sighs of relief while Dr. Cosgrave took a napkin and wiped the spittle off.
Spencer Henry didn’t wake up for another hour or so. When he did, his head was pounding and his jaw felt like he’d taken one of his own right hooks. His vision was blurry, mostly from the tears he shed, but it was eventually restored to where he saw Dr. Cosgrave at the foot of his bed again along with a team of nurses in the background.
“Truth is, Mr. Henry,” said Josie in a much more stern voice. “The writing business isn’t all frills and gimmicks. Rejection is common even for the most popular authors who are drowning in a sea of revised drafts. They have a name for going through that kind of hell: it’s called paying your dues. I know you felt like you’ve paid yours with one hundred percent interest, but you have no idea how much further you have to climb.”
“I…I didn’t mean to scare you guys like that,” said Spencer with a weak voice.
“I’m sure you didn’t, Mr. Henry,” said Josie with her arms tensed at her sides. “But we all know why you did it. You did it for the same reason that me and my nurses have: because you feel underappreciated. You’ve paid your dues time and time again. Well, guess what? So have we. So has anyone else who’s ever had a career. We as a society are all in this together. The sooner you let us into your world, the better off you’ll be. Whether you’re a writer, a doctor, a construction worker, a teacher, or otherwise, the struggle and the stress are both real. How will you respond to yours, Mr. Henry? Are you going to give up and flat line in that bed of yours? Or are you going to keep on fighting this endless war? We’ll fight for your life, but only if you fight for yours too.”
Spencer let out a deep sigh and said, “I want to keep going on. I want to believe there’s something out there for me. I just don’t know what it is and how I’ll get there.”
“That’s the beautiful thing about life: you don’t have to know, because it’s not laid out for you. You have to make your own destiny. Your medical chart says you’re 40 years old, but your life is far from over, my friend,” said Josie. She let her words resonate with Spencer for a minute and then she continued. “I’ve been saying that shit for a long ass time now. Some of my patients believed it, some of them didn’t. Those who believed it became successful in their lives or at least happy with what they’ve got. Those who didn’t believe it eventually grew up to be stored in our morgue’s body lockers.”
Spencer tried to calm himself with some basic breathing techniques as he thought about what the good doctor said to him. Was she right? She could be. But she could also be someone collecting more money than a professional fish fryer. Either way, it didn’t matter. The pissed off author was now calm enough to make his decision in his 40 year old crossroads. “Does anybody here know of a good editor I can hire?”
“Not off the top of my head,” said Josie with a satisfied smile. “But I can look it up for you.” As she pulled out her smart phone and did a Google search, Spencer relaxed into his pillow and let out a deep breath, thinking at last that he was on the right path once again.
Monday, December 14, 2015
WWE TLC: The ECW Originals vs. The Wyatt Family
MATCH: The ECW Originals (Bubba-Ray Dudley, D-Von Dudley, Tommy Dreamer, and Rhyno) vs. The Wyatt Family (Bray Wyatt, Luke Harper, Erick Rowan, and Braun Strowman) in an eight-man tag team elimination tables match.
PROMOTION: World Wrestling Entertainment
EVENT: TLC: Tables, Ladders, and Chairs
YEAR: 2015
RATING: TV-PG for violence
GRADE: Mixed
All throughout the 1990’s, Extreme Championship Wrestling defined the spirit of hardcore wrestling. Power bombs through flaming wooden tables, Irish whips into skin-shredding razor wire, repeated kendo stick shots until the opponent bled buckets, high flying dives off of the tallest structures, broken bones, insane fan participation, and saying “Thank you, sir, may I have another?!” the next day. If you wrestled for ECW, you couldn’t just be a moderately good athlete. You had to be tough as nails, nasty as hell, and maybe even godlike at times. The pain you will suffer, the scars you will obtain, the blood you will spill will all be in the name of legitimizing professional wrestling. ECW has since closed its doors permanently in 2001, but Bubba-Ray Dudley, D-Von Dudley, Tommy Dreamer, and Rhyno are invoking the spirit for this confrontation at TLC.
Good luck, boys, because The Wyatt Family has dominated the WWE on a consistent basis for three whole years, temporary separation aside. All four of these stable members are giants among insects. In addition to towering over all of their opponents, their scraggly facial hair, ugly faces, sheep masks, and cultist mind games give them a psychological edge in their matches. Just imagine if Bray Wyatt, Luke Harper, Erick Rowan, and Braun Strowman came to your door to deliver a pizza. Could you in all good consciousness eat that pizza knowing four zombie rednecks with serial killer mindsets are the ones at your doorstep? You’d better give them a million dollar tip lest you be squashed and strangled to death by these behemoths of men.
It’s only right that four hardcore extremists and four monstrous hillbillies get together for a tables match, where the rules are simple: if a wrestler gets slammed through a wooden table, he must go back to the locker room and wait for the match to be over. The losing team is the one who has all of their members slammed through tables. There are no pin falls, no submissions, no count-outs, and no disqualifications. If you can dream it up in your sick and twisted imagination, you can do whatever the hell you want to your opponents in this kind of match. Hell, you might even get a way with bending the limits of a TV-PG environment.
As soon as both four-man teams made their entrances, they stared each other down and waited for that bell to ring. When it rang, nobody was safe. Punches, kicks, slams, head butts, elbows, these basic moves turned a wrestling match into a head-stomping, mosh-pitting riot. These wrestlers already do a good enough job with the wrestling aspect of their matches. But when the toys come out, you’d better watch the hell out. Kendo stick shots form the biggest welts on the Wyatt Family’s skin. Metal garbage cans flatten and twist as they bounce off the zombie rednecks’ skulls. Braun Strowman was the only one who could contain this extreme riot. He went around clubbing and clothes lining the ECW originals until his Wyatt Family had the edge once again.
It was only a few minutes into the match and it already looked like it had TV-MA potential. But it didn’t take long for this match to earn is mixed grade. There were a few spots in this match that looked a little botchy to me. Bubba-Ray Dudley was supposed to use a metal garbage can to block a haymaker from Braun Strowman. Bubba put up his guard too soon…and Braun punched the defensive shield anyways. Not long afterwards, you had Erick Rowan attempting a running kick on one of the ECW guys only to put his foot through a table (which for some odd reason didn’t count as an elimination). Erick Rowan had D-Von Dudley spread eagle across another table and was perched on the top turnbuckle only to be shoved off by Rhyno. Rowan broke the table, but only the edge of it and D-Von had supposedly rolled off in time, though it still looked sketchy to me who was at fault for this botch.
