New Years Goals 2019

***NEW YEARS GOALS 2019***

I’m fully aware of how useless New Years resolutions can be. You make one promise and break it a day later. It’s almost a universal certainty that fucking up a New Years resolution will be paramount to 2019 and every year for the rest of our lives. But just for the sake of being in the holiday spirit, I’m going to make my own personal list of New Years goals for 2019. I have no idea how I’m going to tackle them or how long it’ll be before I eventually get sidetracked. All I know is that I have goals and they’ll be on display for all of my readers to see. Starting with…

***LOSING ONE HUNDRED POUNDS***

No, I’m not talking about British money, I’m talking about the units of fat weighing me down and keeping me from achieving full cardio potential. Truth is, I have no idea how much I weigh and I’m not eager to find out. Looking at the numbers on a weight scale has always been intimidating for me. I think I’m doing great and suddenly the scale says I’m three hundred fucking pounds. Not very encouraging. So in order to shed some of those pounds, I’m going on longer outdoor walks and I’m going to increase my distance once my current distance gets too easy to do, which won’t be for a while I assume. I might also have to stop eating at the restaurants in the Fred Meyer plaza even though it’s technically lunch hour by the time I get to where I’m going. Little Caesar’s, Quizno’s, a Mexican restaurant I can’t remember the name of, and the Fred Meyer deli are all very tempting during my calorie burning walks. Maybe I can just get a drink from Fred Meyer and eat something nutritious at home. Maybe…

***PUBLISH BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

Even though I have an entire year to rewrite and edit this novel again and again, something tells me that I’ll need more than a year. I don’t want Beautiful Monster to become a flop like Occupy Wrestling is turning out to be. I want Beautiful Monster to be the novel that recharges my career. I want it to be something that can be loved by a wider audience, trigger warnings aside. I want Book Tubers to discuss it at length and not accuse me of having flat characters or too-fast of a pace or whatnot. Thankfully, I have the services of Hollow Hills Books by my side. I’ll pay them whatever they want to help me iron the kinks out of it. I’ll gladly put in the work if it means this novel will save my career. Does it even need saving? I’m not sure.

***FIND A GIRLFRIEND***

…Yeah…um…about that…how do I…I mean…yeah, I’ve got nothing. No solutions, no tactics, no nothing. Maybe if I watch enough flirty Psych 2 Go videos, a girlfriend will magically appear. But if not…well, there’s always next year…and the year after that…and the year after that.

***CURE MY CHRONIC TIREDNESS***

This is another tough one, but I have more to say about it. Truth is, there’s no one cause that’s making my sleepy almost all of the time. It’s a bunch of different factors congregating together at once. Being overweight, being schizophrenic, being autistic, quite possibly being depressed, not having enough of a social life, not getting enough good nutrition, I could go on forever. I currently use a CPAP machine to help me breathe at night and it has done wonders for my constant sleepiness, but it’s not an end-all solution. There’s a lot I could be doing for myself, but even then there’s no guarantee that I’ll be the 24/7 or 48/14 workhorse that I was in college and high school. If I told my professors that I was too tired to do homework, they wouldn’t sympathize with me; they’d give me an F. Not that I’d want to go back to school for any reason, but you get what I’m saying. If sleepiness is unacceptable in my early 20’s, it’s unacceptable in my early 30’s.

***SEE TARJA TURUNEN IN CONCERT***

There are a lot of bands I like that I haven’t seen perform live yet and Tarja Turunen is at the top of my list. She’s been my college crush from 2007 to 2009 and making a trip to see her in concert would be like a religious pilgrimage to Mecca. I know she doesn’t come to the US very often, let alone anywhere in Washington State, but if she played in a foreign country and I had a plane ticket to see her, I’ll gladly take that. I know nobody asked and it wouldn’t be wise to anyways, but no, I have no plans to flirt with Tarja if she does a fan meet-and-greet. She’s a happily married woman with a beautiful little daughter. Besides, I don’t flirt with anybody these days no matter who they are. It’s creepy if you’re like me and you have no idea what you’re doing.

***CONCLUSION***

I have a bunch of smaller goals too such as reading certain books and owning a T-shirt that says “Ego Kills Talent”, but why delve into those when I don’t have much to say about them? I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“I know that you’re hiding things, using gentle words to shelter me. Your words were like a dream, but dreams could never fool me, not that easily. I acted so distant then. Didn’t say goodbye before you left. But I was listening. You’ll fight your battles far from me, far too easily. “Save your tears, ‘cause I’ll come back,” I could hear that you whispered as you walked through that door. But still I swore to hide the pain when I turn back the pages. Shouting might’ve been the answer. What if I cried my eyes out and begged you not to depart? But now I’m not afraid to say what’s in my heart. Though a thousand words have never been spoken. They’ll fly to you even though you can’t see. I know they’re reaching you, suspended on silver wings. Oh, a thousand words, one thousand embraces will cradle you, making all of your weary days seem far away. They’ll hold you forever.”

-“1,000 Words” from Final Fantasy X-2-

Cry If I Want To

VERSE 1

Whoever said that men shouldn’t cry

Doesn’t know what it’s like to die inside

Macho madness trumps endless sadness

Tough talk trumps worldwide badness

I never bought that and I never will

These emotions were never mine to kill

Here comes the flood of biblical proportions

You can have my tears, it’s your extortion

CHORUS

It’s my country and I’ll cry if I want to

Cry if I want to

Cry if I want to

If you’re free to wish death upon me

I’m free to let my emotions be

VERSE 2

A romance gone sour can drain one’s power

And then Valentine’s Day will never be okay

A favorite song can tear me apart for so long

Who knew these emotions could be so strong?

Watching death unfold before my own eyes

Is more than enough reason for a good cry

Here comes the river that’ll make me shiver

Here come the tears that’ll make me quiver

CHORUS

It’s my country and I’ll cry if I want to

Cry if I want to

Cry if I want to

If you’re free to wish death upon me

I’m free to let my emotions be

VERSE 3

They can call me a baby, but it’s a lie

Since when did it become illegal to cry?

Am I under arrest or is this a torture test?

Is the orange uniform the way I’ll dress?

Fuck that! This was never a stupid game

Life itself will never ever be the same

Here comes the ocean of raw emotion

Another day of going through the motions

EXTENDED CHORUS

It’s my country and I’ll cry if I want to

Cry if I want to

Cry if I want to

If you’re free to wish death upon me

I’m free to let my emotions be

I’m an American and I’ll cry if I want to

Cry if I want to

Cry if I want to

If you’re free to be my judge

I’m free to seek out my strongest love

One-Legged Death Kick

VERSE 1

Did you hear the one about us getting criticized?

Did you hear the one about us with tears in our eyes?

Did you hear the one about us kissing up to the troops?

Shooting our machineguns from on top of the roofs?

Did you hear the one about us drinking all of the beers?

Did you hear the one about us being better than our peers?

I’ve been wrong about a lot of shit, but this I know is true

We also like to suck up to the cops who wear blue

CHORUS

We went from playing in rundown bars

To being bigger than Hollywood stars

We’re the One-Legged Death Kick

If you don’t like it, you can suck my…

VERSE 2

We only like compliments, not constructive critiques

But we insist that our critics are the only ones who’re weak

The only trickle down you’re going to get

Is boots and blood right in the back of your head

We also have enough guns to supply a small militia

If you try to take them from us, we’ll go ballistic

We wave our flags like they’re meaningful symbols

If you don’t like them, we’ll help you move to a shithole

CHORUS

We went from playing in rundown bars

To being bigger than Hollywood stars

We’re the One-Legged Death Kick

If you don’t like it, you can suck my…

BRIDGE

You’re a disease, too hard to please

We’re the patriots, so full of cheese

Left, two, three, four, hoo-fucking-rah

Everybody else can go get a fucking job

CHORUS

We went from playing in rundown bars

To being bigger than Hollywood stars

We’re the One-Legged Death Kick

If you don’t like it, you can suck my…

FINAL LINES

I pledge allegiance to the flag

Of the Confederate States of America

And to the republicans who blindly follow

With jowls big enough for bullshit to swallow

Amen!

