I haven’t watched WWE since November of 2018, when they put on that horrible episode of Monday Night Raw where Drake Maverick peed on Bobby Roode’s robe. But I still like to stay in the loop via podcasts and You Tube channels. I sincerely hope Sonya Deville’s story gets the appropriate amount of coverage outside of the wrestling bubble. A few weeks ago, a disgusting bastard by the name of Phillip Thomas attempted to kidnap Sonya in her Lutz, Florida home. For years he had sent her creepy messages on social media that were of the lovey-dovey variety mixed with suicidal threats and mentions of wanting to murder her family. So what does he do to satisfy his romantic urges? In addition to sending the freaky messages, he showed up to her house one night carrying a knife, pepper spray, duct tape, zip ties, and god knows what else. He planned on kidnapping Sonya Deville, but she got the hell out of there and the police promptly arrested Phillip Thomas with a judge denying him bail.
Now…there are many ways in which you can show your appreciation for your favorite celebrities. Stalking and attempting to kidnap them is not one of them! Forgetting the fact that Sonya Deville is openly lesbian and therefore isn’t interested in men anyways, Phillip Thomas had no fucking chance with her by virtue of his creepy online behavior. He has even less of a chance with her now that he attempted to kidnap her. Haven’t you learned anything from being sickened while watching 365 Days? That Stockholm Syndrome fantasy shit doesn’t work! When Phillip Thomas showed up at Sonya Deville’s home with weapons and bondage equipment, she didn’t have stars in her eyes and a smile on her face. She was fucking terrified, as well she should be!
Having romantic feelings for a celebrity is nothing new to the world. It’s a relationship that could never work due to the imbalance of power, but we like to have fantasies anyways, because these fantasies make our hearts flutter and they give us extra pep in our step. We form parasocial relationships with the celebrities we love. Maybe the celebrity gives us roses. Maybe they squeeze our shoulders. Maybe they let us cradle our heads in their laps while they stroke our hair. But once the fantasy wears off, you begin to realize the impossibility of the fantasy and it depresses the shit out of you. You invested so much time and energy into this fantasy that when the rug gets pulled out from underneath, you’ve got nothing left but sadness. If you feel like your celebrity crushes are interfering with your wellbeing, talk to somebody. Anybody. See a counselor. Confide in family and friends.
This phenomenon was especially true for me when I studied at Western Washington University from 2007 to 2009. I was a socially awkward dweeb who had very little in the way of human interaction. So what did I do? I formed a parasocial relationship with Tarja Turunen, the former lead singer of Nightwish. Her lovely raven hair, her milky white skin, her cherry red lips, and that singing voice of an angel, oh my god, she was so beautiful to me. My heart had the singing voice of an angel every time I laid eyes on her. But when I cycled through my head all the loving ways we could interact, I quickly realized that I was still alone at WWU despite having a strong imagination. I had nothing but my fantasies. Fantasies are great, but they’re not tangible and don’t amount to anything in real life. But did I threaten to kidnap Tarja Turunen? Did I threaten to kill her husband Marcelo Cabuli? Did I show up to her home in Finland with duct tape and a hunting knife? Fuck no! That would be horrifying! If you claim to love someone as much as you do, you don’t show your love by threatening to slash them if they don’t have sex with you. That’s not love. That’s violence. In a real relationship, that’s domestic abuse and it would be grounds for not only divorce, but prison time.
Sonya Deville is a beautiful woman. She’s a brilliant character on WWE television. She’s got mixed-martial arts skills for days that will remind the audience of Wonder Woman. You want to know what she isn’t? Yours to kidnap and have sex with! You as a fan are not owed anything! You’re not owed sex and romance! If you want those things, you have to earn them by being sweet and empathetic and even then if the woman says no, you ought to listen. Sonya Deville is not going to say yes to someone who sends her disgusting messages on Twitter threatening to hurt her if she doesn’t give into him. I thought this point was made clear when pretty much every news outlet on the planet dissected Incel culture with a scalpel. We’re supposed to be past this shit. But people like Phillip Thomas didn’t get the message. Apparently, neither did the other Twitter trolls who sent Sonya Deville messages like, “I’m going to finish what Phillip started” and “My knife is bigger than Phillip’s.” How romantic! What a bunch of charming motherfuckers! Breakfast, meet floor!
