Do It For Her

When everything in the world seems to hurt

Just remember that you’re doing this for her

Every hour you work for draconian wages

Is so that she can live beyond young ages

Every sleepless night marked with baggy eyes

Is so that she doesn’t have to grow up to cry

Is it worth the pain? Would you do it all again?

Damn right you would, my hardworking friend

Some things are more important than agony

To say otherwise is the highest form of blasphemy

The future grows darker every single day

Even in dystopia, she needs sunshine rays

Should experience happiness while she’s alive

The world is there for your daughter to thrive

She can be a dreamer, really anything she wants

In spite of politicians who throw their taunts

In spite of billionaires who don’t want to share

In spite of bullies who don’t seem to care

While everything else may feel like a blur

Never forget that you’re doing this for her

"The Savior's Champion" by Jenna Moreci

BOOK TITLE: The Savior’s Champion

AUTHOR: Jenna Moreci

YEAR: 2018

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Dark Fantasy

GRADE: Extra Credit

In a medieval tournament to crown The Savior’s husband, twenty men must venture through trap-infested tunnels, complete blood-curdling challenges, and even fight each other to the death until one man is left standing. Muscle-bound mercenaries, arrogant royals, and imaginative artists are among these twenty competitors. Tobias Kaya, a sugar mill worker and former painter, only wants to be a part of this tournament so that he can earn enough money for his impoverished family and handicapped sister. He gives less than a damn about The Savior and instead forms a secretive romance with a healer girl named Leila. Their relationship could lead to charges of blasphemy and possibly execution. After all the violence and trauma the tournament has to offer, Tobias’s love for Leila is the most real thing to him.

I must say, it has been years since a book hit me so hard in the feels that I thought I’d fall to pieces right then and there. Every emotion Tobias went through in this heinous tournament, I felt a hundred fold. The trauma of his friends being savagely murdered, the heartbreak of his arguments with Leila, the warm fuzziness of their passionate loving moments, the tears that fell down both of their cheeks, they all solidified what would become my Tobias-Bias. I connected with his anger, sadness, and passion like no other character. I came very close to crying myself at times, but if I won’t reveal the events that made me do so, because that would unveil too many spoilers. As a reader, you want Tobias to succeed and be happy despite all the misery and bloodshed the tournament brings.

And then you have characters in this story who deserve all the venomous hate you’ve got bottled up in your heart. The Sovereign, Brontes, will get under your skin quicker than a jagged dagger with his humiliating and loathsome treatment of Tobias. The Sovereign’s favorite muscle-bound competitors, Kaleo, Drake, and Antaeus, will have you wishing over and over again for somebody to throw them screaming form a helicopter. And Flynn? Well, he comes off as a harmless arrogant jerk at first, but as the story progresses, you’ll want to strap him to a chair and beat him with hammers. This isn’t just mild annoyance you’ll have with the villains of the story. You’ll be seething with rage at them. You’ll see red 24/7. You’ll drool like a rabid wolverine. You’ll wish you could kill them yourself. These kinds of villains are the most effective and I commend Jenna Moreci for making me want to punch them endlessly in the face.

What else could be said about this wonderfully-crafted piece of fiction? The traps in the underground tunnels are creatively put together, that’s for sure. The spider trap reminded me of the tarantula scene from Something Wicked This Way Comes. The fanged pigs served as the perfect form of mockery, which will make you want to strangle the Sovereign even more. And when Tobias goes through these blood-spraying traps, you’ll feel those too along with his colorful palette of emotions. These are the kinds of traps that would make the creators of the Saw franchise jealous. Jenna Moreci left no stone unturned with these obstacles and for that she should be commended.

The Savior’s Champion is bloody. It is heartbreaking. It is tearful. It is well-written. But most of all, it’s proof that independently published authors are not to be laughed at. Other self-published authors such as myself should look up to Jenna Moreci as a beacon of hope and a role model for what a professional author should be. I’m so confident in her abilities as an author that I wouldn’t doubt the idea of a movie deal coming her way soon. “The Savior’s Champion. Rated R. Starts Friday at a theater near you.” An extra credit grade will go to this beautifully-crafted novel that hit me in the feels harder than any one of Kaleo’s right hooks. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to look for someone to give me a hug. I need one!

Incelbordination, Chapter 2

The morning sun blasted through Oswald’s window like a Martian heat ray. His eyes squinted tightly as he struggled to pull himself out of bed for English class. Valerie Sand was a cute teacher and Nikita Johnson was sweet to a fault, but neither of them were worth washing the smell of marijuana out of his hair and beard. Oswald was the most invisible person in that room most of the time, so he supposed it didn’t matter anyways. No shower, no dental hygiene, just a child’s trench coat and “Volcanic” by Death Angel to sooth his tired mind.

During the slow and bone-creaking trek to class, all Oswald could think about was Antero Magnus’s perverse words from the night before. According to the dwarf, the only thing he and Antero had in common was that they were both unloved by the world at large due to their physical appearances and social awkwardness. What was Oswald supposed to do, walk around on stilts? How about Dutch cloggers? How about platform disco shoes? Oswald thought about this so much that he almost smacked his head against the glass door leading into his English lecture for the day. Though exhausted and smelly he was, he made it to class on time as he normally did. At least he did something right.

Oswald took his seat in the back of the classroom like he always did and got a bird’s eye view of the other occupants, namely Valerie the teacher and Nikita the student. He loved how Nikita’s long blond hair flowed so freely across her shoulders. He loved Valerie’s striking blue eyes underneath her thick-rimmed glasses (much prettier than Antero’s cyan eyes by a country mile). And because this was spring quarter and the sun was constantly out, there was always Oswald’s favorite outfit combination on any woman: shorts and sandals. The best part about this? Exposing legs and feet wasn’t considered legally indecent. It was like free porn to him.

Though it was hard to take in his two favorite girls’ beauty when anxiety was the dominant emotion. If only Oswald could smoke a ready roll right here and then. Why did class have to be so long and drawn out? Why couldn’t Valerie Sand give back their short stories now? Did she delight in watching stomachs turn into heavy knots? Did she enjoy the collective feeling of throats drying up? Oswald needed to know his grade now, damn it! The lecture was just extracurricular BS since he never spoke up during conversations anyways (too shy and too introverted). He kept glancing at the digital clock and the numbers kept laughing in his face as they moved slowly.

An hour later and all was right with the world again. The lackluster lecture was over and Valerie began passing back assignments with red ink adorning the pages. Some pages had more of it than others and Oswald hoped and prayed his wasn’t drooling with it like a bloody wound. As students (Nikita included) received their papers back, they exited the classroom with a little more pep in their step. And wouldn’t you know it, Oswald received his last. Scrambling through the pages to see what his grade was, his world went blacker than Antero’s Matrix pills.

There it was in cherry red ink staring him in the face like a pair of angry eyes: a C- for his shy guy romance story. Oswald didn’t even bother reading the critiques. All he saw was the third letter of the alphabet glaring at him, mocking him, laughing at him, daring him to crack under pressure and cry like a bitch. That wasn’t a minus sign next to the C; that was a middle finger. Or a gun barrel, which would have looked completely natural in the dwarf’s slack-jawed mouth.