The WWE fans are rarely happy with the choreography of a non-Daniel Bryan match (I swear, that guy has spoiled the audience rotten). This time, I can empathize with their unhappiness. Just this time. But hey, the action picked up again when both Dudley brothers slammed Erick Rowan through a table. Once he was gone, there were more kendo stick shots, more beatings, more chair shots, and then the ECW guys were being slammed through tables until Bubba-Ray Dudley was the last one remaining on his team. Before that scenario took place, Bubba did a spot where he was supposed to do a cross body block on Braun Strowman. Those two took a while to get positioned and when it finally happened, Braun stumbled backwards and fell as if it wasn’t meant to happen.
Never fear, original ECW fans. Just when the crowd was about to die, Bubba-Ray Dudley set up another table in the ring, but also brought out some lighter fluid and a cigarette lighter. He squirted a very liberal amount of fluid on that wooden table and stunk up the entire arena with chemicals. All that was left was to light it on fire and power bomb Bray Wyatt’s fat ass through the hardcore toy. But that never happened. It probably couldn’t under a TV-PG setting. Luke Harper super kicked Bubba-Ray under the chin while Braun Strowman heaved the ECW warrior in the air before slamming him through the table, thus ensuring the match-ending elimination and a victory for the Wyatt Family.
All in all, it was an enjoyable match to watch, especially since I have a lot of nostalgic feelings for the old ECW promotion. But let’s face it: the match at TLC earned its mixed rating. You could blame the hard-to-impress fans, you could blame the botchy spots, you could blame the false advertising when it came to the would-be flaming table, but there’s one other thing that stuck out in my mind. Elimination matches are tricky bitches as far as putting the winning team over is concerned. The Wyatt Family lost only one member of their team during that match: Erick Rowan. Losing three members would make the Wyatts survivors. Losing two members would also make them survivors. Losing zero members would make them dominant and scary like they’ve always been. But losing Erick Rowan exclusively made me believe that he’s being singled out as a weak link of that stable. I know it’s not true since he’s every bit as powerful and intimidating as the rest of his clan. All I’m saying is that one elimination looks suspiciously like a weak link plot. I’m interested to see where the WWE creative team goes with this. I hope they don’t go anywhere with it and just have Erick Rowan be treated as an equal.
PROMOTION: World Wrestling Entertainment
EVENT: TLC: Tables, Ladders, and Chairs
YEAR: 2015
RATING: TV-PG for violence
GRADE: Mixed
All throughout the 1990’s, Extreme Championship Wrestling defined the spirit of hardcore wrestling. Power bombs through flaming wooden tables, Irish whips into skin-shredding razor wire, repeated kendo stick shots until the opponent bled buckets, high flying dives off of the tallest structures, broken bones, insane fan participation, and saying “Thank you, sir, may I have another?!” the next day. If you wrestled for ECW, you couldn’t just be a moderately good athlete. You had to be tough as nails, nasty as hell, and maybe even godlike at times. The pain you will suffer, the scars you will obtain, the blood you will spill will all be in the name of legitimizing professional wrestling. ECW has since closed its doors permanently in 2001, but Bubba-Ray Dudley, D-Von Dudley, Tommy Dreamer, and Rhyno are invoking the spirit for this confrontation at TLC.
Good luck, boys, because The Wyatt Family has dominated the WWE on a consistent basis for three whole years, temporary separation aside. All four of these stable members are giants among insects. In addition to towering over all of their opponents, their scraggly facial hair, ugly faces, sheep masks, and cultist mind games give them a psychological edge in their matches. Just imagine if Bray Wyatt, Luke Harper, Erick Rowan, and Braun Strowman came to your door to deliver a pizza. Could you in all good consciousness eat that pizza knowing four zombie rednecks with serial killer mindsets are the ones at your doorstep? You’d better give them a million dollar tip lest you be squashed and strangled to death by these behemoths of men.
It’s only right that four hardcore extremists and four monstrous hillbillies get together for a tables match, where the rules are simple: if a wrestler gets slammed through a wooden table, he must go back to the locker room and wait for the match to be over. The losing team is the one who has all of their members slammed through tables. There are no pin falls, no submissions, no count-outs, and no disqualifications. If you can dream it up in your sick and twisted imagination, you can do whatever the hell you want to your opponents in this kind of match. Hell, you might even get a way with bending the limits of a TV-PG environment.
As soon as both four-man teams made their entrances, they stared each other down and waited for that bell to ring. When it rang, nobody was safe. Punches, kicks, slams, head butts, elbows, these basic moves turned a wrestling match into a head-stomping, mosh-pitting riot. These wrestlers already do a good enough job with the wrestling aspect of their matches. But when the toys come out, you’d better watch the hell out. Kendo stick shots form the biggest welts on the Wyatt Family’s skin. Metal garbage cans flatten and twist as they bounce off the zombie rednecks’ skulls. Braun Strowman was the only one who could contain this extreme riot. He went around clubbing and clothes lining the ECW originals until his Wyatt Family had the edge once again.
It was only a few minutes into the match and it already looked like it had TV-MA potential. But it didn’t take long for this match to earn is mixed grade. There were a few spots in this match that looked a little botchy to me. Bubba-Ray Dudley was supposed to use a metal garbage can to block a haymaker from Braun Strowman. Bubba put up his guard too soon…and Braun punched the defensive shield anyways. Not long afterwards, you had Erick Rowan attempting a running kick on one of the ECW guys only to put his foot through a table (which for some odd reason didn’t count as an elimination). Erick Rowan had D-Von Dudley spread eagle across another table and was perched on the top turnbuckle only to be shoved off by Rhyno. Rowan broke the table, but only the edge of it and D-Von had supposedly rolled off in time, though it still looked sketchy to me who was at fault for this botch.