All Dog Punchers Go to Hell

Mary McCray glossed over her roll call sheet one more time and shook her pudgy head at some of the names on her list. At least two or three of them were cops. Four of them were multi-level sex offenders. Others were attending sensitivity classes for the very first time. But one name on this list made her chuckle in disgust: Darren Stars, a rock icon with more privilege than any of his cop classmates. “Who in the hell calls himself Darren Stars?” Mary asked herself.

Steeling her nerves for the worst, she sighed and reached high to twist the doorknob to the classroom. Some of the “students” snickered at their obvious height advantage over Mary. They also had a sizable youth advantage since Miss McCray’s wrinkly skin and wavy gray hair gave away her age. She wore a green dress with a white apron over it, like she was about to bake cookies instead of teach a sensitivity class. In order to meet her students’ gazes, she had to crawl up on the teacher’s desk and sit on the edge, swinging her oversized feet as she did so.

These degenerates smiled with the kind of juvenility one would expect from a high school classroom, which was where this special training session took place. Mary checked the roll call sheet to make sure everyone was accounted for, but used it as an excuse to hide her face from these humiliating stares. Some of these men looked like they just did time in the pokey, all muscled, tattooed, and dressed in T-shirts, jeans, and sometimes tank tops.

It was Darren Stars who caught her eye (and her ire) the most. “Feet off the desk, Mr. Stars,” ordered Mary, to which the long-haired, leather jacket wearing rock star reluctantly complied.

Crossing her arms upon her lap, she was finally ready to greet these students with a stern gaze and a gruff voice. “My name is Mary McCray. I am a sensitivity counselor. You are all hardened criminals, which is why you’re here today. My job is to provide you all with the tools to do better deeds in this world. How you handle those tools is completely up to you. Some of you will succeed, most of you will end up back in prison.”

Mary pulled her thick rimmed glasses off and cleaned the lenses with her apron. “But for a small minority of you, prison was never a clear and present danger. Whether it’s because of your wealth, your celebrity status, or just the fact that you wield any kind of authority at all, your massive privilege has kept you out of trouble. But if you think your money is any good here, you’re sadly mistaken. I’m here to straighten you all out and nobody gets a free pass. Any questions?”

Darren Stars stood up and said, “Yeah, I’ve got one. How come your parents aren’t supervising you?” That earned a collective horse laugh from the rest of the classmates.

“Well, clearly your parents are even more irresponsible if they give you a goofy ass name like Darren Stars!” That earned an “ooohhh” from the crowd and the arrogant rock star sat down slowly in shame. “Actually, I’m glad you made yourself obvious, Mr. Stars, because our lesson for the day has a lot to do with why you’re here specifically. Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you get busted at one of your shows for punching a traumatized fan’s guide dog?”

“Guide dog, my ass! That motherfucker was howling his head off while I was trying to sing a song. He was ruining a fun night of music for everyone.”

“Yes, because punching a defenseless animal is the only number one hit you can produce these days,” said Mary with a cross-armed glare. Another collective “ooo” reverberated off the classroom walls, not unlike Darren’s guitar during a show. “Personally, I would have locked you up right then and there. But since you’re such a big celebrity who needs coddling and swaddling, you ended up here instead. Well, I have just the curriculum for you and your socially elite friends.”

Mary leapt off the desk and pulled a TV remote that looked like a magic wand from her apron. With one click, a white projector screen lowered in front of the chalkboard. With another click, the lights went out. “Gentlemen…and Mr. Stars, I want you to have a look at something.”

Another click of the button projected a montage of animal cruelty onto the screen. Elephants in India were being punched repeatedly in order to get them to paint. Monkeys laid in wooden crates with shackles around their necks and ankles. A cat was being thrown into oncoming traffic down below from a highway pass. Teenagers were shooting BB guns at helpless ducks, injuring their wings and snapping their legs in half.

Mary grinned mischievously at her students as most of them shed tears over the graphic footage, but wouldn’t go into a full-on crying spell. “So…a lot of you ARE capable of having empathy for others. That’s a good sign. Channel that sadness into our lesson for the day. But first…here’s a little something for the edgy man-children in the back.”

Another click of her wand and this time footage of pit bull abuse flashed across the screen. Upper snouts were being dislodged with crowbars. Dogs fought each other and spread their guts all over a dirt floor. One precious pup was being strung up on a rope and made to exercise on a treadmill while pulling a ten pound dumbbell. Even more tears poured from the students’ eyes while some of them tried to look away from the footage.

Upon catching Darren yawning with an uncovered mouth, Mary paused the video, illuminated the room, and asked, “Am I boring you, Mr. Stars? Is this not extreme enough for your tastes?”

“Now that I think about it, Nickelback is more metal than this garbage. Fuck it, I’m out of here.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stars, but leaving is not an option!” barked Mary as her eyes and the eyes of her glaring students shined bright red. Every fiery eyeball locked upon Darren in an attempt to make the egomaniac feel somewhat smaller.

Instead he smirked and waved it all off. “I’ve had mushroom highs that were trippier than this. You ain’t fooling anybody, old lady.”

“I assure you, Mr. Stars, this is not a drug hallucination. Everything you see before you is as real as it gets. I repeat…everything you see before you!” Mary flashed an evil smile as she clicked her wand and neon-eyed warrior pit bulls leapt from the screen and growled at Darren. “Go ahead. Punch them. I dare you. If you do have the balls to do it, they’ll be quickly ripped from your pencil legs along with your thumb tack penis!”

No matter how violently the dogs barked, Darren wouldn’t budge. He laughed at them and said, “I really should get off the heroin.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Stars. Get him, my pretties. Have lunch!” bellowed Mary as the pit bulls rushed towards Darren and chewed on his flesh.

What happened to the rock star was not a trippy dream, but a waking nightmare. Mary folded her arms and grinned while the monstrous dogs chewed and clawed pieces of flesh and blood from Darren’s body. He screamed while gagging on his own life juices. He tried to throw punches and kicks to the rabid animals, but they just chewed harder and harder, as if it was their last meal before being starved to death in the dog fighting circuit. “If they send me more losers like this guy, I won’t have to ever go to PetSmart again,” Mary joked while being splashed with blood.

“Hey! What’s going on here?!” snapped an authoritative voice, prompting the magic to come to a grinding halt. The dogs disappeared in a puff of smoke, the brainwashed students had normal eyes again, but Darren was still bleeding from asshole to appetite. The voice belonged to a cop bursting into the room, a cop flanked by his uniformed partner and a chubby music executive in a fancy suit.

While the two cops held Mary at bay with their weapons, the executive rushed up to the bloody and battered Darren and said, “Oh my god…this is…I’m just…this is beautiful!”

“What?!” screeched Darren. “How is this beautiful? I’m bleeding to death because of that fucking bitch and her stupid dogs!”

“Hear me out, hear me out,” said the executive. “Rock music these days is all about blood and guts, right? Well, you’ve got the perfect imagery going on here. We can print promotional material for days, months, maybe even years. You are the quintessential badass of rock and roll with this bloody look. Let’s go back to the studio and get pictures of you. You’ll look like a million bucks on any CD cover!”

“Hold on a goddamn minute!” shouted Mary. “He’s not going anywhere until he finishes sensitivity training! He ain’t anywhere near a passing grade. I told him that celebrity privilege bullshit wasn’t going to fly here! Mr. Stars, sit back down and don’t leave the classroom until I say you can! Officers, back me up here! Tell him he’s no different from the rest!”

“…Yeah…about that…” The lead officer opened fire on the sorceress teacher and put several slugs in her head, bringing her sensitivity class and her life to a brutal end. If anybody asked, the cop could just lie his ass off and delete the contradictions in his story from his file. Mary McCray had all the magic in the world, but none of it could summon the power she needed to take on a corrupt system. Everybody had a price and everything was paid for, including a new tombstone for the dwarven teacher.

Walk in the Rain

The nighttime rainfall tapped against Cassandra Bride’s office window while she sipped her peppermint tea. Christmas lights strewn above her ceiling illuminated an otherwise dark atmosphere. She smiled while relaxing into her favorite office chair. Such a peaceful time of night. She should have been in bed with a Lilian Jackson Braun novel and a kitty. Deep inside, she knew this conversation had to take place and it couldn’t wait until a brighter morning.