“Mr. Crow?” said Valerie. No response. “Mr. Crow?” she said again. “Oswald!” That last spark finally jolted the dwarf awake from his living educational nightmare. Adjusting her glasses, the teacher kindly said, “Class is over. You’re free to go.”

Not knowing what the hell to say, Oswald hopped out of his seat and trudged towards the glass door, tossing his paper in the garbage on the way there.

“What are you doing?!” asked Valerie before fishing the paper out of the receptacle. Dusting the corn chip dust off of it, she said, “No, no, no, no, no! You’re not throwing this away. You’ve got notes here that you need to read. That’s how you improve in my class: by accepting criticism gracefully.” No response from Oswald, just a painful glare. “Look, I know you’re frustrated and all, but if you want to put an end to the frustration, you have to improve your writing. This C- isn’t going to go away just because you’re not happy about it. I’d be upset too, but throwing away your homework isn’t the answer.”

She attempted to hand the paper back to Oswald, but the dwarf shook his head and tried to leave once again, only to have a hand on his shoulder stop him from doing so. “Oswald, please just take the paper.”

After a while of hesitation, the dwarf snatched the paper and skimmed over the critiques. He could have sworn he edited the hell out of this story before handing it in. But the one comment staring him dead in the eye tensed his muscles: the implication that he didn’t have enough experience in the subject of romance to write a story about it. “Thanks for reminding me, Valerie. I wasn’t sure I would have remembered that otherwise.”

“Hey! Look at me!” retorted Valerie. “That’s basic storytelling, Mr. Crow: if you’re going to write about something, you have to know what you’re talking about. If you don’t have firsthand experience with the subject, you should at least research it. A simple trip to Google would have raised this grade to your liking.”

“I don’t drink, but that doesn’t mean I can’t spot a drunk when I see one.”

“Oh please, I’ve heard that excuse time and time again, Mr. Crow. Even the best authors have to do research every now and then. And just so there’s no confusion, when you’re writing sex scenes, Porn Hub doesn’t count as research.”

Oswald tossed his paper to the ground like the proverbial gauntlet and said, “Oh, so you’re a comedian now? You think my loneliness is fucking hilarious? You want to talk about having experience, that’s it, man. They don’t get more experienced than me when it comes to being fucked off.”

Valerie knelt down and cupped her student’s upper arms in her hands. “Listen to me…I don’t like the way you’re talking to me right now. You made a few mistakes in this paper and you have to pay for them. I’m not going to give you straight A’s just because you can’t take a little criticism. The purpose of college isn’t to feed your ego. It’s to help you grow into a better person. You have the syllabus from this class handy somewhere, I’m sure. I grade my students based not on their overall ability, but on their willingness to improve. Right now, you think you’re the hottest thing since Stephen King. You need to bring it down a notch.”

No response from Oswald, just his chin tucked to his chest. Valerie said, “You can be angry all you want and part of me doesn’t blame you for it. But the way you’re talking to me right now? You’re giving me the impression that you’re owed something in life. You think you’re owed A+’s. You think you’re owed compliments. I bet you even think you’re owed romance.”

That last comment caused Oswald to shrug his shoulders out of Valerie’s grasp. “You know what? Give me the paper. Give me the goddamn paper. If I stuff it in my backpack, will that make you happy?”

Handing it back, the teacher said, “That depends. Are you going to actually read the comments and take them to heart or are you just going to take it to the incinerator and turn all of your hard work to ashes? Yeah, I said it: you worked hard on that paper; nobody’s doubting that. I’m not saying you’re lazy. I’m saying your hard work is misguided. You need to listen to me. You need to listen to your fellow students. The knock on your romantic skills isn’t that you have scraggly hair or are three feet tall. It’s that you push everybody away. That’s the vibe I got from your main character. Please, Oswald…listen to reason.”

Oswald reluctantly stuffed the essay in his backpack and tried once again to head out the door. “Just one more thing,” Valerie called out to him. “It would help your future grades handsomely if you spoke up in class discussions rather than stare at my legs and feet.”

The dwarf’s face glowed bright red as he slowly closed the glass door behind him. He frantically checked down at his crotch to see if he had an involuntary boner. Though he didn’t, he pulled his trench coat over his body anyways and speed walked as far away from the classroom as he could. Speed walking turned into jogging. Jogging turned into running. He needed a safe space from this never-ending embarrassment, which should have been a no-brainer considering colleges these days were full of them.

The gym! That was it! He could just throw a few punches at the sand bag for an hour or so. Heh, sand bag. Valerie’s last name was Sand. How poetically appropriate. At least Oswald’s boxing punches couldn’t be marked with a C-. For a little guy, he sure had dynamite in his fists. He had to, especially if his old high school bully Wacey Judge was anywhere nearby.

Things That Scare Me

***THINGS THAT SCARE ME***

It seems as though you can’t go anywhere on the internet without seeing inspirational memes telling you to “do what scares you”. I’m not talking about overcoming phobias like spiders and snakes. I’m not talking about watching the scene in Tales From the Hood where they stick straws up Crazy K’s nose. I’m not even talking about the idea of being flirted with by the demon chick Lucy Butler from Millennium. I’m talking about bigger fears than that. I’m talking about the little things in life that everyone else takes for granted. Since I spent most of my day zombie-walking around and watching WWE Raw, I figured I’d salvage the early dark of morning by writing a blog entry about what scares me more than having a bucket of tarantulas poured over my head. Starting with…

***MARKETING MY BOOKS***

Since I love to write so much, it should stand to reason that I’d want to commit to this career full time, which entails marketing the shit out of my books. But to hear other authors describe how much they have to do, you’d swear they were having a 24/7 root canal. I must confess that I’m only dimly aware of what marketers go through on a day-to-day basis. Being social media savvy, dealing with trolls, giving interviews, and being away from your family are only some of the responsibilities I’ve heard. At least two of those things scare me more than the rest, and I don’t even know what the other steps are. They say “treat this like a real job”. Well, I’ve had a writing job before and it lasted less than a full day. During that internet job, I was so fucking stressed out that I snapped at my family members while wrapping my head around how to write one stupid article about my Coby MP3 player. So many rules…so much shattered creativity…Is it any wonder that I went postal? What if the actual job of marketing makes me even angrier with the people I love? What if it makes me angry at total strangers? Ugh…

***SCHIZOPHRENIC ATTACKS***

Speaking of stress, have you ever wondered why I don’t write blog entries about my schizophrenia anymore? It’s because from 2015 on, I’ve been living a stress-free life. The less stress a schizophrenic has, the less likely he is to experience hallucinations. Being stress-free is important no matter what Penn & Teller say on Showtime. It’s part of the reason why schizophrenics qualify for social security. If they had stressful employment, they’d fall to pieces within seconds. It’s not about being a “snowflake”. It’s biology. It’s psychology. It’s natural fucking brain chemistry. If you feel uncomfortable at the idea of your tax dollars paying for a schizophrenic’s living expenses, maybe YOU’RE the one who needs to have your head examined. When a schizophrenic experiences hallucinations, you don’t know when those hallucinations are going away. Sometimes they go on for days. Sometimes they go on for weeks. Months. Half a year. There’s no timetable for recovery. And in case you’ve ever wondered why I write so many angry songs and stories, it’s because schizophrenics are easily irritated. I throw screaming fits whenever the phone rings or someone’s knocking at the door. Brain chemistry, people.