The WWE fans are rarely happy with the choreography of a non-Daniel Bryan match (I swear, that guy has spoiled the audience rotten). This time, I can empathize with their unhappiness. Just this time. But hey, the action picked up again when both Dudley brothers slammed Erick Rowan through a table. Once he was gone, there were more kendo stick shots, more beatings, more chair shots, and then the ECW guys were being slammed through tables until Bubba-Ray Dudley was the last one remaining on his team. Before that scenario took place, Bubba did a spot where he was supposed to do a cross body block on Braun Strowman. Those two took a while to get positioned and when it finally happened, Braun stumbled backwards and fell as if it wasn’t meant to happen.
Never fear, original ECW fans. Just when the crowd was about to die, Bubba-Ray Dudley set up another table in the ring, but also brought out some lighter fluid and a cigarette lighter. He squirted a very liberal amount of fluid on that wooden table and stunk up the entire arena with chemicals. All that was left was to light it on fire and power bomb Bray Wyatt’s fat ass through the hardcore toy. But that never happened. It probably couldn’t under a TV-PG setting. Luke Harper super kicked Bubba-Ray under the chin while Braun Strowman heaved the ECW warrior in the air before slamming him through the table, thus ensuring the match-ending elimination and a victory for the Wyatt Family.
All in all, it was an enjoyable match to watch, especially since I have a lot of nostalgic feelings for the old ECW promotion. But let’s face it: the match at TLC earned its mixed rating. You could blame the hard-to-impress fans, you could blame the botchy spots, you could blame the false advertising when it came to the would-be flaming table, but there’s one other thing that stuck out in my mind. Elimination matches are tricky bitches as far as putting the winning team over is concerned. The Wyatt Family lost only one member of their team during that match: Erick Rowan. Losing three members would make the Wyatts survivors. Losing two members would also make them survivors. Losing zero members would make them dominant and scary like they’ve always been. But losing Erick Rowan exclusively made me believe that he’s being singled out as a weak link of that stable. I know it’s not true since he’s every bit as powerful and intimidating as the rest of his clan. All I’m saying is that one elimination looks suspiciously like a weak link plot. I’m interested to see where the WWE creative team goes with this. I hope they don’t go anywhere with it and just have Erick Rowan be treated as an equal.
Saturday, December 12, 2015
Vote With a Flamethrower
VERSE 1
If you can’t stand the way this place is
Burn it down, douse the flames with piss
Mark the graves with a pile of ashes
Mark the living with fiery slashes
CHORUS
Vote with a flamethrower!
Vote! Vote!
Vote with fire!
Vote with a flamethrower!
Vote! Vote!
Pyrocratic justice!
VERSE 2
The glass ceiling is coming down on us
While the fortunate ones lick their lips with lust
Cash is worthless if it’s burning to pulp
Let’s torch this shit and get out of this cult
CHORUS
Vote with a flamethrower!
Vote! Vote!
Vote with fire!
Vote with a flamethrower!
Vote! Vote!
Pyrocratic justice!
VERSE 3
The apocalypse was a long time coming
There is no sense in turning and running
The rebel souls have fire in their hearts
They’d love nothing more than tearing shit apart
The rage was building up for hundreds of years
We tried to extinguish the fires with our tears
But in the very end, all ashes look the same
When they’re caught up in a whirlwind of flames
HOOK
Fear, hatred, zeal, and sorrow
There truly is no tomorrow
All they had to do was knock off the bullshit
Now all that’s left is a smoldering lava pit
Could things have really been different for us?
Depends on the voices we could actually trust
Insulting debates are no longer a must
The world we know is burning into dust!
EXTENDED CHORUS
Vote with a flamethrower!
Vote! Vote!
Vote with fire!
Vote with a flamethrower!
Vote! Vote!
Pyrocratic justice!
Vote with a flame thrower!
Vote! Vote!
Breathe in the smoke!
Vote with your heart’s desire!
Vote! Vote!
Watch the world catch on fire!
If you can’t stand the way this place is
Burn it down, douse the flames with piss
Mark the graves with a pile of ashes
Mark the living with fiery slashes
CHORUS
Vote with a flamethrower!
Vote! Vote!
Vote with fire!
Vote with a flamethrower!
Vote! Vote!
Pyrocratic justice!
VERSE 2
The glass ceiling is coming down on us
While the fortunate ones lick their lips with lust
Cash is worthless if it’s burning to pulp
Let’s torch this shit and get out of this cult
CHORUS
Vote with a flamethrower!
Vote! Vote!
Vote with fire!
Vote with a flamethrower!
Vote! Vote!
Pyrocratic justice!
VERSE 3
The apocalypse was a long time coming
There is no sense in turning and running
The rebel souls have fire in their hearts
They’d love nothing more than tearing shit apart
The rage was building up for hundreds of years
We tried to extinguish the fires with our tears
But in the very end, all ashes look the same
When they’re caught up in a whirlwind of flames
HOOK
Fear, hatred, zeal, and sorrow
There truly is no tomorrow
All they had to do was knock off the bullshit
Now all that’s left is a smoldering lava pit
Could things have really been different for us?
Depends on the voices we could actually trust
Insulting debates are no longer a must
The world we know is burning into dust!
EXTENDED CHORUS
Vote with a flamethrower!
Vote! Vote!
Vote with fire!
Vote with a flamethrower!
Vote! Vote!
Pyrocratic justice!
Vote with a flame thrower!
Vote! Vote!
Breathe in the smoke!
Vote with your heart’s desire!
Vote! Vote!
Watch the world catch on fire!
Physical Fitness
***PHYSICAL FITNESS***
This coming January, my family and I are going to renew our memberships at the YMCA and exercise there on a regular basis. It’s that time again. It’s time for me to get my big ass back in shape. I’ve seen pictures of myself in the past where I look fantastic and then compare them to how I currently look in the mirror. It’s not a good feeling. What makes me feel better about my weight loss quests is that I’ve been a skinny man before and I can sure as hell do it again. But here’s where it gets tricky: weight loss has always been a back and forth battle for me. I’d make a plan, I’d stick to it, and I’d lose a lot of weight. Then I deviate from the plan just slightly and my weight spirals out of control once again. It’s a cycle I’m eventually going to have to break, but it can’t be done without people supporting me, which means no offers for fast food or ice cream and a staunch commitment to exercise every day despite tiredness.