She took one last sip of tea before there was a knock on her door. “Come in,” she said. Slogging through the office in a soaking wet hooded jacket was Jarrod Crews, a young man with short black hair and a Seether T-shirt underneath his rainwear. He removed his coat and hung it up on the rack in the corner, not even bothering to dry it off. His social skills were always a mess, so at least a drippy coat was forgivable.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Jarrod while taking a seat across from his acting teacher.

Cassandra laid her cup of tea on the desk and waved as if it was no big deal. “It’s not your fault, Jarrod. It’s wet out there. If I would have known you didn’t have a car, I would have dispatched another student to give you a ride. Any moment now we should start getting thunder storms.”

Jarrod’s eyes darted from side to side while he fidgeted with hangnails on his thumb. “So…do you want to tell me what this is all about?”

“Of course, of course I do. But first I want to thank you for agreeing to see me tonight in my office. I’m sorry you had to walk through a rainstorm, but this actually is a pretty important topic.” Cassandra cleared her throat and straightened the straps on her black dress before leaning forward with her hands supporting her chin.

“Am…am I in trouble?” asked Jarrod with a jittery voice, either from the cold weather outside or his own nervousness.

Cassandra breathed a deep sigh and hesitated before starting the necessary conversation. “Jarrod…is has come to my attention that you have some ulterior motives for signing up for my acting class. Like the rest of your classmates, you probably saw me in the made-for-TV movie My Gift to You, where I played a demonic seductress. The only difference is, you took your fandom a little too far. You can deny it all you want, but Mr. Crews…I believe the only reason you signed up for my class was so you could be close to me. You have no other classes in your schedule. This is your first quarter at Kelly University. The pieces are all there. You got caught…by me.”

Jarrod nearly jumped out of his skin when the first lightning bolt flashed outside. His breathing was labored, but for a far different reason than the combination electromancy and aeromancy going on. “Who told you all of this?”

“Your own mother, Jarrod. She called here the other day to have a chat with me about your…extracurricular activities. She read me passages from your diary. She logged onto your computer and found pictures that have no earthly business being there. Jarrod, this is not okay. I don’t feel safe around you anymore. You know where this is leading, right?” Tiny droplets welled up in the student’s eyes. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Jarrod slapped his legs and gave a short, sorrowful laugh through his tears. “I mean…you’re not wrong. You caught me red-handed. So, that’s that, right? I should just go back to my dorm and pack my suitcase?”

Just as Jarrod stood up, Cassandra motioned with her hand for him to sit back down. “Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah. Not just yet. There’s a lot more to discuss than just a simple expulsion.”

The student slowly sat back down and chewed on his fingertips while smiling sadly and shaking his head. “What else is there to discuss? You have everything you need. My own mother basically ratted me out to you.” Jarrod held his face in his hand and sobbed a little bit. “You’re getting way too much pleasure out of this, Mrs. Bride.”

“You’re wrong, Jarrod. There’s absolutely no joy in this for me. For all intents and purposes, you were a hardworking student who gave A+ performances when you needed to. This hurts me just as much as it hurts you.”

The crumbling student man-spread his legs and tucked his head down as he tried to find the resolve to continue this conversation. The wetness in his face, the redness in his cheeks, he was easy pickings for Cassandra Bride. She had to admit that he put on a hell of a performance, yet again.

“I’m not talking about you expelling me from school. That part I get,” blubbered Jarrod through heavy breaths. “But why did you have to go behind my back like that? You got my own mother to throw me under the bus. For what?”

“She didn’t throw you under the bus, Jarrod. She called me that day because she’s worried about you. Like I said, this isn’t just an open and shut case that can be solved with expulsion. Aside from your sexual obsession with me, there’s more than she told me about you.”

“Oh god,” stammered Jarrod as he chewed on his fingertips some more.

Taking a sip of hot tea, Cassandra said, “Your mother tells me that you have a hard time making new friends. She says you’re depressed and isolated all the time, so instead of forming real relationships, you hover around me and feed your fantasies that way. She tells me that it’s been a while since you’ve seen your therapist.”

“Okay, enough! Enough!” snapped Jarrod while holding his hands up defensively. Another lightning strike flashed in the sky, but he refused to be deterred. “I get it! I’m an emotional train wreck! And yes, I do have a hard time meeting new people. You know why? Because every time I think I have something, my mom and dad take it away from me when they move to a new place. And then what do I do? Start over? Take another chance? Bullshit!”

“You know, Jarrod, you can do something about that. You’re old enough to make your own decisions. If you don’t want to move around to different cities all the time, then you can just…”

“I can just what? Find my own place? Have you seen how much an apartment costs these days? Have you seen the job market lately? There’s nothing out there for me, unless you consider sleeping at a bus station and begging for handouts to be good living.”

Cassandra set her tea down again and wheeled her office chair towards a crumbling Jarrod Crews. She placed her hand on his shoulder and elicited an, “Oh god!” response from him.

“Listen,” she said. “I know it’s tough out there. When I left my acting career and became a teacher, I didn’t know anybody here at Kelly University. I was scared just as you are now. But ultimately, you have two choices. You can move back in with your parents and have financial security and love for as long as you need it…or you can swallow your pride and find potential roommates with the friends you make here. You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Jarrod. Either choice is a valid one, but when you make that decision, you need to reap all of the benefits that come with it. I get it. You need love. We all do.”

Jarrod wiped the tears from his eyes with his shirt sleeve and said, “I know you told me that we have a lot to discuss…but this is getting really fucking awkward, Mrs. Bride. I don’t want to be here anymore. I’m not even sure expulsion would be a bad thing for me. If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll just grab my coat and fuck off forever.”

Just as Jarrod stood up to grab his coat, Cassandra offered, “Are you sure you don’t want a ride back to your dorm? Trust me, you don’t want to walk in the rain a second time tonight.”

The lonely student looked down at his shoes and sighed. “You know what? I think I prefer getting hit by lightning over having another awkward conversation with you, Mrs. Bride.”

An even louder thunderbolt shook the skies as well as Jarrod’s foundations as he jumped skittishly yet again. Cassandra asked, “Are you sure about that, Jarrod?”

He shrugged his shoulders and smiled sadly. “Well, you know what they say: you’re more likely to be killed by a terrorist than you are to be struck by lightning.”

Cassandra smiled amusedly. “No, no, no, Jarrod, you’ve got that bass ackwards. You’re more likely to be hit by lightning than you are to be killed by a terrorist.”

“…Really?....Oh…Well…What if it’s an incel terrorist?”

“Then your chances slightly increase, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is, I’d rather you allow me to give you a ride back to your dorm instead of getting rained on again.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t you the one who said you didn’t feel comfortable being around me?” asked Jarrod.

Cassandra sighed and tucked her head while her now ex-student put his jacket on and ventured outside in the pouring rain. “Was I too hard on him?” she asked herself. Not even the delicious flavor of her peppermint tea could relax her on this one. Everything that could have gone wrong in this “important conversation” did go wrong. She lost a great student, Jarrod lost an opportunity to open up, and everything got incredibly awkward. But Murphy’s Law didn’t stop there…

Another bolt of lightning tore up the sky, but this time the sounds of Jarrod wiggling and screaming echoed throughout the rainy weather. “Oh my god!” gasped Cassandra as she dropped her now shattered teacup on the floor. Even wearing high heels, she managed to bolt out of her office and lend her help to a now jittering Jarrod Crews.

There he laid convulsing violently with wide eyes and a foaming mouth. Now it was Cassandra Bride’s turn to lose a few tears as she held her hand to her mouth in shock. She knelt beside him and cradled his head in her lap. “I’m so sorry, Jarrod! I’m sorry!”

Even with a shivering body, Jarrod managed to form a complete and coherent sentence with a smile on his face. “So this is what it’s like to be held by somebody…I never knew that before…” Cold, miserable, and electrocuted, Jarrod’s head flopped over and his eyes rolled back in his head. Cassandra placed two fingers on his neck vein and felt no pulse surging through him, just electricity. He died taking a little piece of heaven with him before he went.

Cassandra teared up some more as she hugged Jarrod Crews’s lifeless skull. During her moment of apologetic cuddling, she noticed two wire prongs attached to his chest that led to a stun gun lying on the ground next to him. Scratched onto the weapon was a message as clear as the day that would come: “Incel Pride Worldwide”.