***LEAVING MY COMFORT ZONE***

They say the comfort zone is a beautiful place, but nothing ever grows there. So what happens when you venture outside the comfort zone and you fall on your ass? Do you still grow? Was the lesson worth the pain? Will the hallucinations come more frequently because of your colossal failure? Is coasting the answer? I asked an old college friend about this and her advice was to leave my comfort zone a little bit at a time. Don’t rush into making big decisions. Take time t think about it and edge slowly towards the outer reaches. While that sounds like great advice to a healthy-minded person, I on the other hand have no idea what slowly testing the waters would entail. Okay, so I leave my comfort zone and market my books. Then what? Do I join one new social media site at a time? Do I film one You Tube video and allow it to be complete shit? What is it? Maybe if I had a mentor to show me the way…

***TALKING TO BEAUTIFUL WOMEN***

As I write this next paragraph, I’m going to try my best not to sound like a desperate creep. That’s not who I am. In fact, the reason I stay away from women to begin with is because I DON’T like making them feel uncomfortable. Even saying hi to someone might be enough to make them turn the other way. Maybe it’s my lack of social skills. Maybe it’s my looks. Maybe it’s my economic status. But whatever it is, I’m pretty sure it’s not what women want. Having my actions rejected in a harsh manner would hurt much more than staying in the shadows and being my shy self. It might even result in a…I don’t know….schizophrenic attack! (Gasp) It’s true! I could be so embarrassed and humiliated at rejection that my hallucinations laugh at me for three months straight. Good god almighty…

***PUBLIC SPEAKING***

I mentioned shooting You Tube videos earlier in this blog. Well, that would mean having an audience. Even though the audience isn’t right there in front of me, knowing the judging eyes are watching me is frightening to me. Sometimes when I’d give presentations in school or college, I’d stumble over my words because I was too fucking nervous. Well, I think I’ve come up with a nice gimmick that will set the record straight. Before any public presentation, I will hold out my hand, place two Xanax tablets in them, say to my audience, “You’re making me do this!”, and then swallow them with Perrier. This is what it takes for me to feel comfortable around these people. It’s about time they feel the way that I feel every time I get up there. Yeah!

***CRYING IN FRONT OF PEOPLE***

If you’ve read my first draft novel Beautiful Monster or Jenna Moreci’s fully-published book The Savior’s Champion, you know how powerful of a gesture it is to be able to show weakness in front of another person. It’s a sign of trust. It’s a sign of love. But being vulnerable in front of others is yet another thing that scares me. What if after the crying spell is over they want to talk about the incident some more? What if during these new conversations…you guessed it, a schizophrenic attack happens? Talking about bad shit doesn’t make a schizophrenic feel better. It makes him feel worse. I haven’t cried since 2007. Don’t make me break my record. Please?

***BEING AROUND AGGRESSIVE PEOPLE***

When I say aggressive people, I don’t mean psychopaths who wield knives and punch people in the face. I’m talking about socially aggressive people. The loud ones. The crazy ones. The ones who invade your space and think nothing of it (even if they’re trying to be “friendly”). These people annoy me. They also scare me. I had to sit next to a drunken moron at Pain in the Grass 2016 and he fit this bill to a fault. I was secretly hoping security would arrest him for public intoxication, but I’m not aware of his fate at this moment. And then there was a guy who walked into Quizno’s bragging loudly and vulgarly about how he was going to get a sandwich with all these certain trimmings on it after a hard day of work. Shut the fuck up! Take your sandwich and fuck off! And don’t get me started on the drunken Seahawks fans I had to ride a night train with in 2008. I could have strangled every last one of them with my massive hands. Lesson of the day: be humble or fuck off!

***TRAVELING***

Ever since I took a “vacation” in 2009 to Pennsylvania, I’ve had this fear of traveling because of all the things that could go wrong. What if my airplane ride has a drunken lunatic or a loud baby onboard? What if I forget my medicine? What if I have to sit for six hours straight and have a painful ass and spine afterwards? As much as I love my international friends, there’s no way I’m getting on an airplane for god knows how long just to see them. There better be soft beds and soundproof booths on that flight or there’s no deal. Traveling wouldn’t be so bad if I could just teleport from place to place, but that’ll never happen, because we’re too busy building our own Space Force. Ugh….

***CONCLUSION***

So basically what all of these fears boil down to is that I need to take good care of my schizophrenic/autistic brain. I don’t drink caffeine. I don’t drink alcohol. I don’t do drugs. And most importantly, I don’t do stressful shit that could send me down a dark path. Is it wrong? Is it right? Does it even matter? Is coasting the answer? Am I eventually going to have to be forced into making these big decisions in my life? I could be screaming into the abyss here, but…I’m going to keep asking these questions for as long as I have to. I’m Garrison Kelly and…fuck it.

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Sick and tired of living with this grief. Done with all the sorrow and the pain. Asphyxiated, can no longer breathe. Anesthetized until I’ve gone insane. So carry all this baggage when you leave. Swallow all those bitter pills you take. Blame it on the world, blame it on me. Tolerated too much of your game. A change of weather comes around too much. A sign of a deeper cut. Lying dormant on a bed of nails. Without warning, violently erupt. So bleed the molten river from my veins. Collapse upon myself, disintegrate. Shame upon the world and shame on me. Hate the player, but don’t hate the game. So condescend and patronize my lead. Persecute the innocent again. Rain down on the world and rain on me. Ticking like a bomb that’s got your name. Temperamental, unpredictable. The sky turns black when I exhale.”

-Death Angel singing “Volcanic”-

Tap Out Like a Bitch

OPENING LINE

Shinbone to the dome when your mama ain’t home!

VERSE 1

I see you standing across from me

A flying knee to put you to sleep

A chokehold to cut you so deep

No more breaths, your soul flies free

It’s been coming for so damn long

Think being a bully makes you strong?

Kick you hard right in the dong

Make you sing a soprano song

CHORUS

Tap out like a bitch! X2

VERSE 2

Giving black belts to pricks like you

Setting the bar lower than your shoes

Sell your medal for a buck and some change

Buy one Band-Aid for your sham pain

I’ve got nothing to prove, Mr. UFC

I’m an open book, yeah, you know me

You’re the one with the big façade

Telling everybody you’re a kind of god

CHORUS

Tap out like a bitch! X4

BRIDGE

Take the loser’s purse before it gets worse

Walk the exit ramp and take in the laughs

Do your interviews, make the world snooze

What’s your latest and greatest excuse?