The other part of this equation is my rebellious attitude towards the weight loss quest. I keep thinking that I have to do these ultra-hard exercises like Cross Fit or hour-long running or else I’m not going to lose any weight. I know for sure that’s not necessarily true, but I keep having scenarios play out in my head exactly like that. I’m not athletically minded by any stretch of the imagination. If I do any super-tough exercises, I’ll tire out within ten seconds tops. I don’t have it in me to ignore my tiredness, so I quit right away. I don’t want to be an athlete who plays sports. I just want to be healthy. Athletes have to do torturous things to their bodies just to maintain their energy. As an autism patient with increased sensitivity to stimuli, I feel the pain of intense exercise tenfold what a normal person feels.
To my way of thinking, physical fitness should come in the form of a handout. I know that’s not entirely realistic, but working that hard to achieve a smaller belly doesn’t appeal to me. But I also know that weight loss gimmicks like fat burning pills and surgery have dangerous side effects that overshadow any tiredness I feel from an intense workout. Here’s the truth: there are no handouts when it comes to physical fitness. If there were, America wouldn’t be the obese country that it is today.
While my plan for physical fitness isn’t in the form of shortcuts nor is it the ninth circle of hell, I do intend to find middle ground between the two. Thus, we have water walking, something I’ve done in the past with a lot of success. I get in the lap pool, run one way, and high-knee march the other. Fighting against water resistance is hard work and will get me the cardio I need. What makes it doable is the warmth of the water and how soothing it is to my joints. Because of this, I don’t actually feel the aches and pains of exercising until after I get out of the pool, which is when I’ve been walking for a whole hour. As the months go by and I start to weigh less, it’ll become two hours. And then three.
I was hesitant about this plan at first because I was rebelling against the idea that my heavy body was compromising my health. Every time I was told that I could have a heart attack or that harder exercises and a kale diet were the answer, I felt like I was being insulted. Insulting me doesn’t motivate me to work harder. It makes me resent the one doing the insulting. When my feelings and individuality are both considered, however, then that’s when exercising and dieting become more natural to me.
In January, the road to physical fitness begins once again. And once I’m on that road, I want to stay on it indefinitely. One slight detour could result in the world’s biggest fiery crash. That means no more ice cream, no more convenience store food, and the only fast food I’m going to agree to eat is from Subway. I’m all onboard with a plan like this. All I need is for people to come through for me and support me in this plan one-hundred-percent. I want to wear smaller clothes. I want to fit into whatever chair I’m sitting on. I want to do basic things without being winded right away. I want to live to be a hundred and look back on life with no regrets. I’m ready. Is everyone else?
***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
DANTE: My mom told me a story one time that when I was three, my potty lid was closed. So instead of opening it, I shit my pants.
RANDAL: Lovely story.
DANTE: Look, the point is, I’m not the kind of person who disrupts things just so I can shit comfortably.
-Clerks-
This coming January, my family and I are going to renew our memberships at the YMCA and exercise there on a regular basis. It’s that time again. It’s time for me to get my big ass back in shape. I’ve seen pictures of myself in the past where I look fantastic and then compare them to how I currently look in the mirror. It’s not a good feeling. What makes me feel better about my weight loss quests is that I’ve been a skinny man before and I can sure as hell do it again. But here’s where it gets tricky: weight loss has always been a back and forth battle for me. I’d make a plan, I’d stick to it, and I’d lose a lot of weight. Then I deviate from the plan just slightly and my weight spirals out of control once again. It’s a cycle I’m eventually going to have to break, but it can’t be done without people supporting me, which means no offers for fast food or ice cream and a staunch commitment to exercise every day despite tiredness.
The other part of this equation is my rebellious attitude towards the weight loss quest. I keep thinking that I have to do these ultra-hard exercises like Cross Fit or hour-long running or else I’m not going to lose any weight. I know for sure that’s not necessarily true, but I keep having scenarios play out in my head exactly like that. I’m not athletically minded by any stretch of the imagination. If I do any super-tough exercises, I’ll tire out within ten seconds tops. I don’t have it in me to ignore my tiredness, so I quit right away. I don’t want to be an athlete who plays sports. I just want to be healthy. Athletes have to do torturous things to their bodies just to maintain their energy. As an autism patient with increased sensitivity to stimuli, I feel the pain of intense exercise tenfold what a normal person feels.
To my way of thinking, physical fitness should come in the form of a handout. I know that’s not entirely realistic, but working that hard to achieve a smaller belly doesn’t appeal to me. But I also know that weight loss gimmicks like fat burning pills and surgery have dangerous side effects that overshadow any tiredness I feel from an intense workout. Here’s the truth: there are no handouts when it comes to physical fitness. If there were, America wouldn’t be the obese country that it is today.
While my plan for physical fitness isn’t in the form of shortcuts nor is it the ninth circle of hell, I do intend to find middle ground between the two. Thus, we have water walking, something I’ve done in the past with a lot of success. I get in the lap pool, run one way, and high-knee march the other. Fighting against water resistance is hard work and will get me the cardio I need. What makes it doable is the warmth of the water and how soothing it is to my joints. Because of this, I don’t actually feel the aches and pains of exercising until after I get out of the pool, which is when I’ve been walking for a whole hour. As the months go by and I start to weigh less, it’ll become two hours. And then three.
I was hesitant about this plan at first because I was rebelling against the idea that my heavy body was compromising my health. Every time I was told that I could have a heart attack or that harder exercises and a kale diet were the answer, I felt like I was being insulted. Insulting me doesn’t motivate me to work harder. It makes me resent the one doing the insulting. When my feelings and individuality are both considered, however, then that’s when exercising and dieting become more natural to me.
In January, the road to physical fitness begins once again. And once I’m on that road, I want to stay on it indefinitely. One slight detour could result in the world’s biggest fiery crash. That means no more ice cream, no more convenience store food, and the only fast food I’m going to agree to eat is from Subway. I’m all onboard with a plan like this. All I need is for people to come through for me and support me in this plan one-hundred-percent. I want to wear smaller clothes. I want to fit into whatever chair I’m sitting on. I want to do basic things without being winded right away. I want to live to be a hundred and look back on life with no regrets. I’m ready. Is everyone else?