The actress’s sorrow turned into jaw-quivering fear at the revelation that her student was murdered. She could hear footsteps running away on the concrete sidewalk, but it was too dark to make out who they belonged to. By the time the perp was illuminated by the streetlamp, he had already turned a corner and hightailed it out of there.

What if there were more of them? Who else signed up for Cassandra Bride’s class under false pretenses? Was Jarrod Crews the only intended victim? What if…she was next? These thoughts raced violently through her head, which was now cradled in her own hands in a lame attempt to contain her fear. “I’ve got to get the hell out of here…I can’t stay anymore…”

Solving My Problems With Violence

VERSE 1

It’s the gift that keeps on giving

It’s the hell that keeps on living

A smack for refusing to listen

To the orders you have been given

I’m not asking you to commit murder

To turn dead bodies into hamburgers

It’s a simple task, not too much to ask

Yet you choose to be a pain in the ass

CHORUS

Solving my problems with violence

Is better than pacifistic silence

Is better than being a pushover

To someone who should act older

VERSE 2

Keep your ears open, your mouth shut

For your excuses, I give zero fucks

Your angry stare means nothing to me

It’s the final warning for you to heed

CHORUS

Solving my problems with violence

Is better than pacifistic silence

Is better than being a pushover

To someone who should act older

BRIDGE

Pushing me to the edge

I’m going out of my head

Smack, smack, smack, smack

I’m going on the final attack

VERSE 3

I’m the teacher, you’re the student

Quit pretending like you are stupid

Quit resisting every word I say

I didn’t come here to fucking play

EXTENDED CHORUS

Solving my problems with violence

Is better than pacifistic silence

Is better than being a pushover

To someone who should act older

Solving my problems with rage

It gets much worse with old age

It may get me locked in a cage

At least I can call myself a sage

Romantic Obligations

***ROMANTIC OBLIGATIONS***

It seems as though every movie you watch or every book you read is required to have at least one romantic subplot. The story can do fine without one, but it’s shoehorned in there anyways because…reasons? Unfortunately, this obligation has reflected in my own writing as well. In Occupy Wrestling, Mitch McLeod HAD to have Debra Winter as his fiancé. In Beautiful Monster, Windham Xavier HAD to have Tarja Rikkinen as his lover (that’ll change soon enough, trust me). In Silent Warrior, Scott George HAD to have Adrienne Simpson has his underage girlfriend (disturbing, I know). And finally, Incelbordination HAD to have a plot where Oswald Crow was pining for a girlfriend (this one actually makes sense since Incel culture is all about the lack of romantic sex).

I don’t want my readers to think that this is me putting the romantic genre on blast. When executed correctly, romances can leave a lasting impression and make the consumer hunger for more. The biggest knock on some of these romances is that they happen too soon or without enough building up. Me? I’ve only had two relationships in my whole life, yet I somehow feel obligated to write romantic subplots in my stories because that’s what the majority wants. I know how ironic that sounds coming from a guy who preaches individuality in his poetry all the fucking time.

While romance is popular among most consumers, I feel like I can finally be free enough to say that it’s not a requirement. No author should be pressured into putting romance in a story that doesn’t need it. Best friends? Maybe. Casual acquaintances? Perhaps. If I had allowed myself such freedom earlier in my career, I could have saved myself a lot of heartache when it came to ratings and judgment from my audience. While I don’t have a definitive consensus on how Demon Axe turned out, I can safely say that the budding romance between Daniel Mercer and Raven Triscloud was one hundred percent unnecessary. They didn’t spend enough time around each other. They criticized each other a lot. How exactly did they deserve a romantic subplot?

My current WIP is the rewriting of Beautiful Monster, which if you remember the first draft had a romance that DEFINITELY had no business being there. Windham Xavier endured a week of rape and he’s expected to jump into a relationship with Tarja Rikkinen? Bullshit, man! What the fuck was I thinking? If that wasn’t bad enough, they had Porn Hub-esque sex early on in the story. Again, what the fuck was I thinking?! So in this new version of Beautiful Monster, Windham and Tarja’s relationship will be mostly platonic. I say mostly because…well…no spoilers! Only Khlav Khalash! Seriously though, Windham and Tarja’s chemistry will be slower than an old lady crossing the street with a pair of bad knees. I should know how slow that is, because my mom had knee surgery two years ago and is still hurting like a motherfucker. Sigh…

After I rewrite Beautiful Monster and try to dub it as the novel that will save my career, I plan on sending all of my first draft novels to Hollow Hills and rewriting those as well. Will they have romantic subplots? I don’t know and I don’t care either way. I’m free from the shackles of other people’s expectations. If they want to fuck, they’ll fuck. If not, then they’ll watch The Price Is Right. I’ll take Rivers and Lakes for $200, Alex. Wait a minute…

If you don’t want romantic subplots for your stories either, that’s cool with me. I’ll read them anyways and enjoy them just the same. Romance can be fun to read about, but it shouldn’t be a necessity for EVERY…SINGLE…STORY! Hollywood does this a lot and their romances suffer because they’ve been executed too soon with little to no true chemistry. In the words of Eminem’s high-pitched voice, “Let’s just be friends!” I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER PROGRESS***

As of today, I have one prologue and three chapters written. Windham is safe and snug in the shackled confines of Shelly Atwood’s bed. Shelly and Torger had an argument about him being there, which resulted in Shelly grabbing Torger’s groin and squeezing his testicles as hard as she could. Ouch! Chapter four will be told through the point of view of Tarja Rikkinen as she tries to convince Orpheus Rinehart to allow her to retrieve Windham. But first…she has to get through the drooling zombie rednecks known as the Savage Brothers, Christian and Kody. If those aren’t some serious douchey white guy names, I don’t know what else to say.

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“I was blue and lonely. I couldn’t sleep a wink. I could only get unconscious if I’d had too much to drink. There was somehow something wrong somewhere. Each day seemed gray and dead. The seeds of desperation were growing in my head. I needed inspiration. A brand new start in life. Somewhere to place affection. But I didn’t want a wife. And then by lucky chance I saw in a special magazine an ad that was unusual, the like I’d never seen. “Experience something different with our new imported toy. She’s loving, warm, inflatable, and a guarantee of joy.” She came all wrapped in cardboard, all pink and shriveled down. A breath of air was all she needed to help her lose that frown. I took her to the bedroom and pumped her with some life. And later in a moment, that girl became my wife. And so I sit her in the corner and sometimes stroke her hair. And when I’m feeling naughty, I blow her up with air. She’s cuddly and she’s bouncy. She’s like a rubber ball. I bounce her in the kitchen and I bounce her in the hall. And now my life is different since Sally came my way. I wake up in the morning and have her on a tray. She’s everything they said she was. I wear a permanent grin. And I only have to worry in case my girl wears thin.”

-The Police reciting poetry from “Be My Girl, Sally”-

***POST-SCRIPT**

Maybe if Windham is getting over his trauma and still feels frisky, he can order his own Sally in the mail and bypass Tarja and Shelly altogether! Come to think of it, I should order a Sally doll too! Hehe!

No Pain, No Reign

“I’ve procrastinated for so long. I’ve wrestled with my conscience. Should I do this tonight? Should I bring this lazy bastard into my home? Should I make him feel my pain? The answer was not just a resounding yes, but a hell fucking yeah!” The grating, raspy voice of the purple-skinned witch Dollhouse awakened Ivan Keith from the shadows of sleep. His head throbbed and pounded like rapid fire boxing blows. The water in his stinging eyes ebbed and flowed. His body weighed down on him like an elephant sitting on his slowly rising chest.

When the Sheriff of Savage Duck County tried to move, the steel bindings in his ankles and wrists cut into him like an executioner’s axe. He laid on an uncomfortable metal table in a T position and struggled some more, but to no avail and only more pain. “Don’t fight it,” warned Dollhouse as she scratched her long, wart-infested nose. The wrinkles in her visage coupled with the shadows brought on by her pointed hat gave her a constant resting bitch face, which only made Ivan’s heart race even further.

“You can’t keep me here forever, old lady,” said Ivan in his southern drawl. “I’m taking you into custody once I get off this here contraption.”