EXTENDED CHORUS

Tap out like a bitch!

Feel every little stitch!

Go the fuck to sleep!

Watch your kids weep!

Tap out like a bitch!

Scream your highest pitch!

Undisputed, my ass!

Putting you on blast!

Tap! Out! Like! A! Bitch!

Incelbordination, Chapter 1

Oswald Crow gazed upon the sea of slow-dancing couples with moisture in his eyes, tension in his muscles, and heaviness in his heart. What he wouldn’t give to be one of those lucky motherfuckers. Just a slight glance from a beautiful woman would have set him free. But the entire student body seemed determined to stay as far away from him as possible. Was it his shaggy black hair and scraggly beard? Was it his three-foot tall stature? Was it the way he dressed in his black trench coat? Or was he just destined to be a loser this whole time? God was laughing at him. The universe conspired against him. The world buried him six feet under. Despite all of this, all he could do was sigh in depression.

“What’s the point?” he said to nobody in particular. Oswald hopped off the couch in the far corner of the gym and stuffed his hands in his pockets, stomping his way toward the exit. He pantomimed kicking at a stone on his way out the door and even that piece of odd behavior didn’t grab anybody’s attention. Dwarf body aside, Oswald never felt so small and encaged.

Ah, finally some fresh night air. The gym doors could have done a better job of muffling the sounds of “When I See You Smile”, though. Not a soul in sight, just Oswald and his sorrowful thoughts as he plopped down on the sidewalk with his fist against his chin. He shook his head and once again asked, “What’s the point?” The answer was easy: there was no point in him being here anymore. He hadn’t the spine or testicles to ask a woman to dance with him, because rejection was more painful than loneliness. It always had been and it always would be.

He could have talked to a counselor. He could have confided in a best friend (which he had none). But instead he pulled a marijuana roll out of his trench coat and smiled for the first time this evening. The smile faded when he frisked himself in search of his lighter. “Goddamn it, where the fuck did I put it?” The longer he went without it, the more frantically he searched for it, even taking off his coat and shaking it out.

“Need a light?” said a startling baritone voice, nearly causing Oswald to jump out of his skin. The gentleman also wore a black trench coat a la The Matrix, complete with sunglasses (at nighttime?) and a bald head like Morpheus, sans black skin. If he was any whiter, he’d be clear.

“What are you, a cop? You going to turn me in for having this? I have a prescription for it, you know,” said Oswald.

The gentleman chuckled, “Don’t be silly, I wouldn’t dream of ratting you out. I love a good roll of green as much as the next guy. Here, let me light that for you.” He struck a match and kneeled down to light Oswald’s marijuana.

The dwarf puffed away until the fresh night air became dense with sweet cannabis smoke. “Thanks,” he said before relaxing on the sidewalk again.

“Don’t mention it,” said the stranger, who parked his ass right next to him and gazed around at nothing in particular. The silence between them grew tense until he said, “Not a good night, I take it.”

“To say the least,” said Oswald as he laid back on the concrete peering at the stars above. Those little pinholes in the dark looked lovelier than intended, as did the full moon. “Goddamn, this is some powerful shit.”

“I should get a prescription for that too,” said the stranger. “It’s funny how alcohol is called liquid courage, yet the only thing it encouraged anybody to do was smash a car against a tree. Meanwhile, people get locked up for having weed around the house. Makes about as much sense as any chick in that gym turning down Supreme Gentlemen like us.”

“Uh-huh…wait a minute…” Oswald sat up and rubbed the glaze out of his eyes. “Did you just call us…Supreme Gentlemen?”

“Of course I did. What else would we be? I’ll bet if you ask that question to any of the Chads and Stacys in there, you’ll probably get a much more derogatory answer.”

“…Ch…Chads and Stacys?”

“Oh yeah, that building’s loaded with them.” The stranger snatched the roll out of Oswald’s hands and puffed it a few times before handing it back. The little person’s eyes widened at the brazen gesture. “Oh, excuse me, where are my manners? I never formally introduced myself, did I. Here you go, bud.”

Oswald took a business card out of the stranger’s hand and read it out loud. “Antero Magnus…that’s an interesting name...Leader of….” The dwarf gave him an incredulous look before reading, “Incelbordination, a Support Group for Involuntary Celibates.” The wide-eyed stare returned as he handed Antero his card back. “What…the…actual…fuck?!”

“I know, right? It’s hard to believe anybody out there actually wants to support us. But it’s true: sometimes we need to talk about our feelings and nobody’s there to listen. Every heartbreak…every downfall…every swallow of the black pill…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa…the…black pill?”

Taking his sunglasses off to reveal horrifying cyan eyes, Antero leaned in and said, “Oh yes, my little friend. We don’t take blue pills or red pills. We take black pills. We see the world for what it really is: an ugly hellhole. You know it, I know it, and every Supreme Gentleman who’s ever been picked on knows it too. You smoke that shit for a reason and it’s not because you want the stars and the moon to look prettier. You’re feeling the sadness. You’re feeling the hurt. Sometimes those Stacys like to crush your heart right underneath their five hundred dollar high heels.”

If Oswald’s eyes could get any wider, they’d pop out of his skull. The little man shook his head and asked, “Who the fuck talks like that?! You’re insane!”

Antero belted, “Insane?! Hah! That’s blue pill talk to me. Paul Mauriat was a fucking liar. Love ain’t blue. It ain’t red either. It’s black, baby. You’re not going to find the truth smoking that roll all night long, buddy. You’re not going to find love in a building full of prudes either. Join Incelbordination. You’re perfect for us. You’re brilliant, you’re thoughtful, and you can use those things to combat the injustices against us. You have what it takes to affect change in this world. Take the black pill. Take it!”

Taking another puff of Mary-Jane and ignoring Antero’s remarks about it not helping, Oswald said, “Well, Antero Magnus, if that is your real fucking name…as long as we’re ripping off The Matrix to make points about women owing us everything…I’ve got a Matrix reference for you right now. How about…I give you the finger…and you never talk to me again. I don’t need this Gestapo crap. I’d ask for a phone call right now, but I ain’t got nobody to call…because the only other person who will listen to me is the leader of Incel-Abortion, or whatever it’s called.”

The dwarf got up to leave when Antero called out, “You’re making a big mistake, Oswald!”

The marijuana roll dropped from Oswald’s lips as he slowly turned around and asked, “How did you know my name? I didn’t give that shit to you!”

Antero shook his head and chuckled, “Man, you’ve really got to stop leaving your personal information on Face Book. You think you’re invisible? Bitch, I can see you from miles away with a face like that! But in all seriousness, I do think you’d be a perfect fit for us. You’re unloved and distrusted. I bet that shit eats you up inside. If you ever change your mind, remember: I’ve got an open door policy when it comes to my Supreme Gentlemen.”

Pointing an accusatory finger at Antero, Oswald demanded, “Don’t ever call me a Supreme Gentleman again. That’s fucking creepy. And while you’re at it, don’t stalk me on Face Book again either. That’s double creepy. I’m not like you, Antero. I’m a dying breed!”