***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
DANTE: My mom told me a story one time that when I was three, my potty lid was closed. So instead of opening it, I shit my pants.
RANDAL: Lovely story.
DANTE: Look, the point is, I’m not the kind of person who disrupts things just so I can shit comfortably.
-Clerks-
Friday, December 11, 2015
Shadow-Pie
For Lance Bradley, driving out to the Ophidian Valley Desert was the longest journey he had ever embarked on. It had nothing to do with how much gas his white Honda used to get there. It had everything to do with his mind racing even faster than his vehicle. With his father’s ashes in a golden urn in the back seat, why wouldn’t his mind be racing at a hundred miles per hour. His pale face hadn’t seen a smile since the day his father passed. His pony tailed brown hair was a disheveled mess. His black rimmed glasses did a piss poor job of blurring out the tears forming in his eyes.
It was a thirty minute drive to the desert with a lifetime of sorrowful thoughts and heartache to go with it. When he parked by the side of the road, he shook and staggered his way to the back seat to get his father’s ashes. Stepping out into the desert sand was even more of a chore for his aching body. Who knew depression could hurt so badly in more places than just the mind. After a while of dragging his heavy feet, Lance finally dropped to his knees and let the urn crash onto the ground, though the soft sand kept the golden container from breaking. The tears were coming much more rapidly and his face was turning beet red.
“You must be Lance Bradley,” said a sagely voice. The grieving son picked his burdensome head up and saw that an elderly black dog with hints of gray fur and an Indian head dress was the source of that voice. Lance had the urge to go over and give her endless belly rubs and ear scratches. Hearing her actually form words with her dog muzzle made him reconsider. This wasn’t an ordinary animal. This was the shaman of the Ophidian Valley Desert, Shadow-Pie.
The sagely dog went on to say, “My condolences for your loss, Mr. Bradley. I’m sure he was very special to you.” The pawl bearer cringed and shivered as he stood up with the golden urn in hand. Shadow tilted her head to the side and asked, “Did I say something offensive?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just that…well…I wasn’t expecting a dog to carry out this ritual. No offense,” said Lance without making eye contact with Shadow.
“None taken, my child. I get that kind of reaction no matter who comes out here. That golden urn of yours. Bring it here so that I may perform the ritual. I take it you don’t want to spend the whole day out here. Let’s get this done so that you can go home and rest,” suggested Shadow.
Lance stumbled over to the talking dog with the urn clutched to his chest like a child’s teddy bear. Something was bothering him other than the fact that his father was dead. Not even a wise being like Shadow could make out what it was. The pawl bearer set the urn down in front of the sweet-hearted beast and unscrewed the lid.
“Are you absolutely sure you’re okay, Mr. Bradley? Is it just grief from the loss of your father or is it something else?” asked Shadow.
An agitated Lance said, “I told you, Shadow, everything is fine!”
The elderly dog barked at her charge and said in a stern voice, “That’s not the way you talk to a shaman, young man. I was merely trying to figure out if everything was okay. You don’t need to take your aggression out on an animal spirit like me!”
Lance stuffed his hands in his tan khaki pockets, looked down at his feet sheepishly, and said, “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”
“If it means so much to you, then we can discuss this later. Until then, I have a ritual to perform. Stand as far back as you can, because the air is about to get dusty. Wouldn’t want a fine young man like you to have a sore throat,” said Shadow.
After the grieving son stepped backwards as he was told, Shadow stuck her snout into the urn and breathed in the ashes deep within her system. A few more deep breaths later and the ritual was underway, which consisted of her blowing the ashes out into the desert in the form of a high speed wind. The black cloud eventually turned green. The high winds became even more powerful. Spiritual chanting could be heard from Shadow’s throat as she simultaneously blew the ashes.
The green smoke began to form a dark circle around Shadow and Lance, making the latter of the two shiver and dart his eyes from side to side. If he wasn’t scared before, he was now that the shaman dog’s eyes were dark red and her currently razor sharp teeth were trembling in anger.
Lance tried to talk down the normally friendly dog by saying, “Good girl. She’s a good girl. Would you like a belly rub?” The possessed Shadow barked angrily at her charge and growled at him with white spittle running down her jowls. “Okay, um…how about some beef jerky! I have a whole bag of it in my car!”
The diplomacy of the dead man’s son was unconvincing to the ferocious beast as she leapt through the air and landed on Lance’s chest, pinning him down and barking relentlessly in his screaming face. Lance stopped screaming for a moment when Shadow spoke to him in his father’s gruff voice: “It’s about time you dragged me out here, little boy. There’s nobody around here to save you this time. No cops. No social workers. Not even your clueless mother! I’m going to enjoy every single bit of this torture I have planned for you. The first thing I’m going to do is bite off each of your little fingers one at a time!”
As Shadow slowly went for the first bite, Lance’s pants-pissing fear was replaced with a berserker’s courage. “Screw you, Dad!” he yelled as he landed a palm strike on the possessed dog’s nose. Shadow stumbled backwards long enough for Lance to stand up and put his dukes up.
But this wasn’t going to be an epic fight to the death. A dog’s nose was the most sensitive part of the beast’s body. Instead of charging at the dead man’s son with bloodlust, Shadow began to suck in air quickly before sneezing a hurricane of green spiritual energy. Lance was blown backwards into his car, where the back of his head bounced off of the hood and knocked him temporarily unconscious. As his vision was going black, all he could see was the green energy of his dead father cursing at him with venom in his voice.
It felt like an entire year had passed since this incident took place, but only because Lance Bradley had a monstrous headache as he awakened from his TKO at the hands of Shadow. The sky was a dark blue and the golden sun was setting underneath the horizon. Just exactly how much time did pass? Lance didn’t care. He rubbed the back of his sore head as he was coming around. He had a little bit of a bump there, but nothing more.
Shadow seemed a bit wobbly herself as she waddled over to her client, who sat against his car door with his butt on the desert ground. Shadow also seemed a little upset with Lance as she stared into his eyes with a little bit of a furrow in her brows. “Is there something you’d like to tell me, Mr. Bradley? Is there a reason why the spirit of your ‘loving’ father caused me to nearly kill both of us? I want answers, Lance. I want them now!”
“I can’t talk about it, Shadow. I just can’t,” said a whimpering Lance.