Dollhouse cackled and coughed while slapping her bony knees for extra effect. Quickly reverting back to her resting bitch face, she pointed her elongated finger and sneered, “Nobody’s looking for you, Sheriff Keith. You’ve fucked over so many people that they don’t give two shits if you live or die by my hands. Always drowning your sorrows in beer rather than facing the harsh realities of your line of work. I could have used a savior when my daughter was taken from this world. You did nothing about it but drink…and drink…and drink…and drink!”

The last of Ivan’s stinging tears rolled down his face and his vision became clear enough to see that he was in a laboratory of some kind. Tables full of bubbling potions, tools and devices covered in blood lying about, shackles holding rotted black skeletons, and even a randomly loose eyeball turned this seemingly ordinary hideout into Ivan’s personal hell. He wanted to scream, but his throat felt as though he swallowed a bone saw, so why bother with even more pain?

“Listen, lady…I don’t know who your daughter is…I get lots of cases…I’m overworked…maybe if you jogged my memory…”

Dollhouse flipped an oversized witch on the rocky wall and sent a lightning storm of pain throughout Ivan’s body. His nerves lit up like nuclear heat. Schizophrenic laughter rang throughout his head. Visions of blood-soaked monsters stained his eyes. Ivan finally did scream out and his sore throat felt as though he was being decapitated with a hot blade. Every part of his body, physical and psychological, was corrosively melting before his very eyes. And then Dollhouse pulled the switch back to its original position.

Ivan took a few heavy breaths as sweat trickled down his skin like a heavy rainstorm. “What…the hell…was that?!”

“I’ve been working on this device for years. The worst kind of pain imaginable and I brought it to life. Water-boarding? Boring! Musical torture? Better, but still boring! Iron maidens? Brutal as hell, but boring as shit! If I’m going to get some answers from a filthy liar like you, I might as well get a little bit of enjoyment out of it. What can I say? I feel like I’m a hundred years old. Got to have some fun while I can!” Dollhouse gave another wheezing cackle, which sent ice cold anxiety through Ivan’s body.

“You’re insane!” cried Sheriff Keith. “You really think this is going to work? I told you, I don’t know a damn thing about your daughter! And even if I did, I wouldn’t think twice about turning her over to CPS if she’s got a sick mother like you!”

With a thumbs down gesture, Dollhouse made a game show buzzer sound and hacked, “Wrong answer, dip shit!” before flipping the switch again. The feeling of bathing in hell’s lava while demons and skeletons laughed at his misery invaded Ivan’s body and mind again. His heart thumped so quickly that he was on the verge of cardiac arrest. His brain felt like it was bleeding badly enough to give him an atom bomb of a stroke. Dollhouse flipped the switch back to normal and Ivan once again breathed heavily enough to give him a Buddha belly. Oceans of sweat did nothing to cool him off.

“You still feel overworked or should I flip the switch again?”

“No! Please don’t!” begged Ivan with cascading eyeballs. “Oh my god…that was just…” His heart refused to slow down and his stomach refused to deflate, making putting together a sentence virtually impossible. “If you…tell me who…your daughter is…I’ll help…you find…justice…”

“No, you won’t. You’re just going to cast her aside like you did everybody else. Being tortured is your only motivator. And I’m sure if I just let you go and do your job, you’ll find Isabel’s husband and string him up for the public to see. I don’t want you to just find her husband. I want you to want to find him!”

Ivan’s breathing lessened somewhat and his sentences became more coherent. “Ma’am…I didn’t get into law enforcement so that I could laze about. Nobody does. But sometimes, cases come pouring in and we’re stretched too thin. If you were to kill me now, that would mean less personnel to help you find your daughter’s murderer. I probably should stop drinking so much, I agree with you on that.”

Dollhouse folded her stick-like arms across her dark-robed chest. “I want to believe you, Mr. Keith. I really do. But the fact is…you’ll stick up for your own kind even when they’re wrong. Law enforcement always does. Your coworkers could commit genocide and you’d still kiss their grimy cowboy boots.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Isabel’s husband was a cop under your jurisdiction.”

Ivan’s eyes widened at the revelation. “Wait a minute…you mean…one of my own guys killed your daughter? That’s a little slanderous, don’t you think?”

“You see?!” Dollhouse croaked, causing Sheriff Keith to nearly jump out of his skin. “This is exactly what I’m talking about! Paid vacations! Severance packages! House arrest in a lovely seaside hotel! Cops never get the punishment they deserve because shit heads like you keep covering for them!”

“You think it’s as easy as tossing them in a cell?!” shouted Ivan. “There’s a whole power structure at work here, lady! You’re damn right we protect each other! Ratting out one of our own could mean the end of our careers, or even our fucking lives! I’m not taking that risk just because of a conspiracy theory you’re peddling out!”

“So in other words…you won’t help me…because you’re scared? You look so tough in that cowboy hat. You look so cool in that trench coat and those blue jeans. You look like a real cowboy. But in reality…you’re smuggling BB pellets underneath that zipper. Look at it this way, slick: if there really is a power structure at work here, you’re fucked either way. It’s all a matter of which way of dying you’d rather face. You could get shot by your own kind…or you could go through a lifetime of agony on my table!”

Ivan gulped so hard that one would swear he was chugging another bottle.

“Truth is, Sheriff Keith, I could keep that switch flipped until time itself is standing still. Sure, I’ll run up my electricity bill, but when nobody knows where the fuck you are, you don’t pay bills. Like I said before, nobody’s looking for you, Ivan. Nobody’s looking for me either. Even if you did report me to your buddies, they’d never believe that a hundred year old witch tortured you all this time. Come to think of it, they’d die of laughter before you died of ratting out your fellow cops.”

Ivan sighed deeply and tried to relax on the table, but obviously to no avail. He hated to admit it, but everything she said was right. No holes in her logic, but there would be a bigger hole where Ivan’s heart used to be if he endured another round of torture table madness. Then again…

“Let’s say I do help you find your daughter’s killer and bring him to justice. If my fellow cop is a killer…what does that make you, Dollface, or whatever the hell your name is? You built this table because you wanted justice. But in reality, you’re every bit as bad as your daughter’s murderer. Maybe you’re worse. At least when Isabel was shot, it was over with a quickness!”

“Ah-ha! So you admit it! I knew it! I bloody knew it!” boasted Dollhouse as she pumped her arm up and down in victory.

“Okay, fine, so you know who your daughter’s killer is! Why don’t you put HIM on the table instead of me?! Sure, he’s long gone by now, but I’m sure if you spent as much time finding him as you did me, you’d get your justice a hell of a lot faster! I’m just a middleman, for god’s sake! Torturing me isn’t going to do shit!”

Dollhouse sighed and held her face in her hands. “You know what? You’re right. You’ve been right all along. You’re about as useful as an asshole on my elbow. I should have never drugged you and brought you here. Yes, you’re a sheriff, but you probably got that job by putting the right body parts in your mouth. I should just let you go.”

Ivan breathed a sigh of relief, confident his debating skills have saved his life.

“Then again…if you just admitted to being useless…then that makes you an accomplice!” snickered Dollhouse before flipping the switch and making Ivan scream loudly enough to loosen dust from the walls and ceiling. The pain of a thousand gallons of acid and a million knives being poured on his body was back again, but for a much more eternal period of time. His jaw stretched beyond its means as he screamed. His tongue fell out of his head. His heart, brain, and eyeballs were time bombs ready to detonate. His bowels flooded badly enough to sag his jeans around his ankles. His underwear stunk like a junkyard after his bladder exploded.

In the end, Ivan Keith didn’t stand for something, so he laid down for everything.

I'm Still Angry

CHORUS

I’m still angry, you’re still ugly

I’m still on fire, you’re still a liar

I’m still seething, you’re still breathing

I’m still pissed, here comes my fist!

VERSE 1

I put off dealing with you for so long

Memories bubble up ever so strong

You’re no longer here, but it still hurts

To hear the words of a raving jerk

It’s not about health, it’s about control

You’re not a doctor, you’re just a troll

You’re not a hero to the world at large

You’re a criminal waiting to be charged

CHORUS

I’m still angry, you’re still ugly

I’m still on fire, you’re still a liar

I’m still seething, you’re still breathing

I’m still pissed, here comes my fist!