Antero’s chuckles grew more defined as he doubled over and clapped his hands. Despite the marijuana kicking in only minutes ago, Oswald could feel his heart thump like a bass drum in his chest. He turned around and ran as fast as his stubby legs could take him, though no distance could ever drown out Antero’s villainous laughter.

He fished in his trench coat and pulled out his MP3 player and headsets. Maybe some good old fashioned heavy metal would shut Antero up. Oswald struggled to keep the headsets on as he hurriedly scrolled through his songs to see what was best. “Strength Beyond Strength” by Pantera always got the job done. Nothing quite as entrancing as listening to Phil Anselmo scream his ass off about legalizing weed. Oswald blasted the volume up to maximum levels and he could still hear Antero laughing in the background despite the distance he had gained since then.

The heavy metal tune carried Oswald through his anxiety-induced workout and landed him into the recesses of the forest, his dorm building not too far away. He stopped running and leaned palm first against an oak tree, huffing and puffing like he had just had a noose wrapped around his neck. He coughed some of the marijuana out of his lungs and wheezed some more.

“What the fuck have I gotten myself into?” he wondered in between heavy breaths and burning lungs. “No woman is worth this much bullshit.” His legs wobbly and sore, he trudged back to his dorm building and decided enough was enough for the evening. Although, it was never easy to close his eyes to sleep when they were red and puffy. “Too much weed…too much fucking weed…love ain’t black, Antero…love is green!”

RBG

MOVIE TITLE: RBG

DIRECTORS: Betsy West and Julie Cohen

YEAR: 2018

GENRE: Documentary

RATING: PG for language and politics

GRADE: Extra Credit

RBG documents the multi-decade career of women’s rights lawyer and Supreme Court justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg. Growing up as a second class citizen by virtue of her gender, she knew right away what she wanted to fight for when she tried her cases. Her legacy laid the groundwork for equal pay, equal opportunities, and equal treatment between men and women. Though we still have a long way to go as a society in terms of how women are treated, Ruth Bader Ginsberg will always be seen as someone who got the ball rolling in the right direction. Even today in her old age, she remains a pop culture icon among liberals, women, and youngsters, even being jokingly called The Notorious RBG, a parody of hip-hop artist Notorious BIG.

Ruth’s quiet and introverted nature was a focal point throughout the movie and makes her come off as likable and trustworthy even among her political opponents. She doesn’t believe in raising her voice or being nasty when arguing a case. As a matter of fact, yelling at somebody to win an argument will always turn the other person off rather than bring them in. If you need further proof of Ruth’s diplomatic approach, she was close friends with Antonin Scalia, a Supreme Court justice and rightwing advocate. If those two clashing personalities can get along, imagine what other kinds of barriers can be broken among our people. Breaking down social barriers is important in Trump’s America due to how divided and venomous we as a society have become. Watching Ruth Bader Ginsberg’s peaceful interactions among her opponents is inspiring to watch and makes me believe in hope all over again.

As a matter of fact, any political documentary that makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside will always earn an extra credit grade from me. That’s the kind of feeling we need in today’s world. It’s easy to feel angry and disenfranchised with everything going on and I’m not immune to any of that myself. Stripping you of your hope and your happiness is exactly what the extremists want. When you lose sight of what’s important in life, you become bitter. Bitter words will never bring us together no matter how loudly we yell. Even though I’m a proud liberal, I wouldn’t trade any of my conservative friends for the world. Some of them have been there for me during the darkest times of my life and that’s a debt I could never repay. Ruth Bader Ginsberg will never raise her voice, but she will fight for everything the world needs. That alone makes her a role model we can all be proud of. In fact, some her fans are so proud that they got T-shirts, coffee mugs, and even tattoos in dedication to her. Tattoos? Really?

Back in February of 2018, I saw a one-man show depicting the life and legacy of Thurgood Marshall, another Supreme Court justice who fought for equality, but among races. Ruth Bader Ginsberg showed the same heart and dedication when she built her legacy around gender equality. These two performances have a lot in common, particularly in the way they show how powerful a good debating strategy can be. In their cases, the lawyers were so influential that they became Supreme Court judges. It’s not a role to be taken lightly. It can be the difference between living in a civilized society and throwing everything back to the Dark Ages. Sometimes it feels like we’re living in the Dark Ages all over again, which is why it’s so important never to give up hope or give up the fight for the common good.

Watching this documentary will empower you to levels you’ve never imagined. It’s a wakeup call for everybody involved whether they want to be woken up or not. As I’ve stated earlier in this review, I’m giving the documentary an extra credit grade for being an empowering life lesson without preaching to the choir. It’s not just a pat-on-the-back for ninety minutes. It’s something we could all use at least once in our life.

Explaining Stories: Carlos vs. Bryan

***EXPLAINING STORIES: CARLOS VS. BRYAN***

I’ve allowed this topic to float away in the breeze for far too long, yet it’s been rolling around in my head since college. At WWU, I had two different writing teachers who had opposite schools of thought when it came to authors explaining their own work. Carlos Martinez, my first multi-genre writing teacher, was of the belief that it’s okay to explain yourself while Bryan Willis, my dramatic writing professor, was adamantly against it and would discourage students from doing so during critique sessions. Today we’re going to look at both sides of that debate and see which among you is on Team Carlos or Team Bryan. Though there will be disagreements, I promise you this debate won’t be nearly as much of a train wreck as the 2016 US Presidential Debates. But that’s an argument for another day.

If you’re in a critiquing session and you want your beta-readers/editors to know what it is they need to watch out for, you’ll probably want to sign up with Team Carlos. That is information your readers need. It’s your work, so you should have full reign as to what your story is trying to say or do. Your editors can’t give you advice on how to best convey your message if you don’t explain yourself ahead of time. Being a member of Team Carlos also has benefits if your work is unintentionally offensive and you’re trying to do damage control. While it is true that there’s always someone out there who will be pissed off at what you do, it would help those people greatly if you put them at ease with a reasonable explanation. But when you give them that explanation, give them the sensitivity they were looking for this whole time and don’t be condescending.

But if what you want most is for your art to be a democracy, join Team Bryan. Art by its very nature is a subjective field. Everybody sees something different and it’s those many interpretations that give the medium the spotlight it deserves. It sparks debate, just like this blog entry is attempting to do. According to Bryan’s way of thinking, if you tell people what to believe, you’re taking away the creativity you yourself exercise so freely. I think this might be part of the reason why my current beta-reader Ashley Uzzell tells me not to put little disclaimers at the top of my poems. Of course, the other reason why she tells me not to do that is because it’s insulting to the reader’s intelligence if the lyrics are blatantly obvious. It’s like if an author says “green grass”, “red blood”, or “big elephant”. Duh! Remember, kids: show, don’t tell. Don’t tell your audience how to feel about your work. Show them and let them make their own decisions. The last time someone forced his artistic will upon his audience, it was in the movie Pink Floyd the Wall during the music videos for “In the Flesh” and “Run Like Hell”. You don’t want to do that.