“Listen to me, son,” said the sagely dog. “You came all the way out to this desert for a reason. Someone obviously sent you out here to carry out your father’s final wishes. But your father’s final wishes weren’t necessarily yours, were they, Lance? You don’t have to give me all the details of your father’s sins, but maybe a surface-level description would satisfy me. I need to know why I transformed into that horrible beast.”
A teary silence befell Lance before he finally mustered up the strength to say, “I was…I was…”
“You were what? Don’t run away from your past, my dear. Face it head on and create a better future. You were almost denied that future when I inhaled your father’s spirit. Are you going to let him do this to you from beyond the grave?” said Shadow.
After taking a few deep breaths, Lance Bradley spilled the beans on his father’s transgressions. “I was only eight years old. You don’t make an eight year old do those things. You don’t make him taste those tastes. You don’t make him feel embarrassed like that. You don’t touch your own son that way!” The last sentence was shouted with all of Lance’s pent up frustrations. The tears were pouring like rain at this point.
“Do you feel that?” asked Shadow. “Inside each of those tears is the spiritual energy of your past agony. They’ve stayed within you for so long. You were afraid to let them out for fear of reliving those days. I’m here to tell you that you don’t have to live those days anymore, my son. The truth set you free. You set your father’s soul free. And I am right here beside you. I always will be. Dogs like me were put on this earth to give comfort to those who need it. I am giving all of my comfort to you. Keep those floodgates open and learn to love again.”
Shadow nuzzled her soft head against Lance’s chest while the sobbing son wrapped his trembling arms around his new doggie. “Your fur is so soft. I could pet you all day long. Is it okay if I pet you?” asked Lance.
“You don’t have to ask me, my child. You can pet me for as long as you want to. Take your time and don’t let up until you’re ready to hit the road again,” said the loving Shadow-Pie.
The petting session, the flowing tears, and the heartache of it all lasted for hours that night. The sun had gone to sleep for the day and the full moon glowed brightly for the sagely animal and her new owner Lance. Peace and tranquility had come to Ophidian Valley once more.
It was a thirty minute drive to the desert with a lifetime of sorrowful thoughts and heartache to go with it. When he parked by the side of the road, he shook and staggered his way to the back seat to get his father’s ashes. Stepping out into the desert sand was even more of a chore for his aching body. Who knew depression could hurt so badly in more places than just the mind. After a while of dragging his heavy feet, Lance finally dropped to his knees and let the urn crash onto the ground, though the soft sand kept the golden container from breaking. The tears were coming much more rapidly and his face was turning beet red.
“You must be Lance Bradley,” said a sagely voice. The grieving son picked his burdensome head up and saw that an elderly black dog with hints of gray fur and an Indian head dress was the source of that voice. Lance had the urge to go over and give her endless belly rubs and ear scratches. Hearing her actually form words with her dog muzzle made him reconsider. This wasn’t an ordinary animal. This was the shaman of the Ophidian Valley Desert, Shadow-Pie.
The sagely dog went on to say, “My condolences for your loss, Mr. Bradley. I’m sure he was very special to you.” The pawl bearer cringed and shivered as he stood up with the golden urn in hand. Shadow tilted her head to the side and asked, “Did I say something offensive?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just that…well…I wasn’t expecting a dog to carry out this ritual. No offense,” said Lance without making eye contact with Shadow.
“None taken, my child. I get that kind of reaction no matter who comes out here. That golden urn of yours. Bring it here so that I may perform the ritual. I take it you don’t want to spend the whole day out here. Let’s get this done so that you can go home and rest,” suggested Shadow.
Lance stumbled over to the talking dog with the urn clutched to his chest like a child’s teddy bear. Something was bothering him other than the fact that his father was dead. Not even a wise being like Shadow could make out what it was. The pawl bearer set the urn down in front of the sweet-hearted beast and unscrewed the lid.
“Are you absolutely sure you’re okay, Mr. Bradley? Is it just grief from the loss of your father or is it something else?” asked Shadow.
An agitated Lance said, “I told you, Shadow, everything is fine!”
The elderly dog barked at her charge and said in a stern voice, “That’s not the way you talk to a shaman, young man. I was merely trying to figure out if everything was okay. You don’t need to take your aggression out on an animal spirit like me!”
Lance stuffed his hands in his tan khaki pockets, looked down at his feet sheepishly, and said, “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”
“If it means so much to you, then we can discuss this later. Until then, I have a ritual to perform. Stand as far back as you can, because the air is about to get dusty. Wouldn’t want a fine young man like you to have a sore throat,” said Shadow.
After the grieving son stepped backwards as he was told, Shadow stuck her snout into the urn and breathed in the ashes deep within her system. A few more deep breaths later and the ritual was underway, which consisted of her blowing the ashes out into the desert in the form of a high speed wind. The black cloud eventually turned green. The high winds became even more powerful. Spiritual chanting could be heard from Shadow’s throat as she simultaneously blew the ashes.
The green smoke began to form a dark circle around Shadow and Lance, making the latter of the two shiver and dart his eyes from side to side. If he wasn’t scared before, he was now that the shaman dog’s eyes were dark red and her currently razor sharp teeth were trembling in anger.
Lance tried to talk down the normally friendly dog by saying, “Good girl. She’s a good girl. Would you like a belly rub?” The possessed Shadow barked angrily at her charge and growled at him with white spittle running down her jowls. “Okay, um…how about some beef jerky! I have a whole bag of it in my car!”
The diplomacy of the dead man’s son was unconvincing to the ferocious beast as she leapt through the air and landed on Lance’s chest, pinning him down and barking relentlessly in his screaming face. Lance stopped screaming for a moment when Shadow spoke to him in his father’s gruff voice: “It’s about time you dragged me out here, little boy. There’s nobody around here to save you this time. No cops. No social workers. Not even your clueless mother! I’m going to enjoy every single bit of this torture I have planned for you. The first thing I’m going to do is bite off each of your little fingers one at a time!”
As Shadow slowly went for the first bite, Lance’s pants-pissing fear was replaced with a berserker’s courage. “Screw you, Dad!” he yelled as he landed a palm strike on the possessed dog’s nose. Shadow stumbled backwards long enough for Lance to stand up and put his dukes up.