VERSE 2

I fed you pizza and entertained you

Imparted wisdom you never once knew

Gave you a place to sleep and be free

And this is how you fucking repay me?

A knife in the back doesn’t hurt enough

A torture table is surely the right stuff

A mind fuck forever is what you gave

Until the day I sleep in my own grave

CHORUS

I’m still angry, you’re still ugly

I’m still on fire, you’re still a liar

I’m still seething, you’re still breathing

I’m still pissed, here comes my fist!

BRIDGE

Goodbye! Goodbye!
For you I will not cry

Piss off! Fuck you!

I refuse to trust you

Sayonara! Adios!

It’s good for us both

Never come back again!

This is the fucking end!

Good! Fucking! Bye!

The Beautiful Scars

CHORUS 1

These are the beautiful scars

They define who you are

The bloody bruise, the purple hues

The dynamite with a short fuse

VERSE 1

It’s your mission, it’s your decision

To carry on strong and to live long

To use the shattered pieces of the past

To change the world and kick some ass

CHORUS 1

These are the beautiful scars

They define who you are

The bloody bruise, the purple hues

The dynamite with a short fuse

VERSE 2

What happened to you wasn’t right

But even so, you still have to fight

For the ones who share your wounds

Who never walked out of the hospital room

CHORUS 1

These are the beautiful scars

They define who you are

The bloody bruise, the purple hues

The dynamite with a short fuse

BRIDGE

It hurt like hell when you finally fell

But still you answered the final bell

This is your story to write and tell

Because the best revenge is living well

CHORUS 2

These are the beautiful scars

It’s time to raise the fucking bar

The blackest eyes, tearful cries

The trauma that tells you lies

The shattered bones, broken home

The many nights you spent alone

Now is the time to bite the bullet

Now is the time to fuck all the bullshit

My Name In Your Mouth

***MY NAME IN YOUR MOUTH***

Before I begin with the body of this blog entry, I want everybody to know that this isn’t aimed at anybody in particular nor is it meant to be an attack in the first place. This is about something that’s been going on in my mind for quite a while now. I’m sure a lot of my writer friends can relate, or at least I hope they do. But anytime somebody mentions me in association with my writing in real life or in a You Tube video…I panic. I get this anxious sensation in the pit of my tummy and my first instinct is to turn around and run away (or cringe if I don’t have an available exit). These people could be saying the nicest, friendliest things about my work, but I’m still Clockwork Oranged into believing it’s worth being nervous about. Why is that?

I’m no stranger to criticism and I’ve had a lot of it in my career. But I’m also at a place in my life where I’ve come to depend on critiques and notes like the mature adult that I am. Although critiques are necessary to any author’s success, it doesn’t make the nervousness go away. In fact, the longer I have to wait for it, the higher the anxiety builds. Yes, I know I sound like a sensitive snowflake with thin skin and a strong need for a safe space. If I could choose to be more durable, I’d be fucking invincible. It never gets easier for me with age and I can’t understand why.

I’ll always remember a time in late 2010 when I wrote music-themed fan fiction and posted it live on Face Book. One of those stories was called “Awake and Alive” and it was about a young man named Junie Fritz, who wanted to break his own shyness by going to a Skillet concert in Seattle and making friends with a cute girl named Shawn Tucker. My brother’s girlfriend at the time Susan (who doesn’t live with us anymore) caught me in the hallway and said, “So I read your story about Junie!” Without missing a beat I wave goodbye to her and try to retreat into my room. Turns out she liked the story and wanted to praise it (despite the fact that Junie rode a fucking ATV to the arena).

Another example of wanting to cringe and/or retreat was Mother’s Day earlier this year, when I gifted my mom a copy of Poison Tongue Tales. She’s one of my biggest fans and wanted to see a sample of what I’ve published, so I gave her that. She was so happy to have it and immediately jumped into the Two-Sentence Horror Stories section. I cringed hard when she read some of those stories out loud, not because of her, but because I was listening to my own writing and I wanted to get the fuck out of there. It’s like I’ve been conditioned into thinking my own writing sucks by the various haters I’ve had over the years.

Still to this day I have that anxious feeling whenever somebody wants to talk about my writing in real life or on You Tube. Sometimes I feel this way whenever it’s in written form. For a guy who’s trying to market myself to the public so that I can get as many book sales as possible, this is quite the barrier. I should WANT to have my name in people’s mouths. I should WANT the free advertising. I should WANT to have the limelight on me 24/7. But I feel tiny every time my writing comes up in conversation.

Sometimes it’s not even a low self-esteem issue. Sometimes I write a personal story in an email or social media post and there’s a certain part of that story that makes me nervous to talk about it. Just the other day, I wrote an email to my mother detailing why I didn’t want to go on dates when I was in middle school. The biggest reason was because my dad was going through nasty shit with his ex-wives at the time, so I didn’t want to pay alimony or child support to another woman (even though I was fucking thirteen). I told mom that I didn’t want to play second fiddle to a girlfriend who would no doubt prevent me from achieving my college dreams. It didn’t help matters that I watched the Millennium episode “A Room with No View” right around that time and saw Lucy Butler get touchy-feely and kissy-kissy with her hostages. Obviously, things have changed since then and if the opportunity presented itself, I’d definitely go on a date with a nice woman. But still, that was quite the revelation for my mother.

So why all the nervousness? Why all the fuss? Why can’t I just put on my suit of armor and deflect bullets like Superman? Why can’t I just…you know…”toughen up”, like a stereotypical male would say in a Skillset Magazine article? Did my mental illnesses make me this way? Am I just a naturally sensitive person? Do I have too much empathy? Does anybody else feel this sense of panic whenever they hear their own writing? Have I really been Clockwork Oranged into believing I suck? What’s going on here? I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying….well, that would be a good time to retreat to your room and lock the door. No mountain climbing until you calm the fuck down.

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER PROGRESS***

As of today, I’ve written the prologue and first two chapters of this reloaded project. The third chapter will see an argument take place between Torger Manson and Shelly Atwood. Torger wants Shelly to be a businesswoman first and a lover second if she’s going to deny him access to the sex slaves. If you’re not cringing right now, check your pulse. Shelly has already forcibly deflowered Windham, so any conversation she has with Torger about sex will give you the feeling of spiders crawling on your skin. Wish me luck!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Between suicide and all your dirty lies. Are you looking sad for girls? Are you looking bad for sympathy? Between suicide and secrets that you hide. Are you feeling pain like birds? Are you trading pearls for misery? It’s getting hard to say open your eyes. Needles haven’t fixed anything. I guess we’re millions of faces waiting somewhere for somebody else’s place to feel like home. Love is a refuge with fears and doubts. It’s the Jesus on your necklace. Love is a silence to your cry outs. Sleepless hideouts. The cheapest, the fabulous.”

-Your Favorite Enemies singing “Open Your Eyes”-

The Land of Milk and Medication

VERSE 1

Take me by the hand to dreamland

Tell me a story of fantastic glory

Everything is ours for twelve hours

The recesses of my mind are all mine

Give me a reason to greet the season

Give me a tale I can write without fail

I do it for a living, it’s all I am giving

Buy from the hovel of paperback novels

CHORUS

The land of milk and medication

Is where I do my best meditation

From reality I take a vacation

To a brand new mystical destination

VERSE 2

Milk and honey for my cinnamon bunny

Milk and Xanax for my creative annex

Milk and cereal for the morning ethereal

Milk and fudge to give my face a smudge

Every day is Christmas, night is Halloween

Thanksgiving is somewhere in between

No Valentines for the girl I shall pine

No firecrackers from patriotic attackers

CHORUS

The land of milk and medication

Is where I do my best meditation

From reality I take a vacation

To a brand new mystical destination

BRIDGE

When the sun is kissing, something is missing

Is anybody watching? Is anybody listening?

Where will I get today’s creative fuel?

Must keep the mind sharp, it’s my only tool

EXTENDED CHORUS

The land of milk and medication

Is where I do my best meditation

From reality I take a vacation

To a brand new mystical destination

A world of wonder and musical thunder

Realm of magic born from something tragic

Imagination is my favorite medication

Milk and pills still give me the chills

Masticators of the Universe

“Eat well, my pretties. Dinner is on me,” said Lara Spider with a grin as her tarantulas munched on potato chips like wild dogs. She could understand the trepidation of the fellow customers around her in the Brew Pub that night. Grown men inching away from her. Grown women twisting their faces in disgust. To be honest, the solitude was alright with her. If it meant no sloppy jowled, beer breathed man was going to hit on her in public, so be it. She even kissed one of her tarantulas and said, “I love you all so dearly.”