So there you have it, folks: both sides of this debate presented in full. Both Carlos and Bryan have good points that should be carefully considered, but ultimately, my own personal loyalties lie with Team Carlos. My biggest reason for that is because I’ve been on the wrong end of offending an audience before and I know what it feels like to be rained down upon with hateful comments. In 2009, I wrote an opinion essay called “Class of ‘13”, which was supposed to be a humorously vulgar look at what life would be like if I became an English teacher. My readers didn’t think it was funny at all and labeled me an ageist (because of my views at the time on teenagers). The argument started with me hurling endless insults at the readers, which to nobody’s surprise escalated their anger even further. Only through explaining my work in a calm and collected manner whilst apologizing did the situation eventually cool off. I’ll be the first to admit that aside from my big gut and chubby cheeks, I don’t have much of a thick skin. Being diplomatic and having the ability to defuse a situation is a huge benefit to being on Team Carlos.

Now don’t get me wrong: just because I favor one teacher’s point of view over the other’s, doesn’t mean they’re right or wrong altogether. Both Carlos and Bryan were easily some of my favorite teachers at Western Washington University. They had everything a student could ask for in a professor: friendly personality, flexible rules, infinite wisdom, and an open door policy when it came to asking for help. I particularly liked Bryan because of how much of an interest he took in one of my theater scenes. He wanted to see more of that story come out, so he gave me alternative assignments from the rest of the class where I would add on to the ongoing narrative through different characters’ points of view. The original story was about a high school student named Kurtis who complained to his girlfriend about a D- he received in his history class. One of the alternative assignments I had was to write a monologue from the teacher’s point of view and the other one was an interaction between the girlfriend and the teacher. These new assignments were a huge ego boost, not that my arrogant ass needed one.

As far as why I liked Carlos so much goes (aside from his views on explaining stories), he was just an all around gentle human being even during moments when the students got under his skin. Even when one student openly admitted to not doing a reading assignment out of blatant laziness, Carlos never raised his voice when he reprimanded that kid. He was also delicate about how constructive criticism was handled amongst our stories. He insisted that we all be nice to each other, because at the end of the day, every author is sensitive towards critiques no matter how much they hide it. Carlos even told us a story about how he got pissed off as a kid when his fellow students told him to cut his lengthy poem down to four lines. Being hurt by critiques (whether they’re friendly or not) is universal and one-hundred percent natural. But the more you surround yourself with people who want you to succeed, the less painful those critiques become. Carlos wanted all of us to succeed and it showed in his friendly and calm attitude.

Not that this is a focal point of the greater debate at hand, but in case you’re curious, I ended up getting an A in Carlos’s class and a B+ in Bryan’s class. And to prove it’s not a focal point, I don’t hold any ill will towards one professor of mine, Katie, who gave me a C in my medieval literature class. She did everything she could to help me whether it was answering my questions or allowing me to visit her office for a one-on-one session. The blame for that C falls squarely on my shoulders since I had a hard time understanding the material. I went into that class thinking it was going to be like reading Dungeons & Dragons campaign, but instead all I got was religious zeal and purple prose, lots of purple prose! They call that period in literature the Dark Ages for a reason. That class was my version of the Dark Ages by virtue of how difficult it was to learn the material (despite having a good teacher).

But enough about me, let’s turn this debate over to you fine internet folks. Are you on Team Carlos (explaining your work) or Team Bryan (allowing your work to speak for itself)? Are there any points on either side of this debate that I’ve unintentionally neglected? Feel free to let me know in the comments section. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain! And to show you my undying loyalty towards Team Carlos, I’m going to explain my signing off phrase. They’re lyrics from the Three Days Grace song “The Mountain”. Not only do I love the hell out of that band, but those lyrics can be surprisingly inspirational to someone who needs encouragement.

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Sailing along the river of time. Adrift on dreams through midnight chimes. Positively frozen crystal waterfalls. The mountain of hope is there to be climbed. The sea of serenity is rightfully mine. Step onto the water knowing what is true. The beat of my heart. The rhythm of love. The earth that’s beneath us. The heavens above. I can hear forever calling out to me. The changes we go through are making me strong. The shelter of friendship is where we belong. Look into the future knowing what we see. The whirlpool of doubt can spin you around. The wave of emotion takes you up, pulls you down. Leaving far behind us sweet young passion spray. And never blame the rainbows for the rain. And learn to forget the memories that caused you pain. The last whispered wish of age is to live it all again. And never blame the rainbows for the rain.”

-The Moody Blues singing “Never Blame the Rainbows For the Rain”-

Double Features

***COLD OPEN***

Before I begin with the body of this blog entry, I want to announce that my current creative project will be editing the shit out of Beautiful Monster and turning it into a clean-cut second draft. I’ve edited the first three chapters so far and really all I needed to do was cut out unnecessary phrases and make Tarja Rikkinen a little less flirty. Once Beautiful Monster officially becomes a second draft, I’m going to take it over to Hollow Hills Publishing for further editing and beta-reading. Hollow Hills is Ashley Uzzell/Marie Krepps’s new business and I plan on being her loudest and proudest customer. Any price I pay for her services will be well worth it. And now onto the main attraction…

***DOUBLE FEATURES***

You know how some movies are really just two short movies fused together? Grind House and Attack of the Five-Foot-Two Women are both shining examples of this. And that got me thinking: could the double feature be pulled off with books too? I’d like to think so. Then again, I’m biased because I tried to do the same thing back in 2014. When I first published Occupy Wrestling, it was originally intended to be part of a double feature that also included Filter Feeder (the most dreadful first draft I have). That overall book was called Brawl-Mart, which is why one of the covers on Good Reads has that title and not Occupy Wrestling exclusively. I have since cut Filter Feeder like the cancer it is and now Occupy Wrestling is just a little bit shy of one-hundred pages. It’s so tiny of a book that the title doesn’t fit on the spine. So tiny. So, so tiny. And now I feel as though I’ve stumbled upon a Viagra commercial.

In some ways, I believe a double feature book can be beneficial if pulled off correctly. For starters, it would make the book thicker and therefore more marketable. I hate to admit it sometimes, but books with small page counts aren’t nearly as marketable as those with larger page counts. Someday you’ll get your time to shine, Occupy Wrestling. Someday. But of course, in order for a double feature to work, both novellas have to be of similar genres. The same thing applies with short story collections, which is why American Darkness (contemporary drama) and Poison Tongue Tales (science-fiction, fantasy, and horror) don’t coincide with each other. That’s how you have to think of a double feature: a collection of short stories even though there are only two of them. They may intertwine, they may not, your choice.