But this wasn’t going to be an epic fight to the death. A dog’s nose was the most sensitive part of the beast’s body. Instead of charging at the dead man’s son with bloodlust, Shadow began to suck in air quickly before sneezing a hurricane of green spiritual energy. Lance was blown backwards into his car, where the back of his head bounced off of the hood and knocked him temporarily unconscious. As his vision was going black, all he could see was the green energy of his dead father cursing at him with venom in his voice.
It felt like an entire year had passed since this incident took place, but only because Lance Bradley had a monstrous headache as he awakened from his TKO at the hands of Shadow. The sky was a dark blue and the golden sun was setting underneath the horizon. Just exactly how much time did pass? Lance didn’t care. He rubbed the back of his sore head as he was coming around. He had a little bit of a bump there, but nothing more.
Shadow seemed a bit wobbly herself as she waddled over to her client, who sat against his car door with his butt on the desert ground. Shadow also seemed a little upset with Lance as she stared into his eyes with a little bit of a furrow in her brows. “Is there something you’d like to tell me, Mr. Bradley? Is there a reason why the spirit of your ‘loving’ father caused me to nearly kill both of us? I want answers, Lance. I want them now!”
“I can’t talk about it, Shadow. I just can’t,” said a whimpering Lance.
“Listen to me, son,” said the sagely dog. “You came all the way out to this desert for a reason. Someone obviously sent you out here to carry out your father’s final wishes. But your father’s final wishes weren’t necessarily yours, were they, Lance? You don’t have to give me all the details of your father’s sins, but maybe a surface-level description would satisfy me. I need to know why I transformed into that horrible beast.”
A teary silence befell Lance before he finally mustered up the strength to say, “I was…I was…”
“You were what? Don’t run away from your past, my dear. Face it head on and create a better future. You were almost denied that future when I inhaled your father’s spirit. Are you going to let him do this to you from beyond the grave?” said Shadow.
After taking a few deep breaths, Lance Bradley spilled the beans on his father’s transgressions. “I was only eight years old. You don’t make an eight year old do those things. You don’t make him taste those tastes. You don’t make him feel embarrassed like that. You don’t touch your own son that way!” The last sentence was shouted with all of Lance’s pent up frustrations. The tears were pouring like rain at this point.
“Do you feel that?” asked Shadow. “Inside each of those tears is the spiritual energy of your past agony. They’ve stayed within you for so long. You were afraid to let them out for fear of reliving those days. I’m here to tell you that you don’t have to live those days anymore, my son. The truth set you free. You set your father’s soul free. And I am right here beside you. I always will be. Dogs like me were put on this earth to give comfort to those who need it. I am giving all of my comfort to you. Keep those floodgates open and learn to love again.”
Shadow nuzzled her soft head against Lance’s chest while the sobbing son wrapped his trembling arms around his new doggie. “Your fur is so soft. I could pet you all day long. Is it okay if I pet you?” asked Lance.
“You don’t have to ask me, my child. You can pet me for as long as you want to. Take your time and don’t let up until you’re ready to hit the road again,” said the loving Shadow-Pie.
The petting session, the flowing tears, and the heartache of it all lasted for hours that night. The sun had gone to sleep for the day and the full moon glowed brightly for the sagely animal and her new owner Lance. Peace and tranquility had come to Ophidian Valley once more.
Tuesday, December 8, 2015
Brutally Honest Dating Profile
***BRUTALLY HONEST DATING PROFILE***
There used to be a time where I would frown and pout at the idea of not having a girlfriend, especially one of celebrity status. Ridiculous, right? I think so too. At this point in my life, I couldn’t care less about the dating scene. I care even less than that about online dating. I’ve tried it several times with no success and I’m ready to say, “Fuck it, I’m done”. I have so little compassion for online dating that if I ever decide to make a profile for a place like OK Cupid, Plenty of Fish, E-Harmony, or any of those other sites, I’m going to take the Buzz Feed route and be brutally honest about all aspects of my life. For the sake of real life, I’m going to use my birth name instead of my penname. So without further ado, let’s get on with the Brutally Honest Dating Profile. It goes like this:
“Who is Garrison Haines-Temons? Most people don’t know, because they only see the surface of who I am: an out of shape and socially awkward man child with the worst case of allergies and the wrong answers to every socially acceptable question. If you’ve made it this far into my profile, I applaud you for not running away like a scream queen from a 1980’s horror movie.
The most common question I get asked by strangers is what I do for a living. If I wanted to be a funny guy, I could tell you that I work with impoverished children in the Democratic Republic of None of Your Damn Business. But that wouldn’t be the honest answer. The honest answer is, I’m an amateur writer who gets social security benefits for not only being schizophrenic and autistic, but also for having retired parents. I don’t go around telling people that because the person I’m talking to could either be a tea-bagging republican who judges poor people or a potential girlfriend who only dates men for their money and cars. If you’re going to judge me, do it on my character and not on my economic status. I’m sure I’m not the only one who thinks relationships are built on love and honesty instead of shallowness and greed.
What exactly is my character? The good news is, behind all of this social weirdness, I have a creative side to me. As I’ve said earlier, I’m an unpaid writer, but I also like to draw pictures of brutally violent warriors and take photographs of my toy collection and my animals. If there’s a creative project, I can get it done in style. For a while, I played the piano. I don’t do it much anymore, but the musical bug will come back to bite me soon enough.
What about my interests? Aside from expanding my creative outlets, I also love to watch professional wrestling, read books, and listen to heavy metal music. I used to play a lot of videogames, but ever since getting the shit kicked out of me multiple times by a lava dragon in Final Fantasy III, I’ve become too frustrated to continue that hobby. But I have to admit, videogames can be great creative fuel for when I’m writing a short story or heavy metal song.
You’ve made it this far into my dating profile without cowering away. You deserve a parade with confetti and marching bands. Now we’re going to get serious for a minute. I don’t have many pet peeves, but one of my biggest ones is people lacking respect for my introversion. You know the kind. They make small talk until the end of time, they always want your attention 24/7, they give you no breathing space or privacy of any kind, and they get pissed off if you call them out on their aggressive bullshit. If you’re one of these people who loves to smother your boyfriend with multiple texts, phone calls, and visits, then I don’t need you in my life. Every worst enemy of mine was someone who invaded my privacy and gave me no alone time to process my thoughts. Introversion may sound like an excuse to a lot of people, but it’s real to me and if you don’t honor it, you can’t be my girlfriend.