Lara didn’t even feel bad about her appearance that evening, nor should she ever have to be. A pretty pink dress made from the finest layers of silk, high heeled shoes that she slid her bare feet in and out of, and flowing chocolate colored hair that looked as delicious as the actual dessert. But once those spiders crawled around her table, she felt safe enough to be bare naked if she wanted to be, which she didn’t. “Looks like it’s just us tonight,” she said with a dainty smile.

The tarantulas scurried and sprawled into her dress once everyone the sounds of vomit-like coughing and snot gurgling erupted over the pub. “Oh no, not him again,” whispered Lara. Such wishful thinking never came to light. Bursting through the front door smelling like blood-flavored whiskey and pus-scented perfume was Tor Vemola, the bastard son of the once prominent celebrity family, the Vemola Dynasty. His blond hair covered in sewage, his blue skin ripped and shredded, his clothes disheveled and moldy, if he wasn’t royalty, he could have easily passed as a bum on the streets. “At least the bums need the money more than he does,” Lara thought to herself.

Those disgusted sentiments echoed among the pub customers, each of them backing away and holding napkins over their mouths and noises, making just as sickening noises as Tor did before skulking in the establishment. “Bunch of fucking drama queens! Har-har-har!” snorted Tor before gagging on his own snot yet again.

The young barmaid slowly approached him and struggled to get her words out as her lips trembled. “Um…what can I…get you…today?”

“I want two big fat breasts!” bellowed Tor, which caused everyone’s eyes to shoot up in horror.

“Um…pardon me?” squeaked the barmaid.

“You heard me! I said I want two big fat chicken breasts! I’m an American, I can eat big fat breasts if I want!”

“Oh, uh…hehe…chicken breasts, of course…we actually have some coming out of the oven right now…let me go check on them.”

Before she could leave, Tor grabbed her by the wrist and burst out, “Wait a minute! Aren’t you going to ask what I want to drink?”

“Uh…I think you’ve had enough to drink already, Mr. Vemola.” The zombie-like creature growled at her before she said, “You know what? Here, have some beer. Heh…” She poured him a pitcher of golden ale as fast as she could before hurrying to check on the status of the chicken breasts…or look for an exit, either one.

Tor took a long liquidly snort of the beer and Lara’s insides grumbled like a machine as she held her hand to her mouth. She could feel her dinner rising to the surface when the creature guzzled his beer and made throat noises like a double bass drum solo. Within seconds, the beverage was swimming and sloshing in his gut loudly enough for everyone to hear. Some patrons got up and left, making throaty noises of their own. Not Lara. She sat at her table and watched this piggish man with cruel intentions.

The barmaid hurried to the counter with a plate full of chicken legs as big as telephone poles. She giggled nervously and said, “Enjoy your meal…Mister…Vemola…” He tried to grab her wrist to ask for something else, but she hurried out the door screaming in sheer terror.

“Wonder what that bitch’s problem is,” barked Tor, much to Lara’s cringing disgust. If she thought she was in an unappetizing mood before, she finally had the misfortune of listening to Tor chomping away at fried chicken and smacking his lips together as hard as he humanly could.

Lara believed the next time she opened her mouth would be the last time anything of substance stayed in her stomach. But she had to say something, if not for the other customers than for her own sanity. A few lip smacks later, she said, “Please! For god’s sake! Chew with your mouth closed!”

“It’s a free country, you feminoonoo. I can eat however I want!” Another alligator bite, another long minute of his lips and tongue smacking together like crash cymbals. And another bite. And another. And another. For somebody who could finish a beer within seconds, he sure loved to take his time eating a plate of fried chicken.

The bile rising in her neck, Lara mustered up the strength to say one more time, “Chew with your mouth closed…or else!”

Tor turned around in his stool with a green-toothed grin and said, “What are you going to do, report me to the Social Justice Police? Maybe you’ll want to make a citizens arrest or some shit like that. Why don’t you come on over and…slap some cuffs on me!” The last sentence was punctuated with a swirl of his pig slop tongue.

Lara couldn’t keep it together any longer. Her stomach pounded and throbbed. Her blood and sweat ran colder than her sweet iced tea. She leaned over and puked all over the ground, losing what could have been an enjoyable meal had it not been for Tor Vemola and his gross eating habits. She puked again. And again. And again, until her mouth tasted like battery acid.

“Hey, sweet patooties! Barf with your mouth closed! You’re triggering me and offending my sensitive areas!” mocked Tor before hee-hawing and slapping his bloody knee.

“You think that’s sick? You haven’t seen a damn thing yet!” growled Lara as she extended her long sleeve and unleashed her tarantula magic upon the “patriotic” zombie. The little creepers scurried and tap-danced across the wooden floor, yet Tor’s facial expression amounted to a simple “meh”.

“Is this hocus pocus shit supposed to scare me?!” he bellowed before scooping handfuls of arachnids and eating them like candy, venom oozing from his already sloppy sewer hole. There must have been a whole army of little buggers and Tor just devoured the whole lot of them….all while smacking his lips and clicking his tongue for extra effect.

Lara could only drop to her knees and stain her dress with what was once a delicious meal. She quivered, “No…no…not my babies…not my beautiful babies…”

Tor’s expression softened, but Lara didn’t want to believe it behind her damp eyes. “Now, now, darling,” said the burping zombie. “If it’s a baby you want, I can give you that. I believe we should all be making babies, including a pretty little thing like you. It’s all part of the master plan.”

As he slowly approached her while squishing spider corpses beneath his boot, Lara crab walked away from him until she was trapped in the corner of the restaurant with nowhere to go. This man was so disgusting that the place had completely emptied out on account of nobody wanting to be around a man who ate like that. “What am I doing here,” Lara muttered to herself. “I need to get out of here…what’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you, sweetheart. In fact, I love you just the way you are. If you’ve got anymore of them spiders handy, I’d love to have them chicken fried. I bet you’re a goddess in the kitchen! Actually, probably not since you came to a restaurant tonight instead of staying home.”

Tor pulled his jorts down and revealed something resembling a burned sausage with warts and pus protruding everywhere, maybe even a mushroom sprouting in the forest of greasy hair. Lara covered her eyes and squealed, but the zombie paid no mind to her fear and advanced forward. “Come on, baby girl. Let’s do this for the man upstairs. Let’s make some babies!”

Lara slowly removed her hands from her eyes and took one last look at the diseased organ. A shy smile crept upon her face as she crawled over to have a better look. On her knees with a bigger smile than before, she said, “You’re right…let’s make babies…You heard him, Pepper!”

“Huh? Pepper?”

In one fluid motion, Lara grabbed Tor’s peter and ripped open one of his pus-filled wounds before inserting her last tarantula. The zombie screamed and danced as the little bastard crawled inside his flesh, chewing, digging, burrowing, injecting poison like an inoculation for the social disease, laying eggs for “the man upstairs”.

“You sick prick!” shouted Tor as he dug inside his wound to try to get the tarantula out of his system. Lara’s grin turned mischievous as poison rotted her foe inside out. Poison sprayed from every open wound in his body. Goop sloshed on the floor like a wading pool. It looked as though he was going to drop dead at any moment. And then…

“I’m just messing with you,” laughed Tor, much to the wide-eyed horror of his victim. “What? You actually thought that little shit kicker was going to do me in? I’ve got more diseases than a chemical weapons factory. There ain’t nothing you can give me that’s any grosser than what I’ve already got!”

Knowing her spider magic could only take her so far, Lara shot up to her feet and bolted for the door, only to be tackled to the ground by a powerful force. “No! Get off me!” she shouted, secretly wishing Tor would just get this over with. But oddly enough, the sloppy odor was replaced with a French perfume smell. The barmaid! With one shotgun blast, Lara screamed her head off yet again as blood, pus, and sewage sprayed the inside of the restaurant. A resounding thump on the ground signaled the end of this would-be rape struggle.