As far as my current crop of first draft novels goes, I can picture some of them being placed in the same volume while others are questionable. Watch You Burn (psychological college fantasy) and Demon Axe (heavy metal fantasy) could easily fit together since they’re both urban fantasies with mental illness as their major themes. Silent Warrior is a little tricky since it’s the only first draft I have that conforms to the modern day drama genre. That just leaves Beautiful Monster and Filter Feeder with nowhere to go. One is an alternative history fantasy while the other is urban fantasy. Maybe I’m not fitting all of these puzzle pieces together adequately enough. Maybe I need to write more first draft novels of similar genres in order for a double feature to work.

But don’t take my word as gospel, because I’m by no means an expert on double feature books. I’m just giving my thoughts based on a failed experiment involving Occupy Wrestling and Filter Feeder, the latter of which hasn’t seen the light of day beyond Deviant Art. I’m sure there are wiser authors than me when it comes to the subject, one of them once again being Ashley Uzzell. She co-authored a double feature book called “Reaching For the Light”, a duo of stories dealing with the topic of mental illness. I ended up giving the book five out of five stars (extra credit grade), so she and her co-author must have done something right. I know there are others out there who feel the same way about that awesome book, judging from its current star rating on Amazon and Good Reads. I know this sounds like a plug, probably because it is. And while I’m in advertising mode, a portion of the proceeds from book sales will go to mental health charities, so that pretty much solidifies the message of both stories.

Does anybody out there have experience with reading double feature stories? If so, what are your favorites? I’d like to think graphic novel omnibuses count, because they’re just an overall collection of issues from one comic book series. But what about regular print novels? Am I missing something that I’m not aware of? Let me know in the comments section what your thoughts of double feature novels are. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: What do you call a depressed Rage Against the Machine fan?

A: Pro-Zach.

Don't Call Me That

Don’t call me a racist, don’t call me a sexist

Don’t laugh at my failures, don’t pray for my exit

Don’t call me a monster, don’t call me a perv

Don’t call me the ugliest motherfucker on earth

Don’t call me a weirdo, don’t call me a psycho

Don’t text your threats at me with a million typos

Don’t call me a piggy-pie, don’t call me fat

Don’t look at me like you’re disgusted at that

Don’t call me a sinner, don’t call me the devil

Don’t even suggest I’m on the lowest level

Don’t call me a rookie, don’t call me lazy

You’re nearsighted and your vision’s hazy

Don’t call me something you can never take back

What are you smoking? Weed, tobacco, or crack?

Who told you those lies? The leader of a cult?

Whatever it is, it’s getting really fucking old

Speak only for yourself and for nobody else

When you buy your own lies, the bullshit sells

I’m not going to heaven, I’m not going to hell

I’d rather stay at the dingiest no-tell motel

Rather die on the toilet of a McDonald’s bathroom

Than on the battlefield serving your holy platoon

Don’t call me your prisoner of your losing war

Don’t call me a ghost you should always ignore

Sex Surrogate

VERSE 1

It’s been forever since our last session

Not much going on that’s worth mention

I still coast through life at a turtle’s pace

I still have my famous Resting Bitch Face

Should’ve called you when I had the chance

Not much happening in the way of romance

How many more sessions am I allowed to have?

Can we still meet for at least an hour and a half?

VERSE 2

I’m sorry I’m late, but traffic was a mess

I’m sorry for these excuses I must confess

I got cold feet and stalled for a while

I might as well be walking the green mile

We all know how this session will end

I can’t be cured, but I can make amends

I’m sorry I’m not who you want me to be

Whether in bed or in life, nothing is free

VERSE 3

I must admit that I’m starting to like you

I’m sorry if this confession frightens you

I know we can’t have romantic feelings

But it’s a desire which I’ve been feeding

You’re married and happy, I understand

Reciprocation isn’t something I demand

I just had to get it all off my chest today

What a wonderful time to feel so brave

VERSE 4

This isn’t working, give me back my pills

This never ending pain is mine to kill

Sedated and jaded, everything has faded

Nothing left after my ego has deflated

The comfort zone is calling my name

It tells me to stop playing these sex games

It tells me that taking risks is foolish

Maybe I’ll listen until the day I’m ghoulish

Three Roads

***COLD OPEN***

Before I get to the bulk of this blog entry, I want to say a quick thank you to everyone who offered me and my family condolences after we had to put our dog Maggie to sleep. She was a dear member of the Haines-Temons-Stevens-Wilson household and will always have a special place in our hearts. Thank you, Maggie, for bringing us over a decade of joy. You’re now reunited with Molly and the two of you can play and wrestle on the Rainbow Bridge forever. I love you, Maggie-Pie.

***THREE ROADS***

Though I struggled to concentrate, I managed to write the final chapter of Beautiful Monster last night, which means I’m going to need another project to work on. As of now, I have three possible routes I could go. One of them is to write movie reviews for my birthday DVD’s until I can come up with something more permanent. The second option would be to work on another novel, but I don’t know which one I want to take a stab at yet. And then there’s the third and arguably most difficult option, edit the shit out of one of my many first drafts and publish it in paperback and Kindle form. Tonight we’re going to look at all three options to see which one is best for me at the moment.

***MOVIE REVIEWS***

Anytime I receive gifts for my birthday or Christmas, I always have to take pictures of them and post them online. I don’t know what I hope to achieve with that. It’s not like they’re award-winning photographs. It must have something to do with being chronologically predisposed to taking pictures of everything since I was born in 1985. One of these many pictures features a pile of DVD’s juxtaposed with a graphic novel about Andre the Giant (another medium I plan on reviewing in the future). I don’t get the opportunity to watch movies that much (because I’m too zonked out to even try), but I’ll make time for these DVD’s for sure. Here are the reviews you can look forward to:

1. Aviator
2. Battlestar Galactica
3. Cloud Atlas
4. District 9
5. Flight Plan

My mom’s work buddy Eric has nothing but good things to say about Cloud Atlas, so I’ll probably watch and review that one first. And then there’s District 9, which Ashley-Pie says is a modern day classic. I don’t know a whole lot about the other three movies, but they’re getting their time to shine one way or another.

***NOVEL IDEAS***

A little birdie once suggested to me that I write longer chapters and shoot for more of them instead of only conforming to a twenty chapter limit. Actually, he’s not a birdie. His name is Patrick and he’s easily one of my favorite readers, so I put a lot of trust in the things he says. The question now becomes, what will that next novel be? I don’t have very many mapped out from beginning to end, so that will be something I have to do when I eventually make my choice. I’m leaning towards these ideas as of now:

1. Booger the Clown (modern fantasy about an ex-marine turned birthday clown who picks fights with an orc militia in an attempt to kill himself)
2. Fantasmic Land (modern fantasy about a high school student who runs away from home and spends his days in a hedonistic magical theme park)
3. Incelbordination (college drama about a dwarf student who is a person of interest for an on-campus organization of “involuntary celibates”)
4. Suck It, Double Dork (crime thriller about a disgruntled cartoonist (loosely based on the creator of Ren & Stimpy, John K) who leaves pornographic drawings in public places in order to create a shock in the system)
5. The Last Thunder Eagle (young adult drama about an angry elementary school kid who spends summer vacation playing soccer (which he hates) instead of playing videogames (which he loves))