There you have it: Garrison Haines-Temons, bullshit free, nonconforming, live, and in color. Truth be told, I know not everyone accepts this kind of brutal honesty. In fact, I expect that most girls will see my profile and swipe to the right. That’s okay, though. I’m really joining this dating site out of protest and I really don’t need a relationship based on shallowness. Either you love all of me or you hate all of me. I don’t change for anybody. I don’t need to be told how to dress. I don’t need to be told what career to embark on. I don’t need to be told how to live life. I know what my life is about and I’m happy with my situation even though others aren’t. So what do you say? Will you give me a chance or will you keep pursuing your dreams of getting in the sack with Christian Grey?”
Now I’m actually curious as to how many hits this profile will get. I shouldn’t get too hung up on it, though. After all, I’m going into this thing with the ultimate “I don’t give a fuck” attitude. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
With the additions of Autumn the parrot and Shadow the dog, it’s time to add yet another former animal of mine to the series. Remember Ottie-Doo from the short story of the same name? Like Autumn and Shadow, I don’t have any photographs of the elderly kitty. A drawing will have to do instead. And now that I think about it, Ottie had a lot in common with my current elderly kitty Smokey. Maybe I could use a picture of Smokey for a reference model. Hmm….
***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“New rule: couples who make out in public have to bring a bucket for me to throw up in. I didn’t come all the way to Applebee’s to be sickened by your dry humping. I came all the way to Applebee’s to be sickened by the food.”
-Bill Maher-
There used to be a time where I would frown and pout at the idea of not having a girlfriend, especially one of celebrity status. Ridiculous, right? I think so too. At this point in my life, I couldn’t care less about the dating scene. I care even less than that about online dating. I’ve tried it several times with no success and I’m ready to say, “Fuck it, I’m done”. I have so little compassion for online dating that if I ever decide to make a profile for a place like OK Cupid, Plenty of Fish, E-Harmony, or any of those other sites, I’m going to take the Buzz Feed route and be brutally honest about all aspects of my life. For the sake of real life, I’m going to use my birth name instead of my penname. So without further ado, let’s get on with the Brutally Honest Dating Profile. It goes like this:
“Who is Garrison Haines-Temons? Most people don’t know, because they only see the surface of who I am: an out of shape and socially awkward man child with the worst case of allergies and the wrong answers to every socially acceptable question. If you’ve made it this far into my profile, I applaud you for not running away like a scream queen from a 1980’s horror movie.
The most common question I get asked by strangers is what I do for a living. If I wanted to be a funny guy, I could tell you that I work with impoverished children in the Democratic Republic of None of Your Damn Business. But that wouldn’t be the honest answer. The honest answer is, I’m an amateur writer who gets social security benefits for not only being schizophrenic and autistic, but also for having retired parents. I don’t go around telling people that because the person I’m talking to could either be a tea-bagging republican who judges poor people or a potential girlfriend who only dates men for their money and cars. If you’re going to judge me, do it on my character and not on my economic status. I’m sure I’m not the only one who thinks relationships are built on love and honesty instead of shallowness and greed.
What exactly is my character? The good news is, behind all of this social weirdness, I have a creative side to me. As I’ve said earlier, I’m an unpaid writer, but I also like to draw pictures of brutally violent warriors and take photographs of my toy collection and my animals. If there’s a creative project, I can get it done in style. For a while, I played the piano. I don’t do it much anymore, but the musical bug will come back to bite me soon enough.
What about my interests? Aside from expanding my creative outlets, I also love to watch professional wrestling, read books, and listen to heavy metal music. I used to play a lot of videogames, but ever since getting the shit kicked out of me multiple times by a lava dragon in Final Fantasy III, I’ve become too frustrated to continue that hobby. But I have to admit, videogames can be great creative fuel for when I’m writing a short story or heavy metal song.
You’ve made it this far into my dating profile without cowering away. You deserve a parade with confetti and marching bands. Now we’re going to get serious for a minute. I don’t have many pet peeves, but one of my biggest ones is people lacking respect for my introversion. You know the kind. They make small talk until the end of time, they always want your attention 24/7, they give you no breathing space or privacy of any kind, and they get pissed off if you call them out on their aggressive bullshit. If you’re one of these people who loves to smother your boyfriend with multiple texts, phone calls, and visits, then I don’t need you in my life. Every worst enemy of mine was someone who invaded my privacy and gave me no alone time to process my thoughts. Introversion may sound like an excuse to a lot of people, but it’s real to me and if you don’t honor it, you can’t be my girlfriend.
There you have it: Garrison Haines-Temons, bullshit free, nonconforming, live, and in color. Truth be told, I know not everyone accepts this kind of brutal honesty. In fact, I expect that most girls will see my profile and swipe to the right. That’s okay, though. I’m really joining this dating site out of protest and I really don’t need a relationship based on shallowness. Either you love all of me or you hate all of me. I don’t change for anybody. I don’t need to be told how to dress. I don’t need to be told what career to embark on. I don’t need to be told how to live life. I know what my life is about and I’m happy with my situation even though others aren’t. So what do you say? Will you give me a chance or will you keep pursuing your dreams of getting in the sack with Christian Grey?”
Now I’m actually curious as to how many hits this profile will get. I shouldn’t get too hung up on it, though. After all, I’m going into this thing with the ultimate “I don’t give a fuck” attitude. We’ve got ears, say cheers!
***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***
With the additions of Autumn the parrot and Shadow the dog, it’s time to add yet another former animal of mine to the series. Remember Ottie-Doo from the short story of the same name? Like Autumn and Shadow, I don’t have any photographs of the elderly kitty. A drawing will have to do instead. And now that I think about it, Ottie had a lot in common with my current elderly kitty Smokey. Maybe I could use a picture of Smokey for a reference model. Hmm….
***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***
“New rule: couples who make out in public have to bring a bucket for me to throw up in. I didn’t come all the way to Applebee’s to be sickened by your dry humping. I came all the way to Applebee’s to be sickened by the food.”
-Bill Maher-
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