Lara felt a gentle hand pat her on the back while saying, “It’s okay…it’s okay…you can get up now. He’s gone.” The barmaid helped her to her feet and the two of them surveyed the damage to this once lovely restaurant: vomit, blood, gonorrhea goblins, god knows what else.

The barmaid lowered the shotgun and tearfully said, “The board of health is going to kill me for this…if not them…then that damn Vemola family. Bunch of do-nothing celebrities think they own everything. Famous for being famous and rich enough to sue our asses off…what have I done?”

Lara hugged the barmaid and said, “I’ll bet you anything those other Vemola jerks aren’t as diseased as their bastard son was. I’ll bet they’re just a bunch of posh snobs.”

“So what? That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, but I think it does…” Lara broke her embrace and smiled at the barmaid. “If they can’t handle their own bastard son…what makes you think they’re going to be able to handle a little…arachnomancy?!” Lara punctuated her sentence with a wink. “They can take us to court all the want. They can bend the legal system to their wills. But they wouldn’t last five seconds on a giant spider web without having a heart attack. Trust me, babe, there’s more where that came from!”

Everybody Knows Your Name

VERSE 1

Caught in a spider web of lies and rumors

Cut that shit out like an overgrown tumor

The harder you fight, the stronger they come

It’s a raging epidemic of sheeple so dumb

There is no escape from the worldwide prison

That thrives and survives on political schisms

You can run for your life or for your own death

Either way, you’re face-down like the rest

CHORUS

Everybody knows your name

Everybody spreads your shame

Everybody plays mind games

Everybody kills your fame

Everybody get down!

VERSE 2

You’ve got your own pornographic cinema

Gone are the days of being a private citizen

Gone are the days of endless wealth

Gone are the days of your mental health

Anxiety closes in on your cracking mind

Depression isn’t too goddamn far behind

Schizophrenia talks to you all hours of the day

A broken soul is the price you shall pay

CHORUS

Everybody knows your name

Everybody spreads your shame

Everybody plays mind games

Everybody kills your fame

Everybody get down!

BRIDGE

I know it isn’t fair

As you rip out your hair

As you fall down the stairs

As nobody seems to care

VERSE 3

No comeback tour on this year’s calendar

No epic fanfare of any such caliber

No open arms to give you a warm hug

No bottles of beer to sloppily chug

Just you and your thoughts to keep you awake

Doesn’t matter how much Xanax you take

Dead in the water, dead in your bed

Dead to the world, dead in your head

EXTENDED CHORUS

Everybody knows your name

Everybody spreads your shame

Everybody plays mind games

Everybody kills your fame

Everybody wants your bounty

Everybody storms your county

Everybody fires their rounds

Drops your corpse to the ground

Everybody get down!

Goodbye WWE

***GOODBYE WWE***

I’ve been watching WWE television since 1991 with a brief vacation from the product during the Attitude Era. I’m sorry to say that now I’ll be taking a permanent vacation from the product here in 2018. I tried to hold on. I tried to see the silver linings. I tried to remain faithful purely out of habit and hope. But Raw and Smackdown have gotten so unbearable to watch that I just can’t do it anymore. I don’t care about the wrestlers as characters, the ones I do care about are being made into walking punch lines, and all of this under a three hour and two hour show respectively just makes watching WWE a miserable experience.

That’s not to say that I’m abandoning wrestling completely. This is the same form of entertainment that inspired me to write a novella called Occupy Wrestling, which isn’t doing so well in terms of sales or ratings, but it’s still my baby and I love it. There are certainly other wrestling shows outside of WWE. New Japan Pro-Wrestling constantly gets praised by hardcore fans, but the one promotion I really want to start watching is Lucha Underground, which is presented in the form of a dark fantasy serial drama rather than a pure wrestling show. I want some dark magic in my wrestling, damn it! I want necromancy! I want creatures! I want death (fictional, of course)! And the best part about this? Lucha Underground is on Netflix and I can binge watch it anytime I want. All I have to do is figure out how my brother’s TV works, because his is the only one that has Netflix access.

You won’t get necromancy in WWE. You know what you’ll get? Toilet humor. Unfunny kid jokes. Terrible storytelling. Lackluster pay-per-views. NXT call-ups who fail on the main roster. The list goes on and on until the end of time. I’m not even going to get into Most Disgusting Promotional Tactics this year, because those award nominations are peanuts compared to a boring product. I kept watching throughout the years because I hoped things would change and eventually get better. I’m still waiting for that change. I’m still waiting for Vince McMahon to step down and relinquish control to someone else. Nope. Not happening. I’ve waited too long and now it’s all over.

So what do I do now that WWE Raw and Smackdown are no longer going to play on my TV? I’ve already mentioned the possibilities of watching New Japan and Lucha Underground. But what about non-wrestling shows that I’ve missed out on over the years? James’s TV is capable of digging up those old shows and I can watch them anytime I want. I could finally watch “A Room With No View” from Millennium and cry my eyeballs dry while wanting to heal Landon Bryce. I could binge watch Outlander and cry even harder when Jamie Fraser gets raped at Wentworth Prison by Captain John Randall. I could watch Gilmore Girls and cry happy tears instead of sad ones. I could watch Dragon Ball Super and take back my anime fan card. I could watch Game of Thrones and bypass the slow-paced books altogether. Or I could cry my ass off once again watching a dark comedy show known as BoJack Horseman. Goddamn, that’s a lot of crying! Could my 2007 record be broken by one of these shows?

As long as I’m looking for hobbies outside of writing, reading, and fucking around on my computer, what else could I do to keep my brain from sinking into a depression? I could play the keyboard and get my musical magic working again. I could play videogames with my brother even though noobs are shunned by the gaming community. I could do some more photography, but with different subjects. I could carve things out of my five million soap bars. I could make plans to travel the world even though plane rides are a literal pain in the ass. So many possibilities, all of which could keep me entertained long enough to avoid overeating out of boredom. Yes, eating out of boredom is a real thing and it’s one of the reasons I’m still overweight.

Shit, man, there are a lot of things I could be doing that are better than watching WWE. I could shove a cactus up my ass. I could have my cat Piper perform a lobotomy on me with her claws. I could jam a screwdriver up my dickhole. I could listen to “Love Is Blue” by Paul Mauriat over and over again while having a cute girl tell me how much she loves my mediocrity, although that’s not fair to Paul Mauriat since that’s actually a relaxing song. I could do Tope Suicidas down the staircase, to reference wrestling once again. I could perform a circumcision on myself with a steak knife. I know I’m exercising my hyperbole muscles when I say these torturous things are better than watching WWE, but certain podcasters like Jason Solomon and Greg Morgan would actually agree with me if they read this.

I’m only one and a half pages into this rant and already I feel as though a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Goddamn, that was liberating! I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain! Or in this case, if you feel like dying, turn off WWE Raw!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER RELOADED***

I figured these blogs would be a good opportunity to track my progress on Beautiful Monster since I can’t post the chapters online. I’ll go ahead and say that the prologue is finally written and I have twenty-seven more chapters to write, including an epilogue. I like the fact that I could stretch Windham’s introspection out into 1,500 words, but I fear he’s still an emo kid of sorts. I’ll try to tone that shit down in the oncoming chapters. Chapter one is where Windham will get captured and taken to Shelly’s bedroom for sex slavery. Windham can bypass the dungeon altogether, because Shelly is head over heels in love with him. Sound familiar?

***CONCERT QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“I asked myself the question. I wrestled with myself. Should I put this out there? Should I put this out there? Should I put this out there? Are people going to embrace it or are people going to stab me in the fucking heart? And I said fuck it, I trust them. I’m putting it out there. And if it happened to me, it probably happened to someone else. Hopefully, this song will help anybody that this has happened to. I want you to know that you’re never alone. This is a song called Hush.”

-Chad Gray, lead singer from Hellyeah-

***POST-SCRIPT***

In case you follow my posts about concerts and are curious, no, I haven’t been to a Hellyeah show before and I might not get the chance now that Vinnie Paul Abbot is dead. That makes me sad. Who’s cutting onions around here? I’m not crying, you’re crying! I’m not watching Outlander, you are! I’m not watching A Room with No View, okay, you get the point by now. Rest in peace, Vinnie Paul.