Decisions, decisions, decisions…and choices, too…

***UPDATED CHICKEN SHIT LIST***

A chicken shit list is a term I coined for a roster of first draft creative writing projects that I hope to have edited and published sometime in the near future. The term comes from the phrase “making chicken salad out of chicken shit”. The higher on the list the project ranks, the harder it will be to edit the shit out of. Novels will always rank highest since altering one part of them could change the whole story altogether. Short story collections rank in the middle since they don’t interact with each other canon-wise. Poetry ranks lowest on the list because, well, poems are much easier to write than novels and short stories. This is what my updated chicken shit list looks like:

1. Filter Feeder (environmental fantasy novel about a duo of clam fisherman who want revenge on an energy corporation after their lake was poisoned with oil)
2. Watch You Burn (psychological fantasy novel about a schizophrenic college student who has realistic hallucinations about being the chosen hero in his favorite anime)
3. Demon Axe (heavy metal fantasy novel about a singer who must gain the confidence to slay an elven terrorist after the singer’s band mates are brutally murdered)
4. Silent Warrior (young adult drama novel about a high school introvert who feels as though he’s being mentally crippled by the system around him)
5. Beautiful Monster (historical fantasy drama about an elf knight who escapes sex slavery and must deal with the consequences of PTSD afterwards)
6. Poison Tongue Tales 2 (science-fiction, fantasy, and horror short stories of varying subject matter)
7. American Darkness 2 (contemporary drama short stories of varying subject matter, mostly politics)
8. American Darkness 3 (more contemporary stories that I’ll probably fuse with its predecessor when the time comes to publish the collection)
9. It’s My Country and I’ll Cry If I Want To (WIP poetry collection about varying subject matter, mostly dealing with politics and psychology)

The next project I edit the shit out of will depend on my editor/beta-readers’ collective schedules. The more time they have, the more likely they are to take on a high-ranking project. No pressure whatsoever.

***CONCLUSION***

So that’s what the near future looks like for Garrison Kelly a.k.a. me. If you have any input as to which roads I should take, I’d love to hear it. Let’s turn this artistic process into a democracy! Why? Because I love you all, that’s why! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“A restless eye across a weary room. A glazed look and I was on the road to ruin. The music played and played as we whirled without end No hint, no word, her honor to defend. “I will, I will,” she sighed to my request. And then she tossed her mane while my resolve was put to the test. Then drowned in desire, our souls on fire, I led the way to the funeral pyre. Without a thought of consequence, I gave into my decadence. Was it love or was it the idea of being in love? Or was it the hand of fate that seemed to fit just like a glove? A moment slipped by and soon the seeds were sewn. The year grew late and neither one wanted to remain alone. One slip and down the hole we fall. It seems to take no time at all. A momentary lapse of reason that binds a life for life. A small regret you won’t forget. There’ll be no sleep in here tonight.”

-Pink Floyd singing “One Slip”-

Goodbye Maggie

***GOODBYE MAGGIE***

Tomorrow afternoon, Dale and I are going to the vet to put our dog Maggie to sleep. She has lived to be sixteen years old, much older than normally expected for her breed. During the final moments of those sixteen years, she’s had a litany of health problems that justify euthanasia. She was blind, deaf, weak, incontinent, physically unstable, and an all around sick dog. She’s constantly in pain and there’s only so much we can do for her before having to make this ultimate decision.

Maggie came into my life in 2005 when her owner, Dale, married my mom in his original home state of Wyoming. She was accompanied by another Springer Spaniel dog named Molly. The two of them would bounce, play, and wrestle happily together all the time. Maggie’s favorite toy was a blue ball that she would fetch while Molly’s was a leather Frisbee. I’ll always remember Maggie and Molly getting in a tug-of-war over the Frisbee and Molly would get an unfair advantage by shaking her head.

Three years ago on Father’s Day, Molly passed away due to lung cancer and it was a death that hit all of us hard, especially Dale. Three years later, here we are again in the month of June having to watch Molly’s adopted sister Maggie be put to sleep. Sixteen years. Sixteen fucking years and it’s all over. Given her declining health, it was a foregone conclusion, but that doesn’t soften the blow that our family will no doubt feel.

There isn’t a whole lot left to say except for goodbye to our elderly ray of puppy sunshine. Rest in peace, Saggy-Maggie. You will be missed dearly.

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“If they say who cares if one more light goes out? In a sky of a million stars, it flickers, flickers. Who cares when someone’s time runs out? If a moment is all we are, we’re quicker, quicker. Who cares if one more light goes out? Well, I do.”

-Linkin Park singing “One More Light”-

Cracking Under Pressure

VERSE 1

You dragged me out of my comfort zone

And left me there to breakdown alone

You wanted it to go wrong from the start

All I’ve got now is a broken fucking heart

It’s never about creating strong citizens

It was always just an over-hyped idiom

You won’t lose a second of sleep over this

While my dreams are full of vinegar and piss

VERSE 2

I cracked like a shell underneath the pressure

All for your ego and sadistic little pleasure

I’m not the diamond you’ve always wanted

I’m the ghost that leaves the world haunted

Next time when you throw me in the deep end

Give me some oxygen on which I can depend

Don’t tie a cinder block around my ankle

And send me to live with the fucking angels

VERSE 3

Is that what you call opportunity right there?

This is what I call too much to fucking bear

A nervous wreck with a noose on my neck

You put it there to keep my ass in check

I can’t calm down with you hovering over me

Singling me out like I’m the weakest link

I’m sending you my two weeks notice today

Maybe I’ll choose right now to fuck away

FINAL VERSE

You can call it coasting while proudly boasting

That I’m the only one you’re fucking roasting

Thanks for the life experience, you jackass

Not like you’ll experience any of the backlash

Define Me

VERSE 1

Out of the darkness and into the light

Got a brand new lease on my own life

No longer will you define my happiness

With over the top dramatic campy shit

If you choose to walk past and ignore

I choose not to agonize about it anymore

I’m the only one who defines who I am

My high self-esteem is my business brand

CHORUS

Never again will I defend

Bringing my sanity to an end

Never again will you define

What goes on in my damn mind

VERSE 2

Sex is a battle and love is a war

Fighting’s all that shit is good for

Don’t need your seal of approval

Mark that shit for its removal

Sick of trying to impress you

Of you berating the things I do

I got my own soul, go get yours

Then walk on right out of the door

EXTENDED CHORUS

Never again will I defend

Bringing my sanity to an end

Never again will you define

What goes on in my damn mind

Never again, never again X2

VERSE 3

I don’t mean to be bitter or stone cold

I’m just not a hostage for you to hold

I’m not a prisoner of your expectations

I’m the leader of my own destinations

Don’t need to be thin, don’t need to smile

Don’t need to chat bullshit for a while

Don’t need to spend money on shiny rocks

Won’t be defined by the needs of my cock

EXTENDED CHORUS

Never again will I defend

Bringing my sanity to an end

Never again will you define

What goes on in my damn mind

Never again, never again X4