Back at Summer Slam, Sonya Deville was written off of WWE television when she lost a No Disqualification Loser Leaves Town match to longtime rival Mandy Rose. She didn’t actually lose her job. It’s just a storyline excuse for her to sort things out legally and emotionally before getting back in the ring. She’ll be back one day. I’d like to think she’ll be back stronger than ever, but that’s not how psychological trauma works. That shit eats away at you like a cancer. There are triggers that will set you off. There are nightmares. There are moments where you’ll lose focus of what you’re doing, which isn’t an ideal scenario in a profession where you slam people on their backs for a living. Thanks a lot, Phillip Thomas. You traumatized Sonya Deville for life, all because you wanted a romance that never could have happened, lesbian status or not. That’s not love. That’s psychosis. Get some fucking help!
Being a celebrity of any kind, whether you’re an attractive woman or otherwise, will open up the floodgates for stalking and harassment. This shit has been going on long before the internet was a thing. So what should you do if you find yourself in this situation? Do you hire security guards? Do you buy a weapon? Do you move to another home? Do you stay off of social media? Do you get a restraining order? There’s no one-size-fits-all solution to this problem. Sometimes it’s multiple things at once, which is something the celebrity in question will consider as anxiety floods their minds with all the possibilities of scenarios. Hell, you don’t have to be a celebrity to experience stalking. The reason for stalking doesn’t even have to be romantic or sexual. There are some sick pieces of shit out there and the sooner they’re locked up, the better off we’ll all be. If you find yourself obsessing over someone, don’t become the next Phillip Thomas. Get help. Reach out to someone you trust. That’s my public service announcement for the day. Stalking is not the answer. It never is.
Saturday, August 29, 2020
It Drops the Key
Throwing turnips at Shy Guys and Ninjis left Princess Peach’s arms limper than spaghetti. Pulling vegetables out of the ground was never her forte and it showed with the aching pulses in her muscles and the kinks in her back. Why couldn’t she just jump on the enemies and flatten them like any other Mushroom Kingdom hero? Because this wasn’t the Mushroom Kingdom. This was Subcon. This was a world of grassy fields, stone temples, bees with lances, birds on flying rugs, and Shy Guys. Lots and lots of Shy Guys, whether the little red-robed, creepily-masked goblins appeared out of nowhere or filed one by one out of a magic jar.
Sweat glistened down from Princess Peach’s forehead, her long blond hair sticky and stale. Her royal pink dress had some dampness here and there, though it still served its purpose of allowing her to float through the air during a long jump. Her skinny bones flared up with pain after so much heavy lifting. Gardening was not her strong suit, nor should it have been. She hunched over and noticed the locked door in the side of a grass mountain. She had a vague idea of the next lifting job required of her, but didn’t want to entertain it too much lest there be even more sweat and aching. And anxiety. And chills. Lots and lots of chills. She gulped a wad of acidic saliva as she leapt down one of the tube-like vases.
Peach descended to the sandy surface at the bottom of the pit with grace and poise. The magical pink dress came in handy yet again, otherwise she’d be doing her heavy lifting with a broken ankle, soft sand aside. And in the middle of this pit was the ultimate test of strength, not only of her arms and chest, but of her intestinal fortitude. The massive golden key shined brightly enough to illuminate the dark pit. Plenty of rocks jutting out for Peach to make her escape. Dexterity wasn’t the issue. Evilly grinning golden masks were what caused Peach to tremble and sweat the most. They surrounded her in a half-circle, motionless, yet menacing. Their dark, curvy eyes gazed upon her with judgment and sadism, daring her to take the key.
She swallowed yet another lump of cold, salty saliva and inched her convulsing hand towards the golden key, yanking her hand away and flinching in anticipation. After some more futile attempts, she forced herself to grow a backbone and snatched the key from its resting place. On cue, one of the Phanto masks’ eyes glowed bright red and a deep-voice laugh echoed throughout the sand pit, causing some dirt to sprinkle below. The mask said, “It drops the key…IT DROPS THE KEY!”
Princess Peach shrieked in terror at the dehumanizing pronoun and leapt from stone to stone on her way out of the vase. She couldn’t believe her own speed. More importantly, she couldn’t believe her own strength. She had the balance of an athlete and the endurance of one as well. Sweat flew off of her face, but there would be a better time to wipe it away. She needed this key. She needed victory. And then…Phanto rammed his face into the back of her head and knocked her off one of the stones. The sand pit cushioned her rapid descent, but Peach held her skull and moaned in pain.
“It drops the key…IT DROPS THE KEY!”
As soon as Peach regained her vision, Phanto’s hideous face came into focus and she screamed in a high pitch death howl once again. She scurried into the corner of the pit with the golden key still in hand and curled into the fetal position, shaking, whining, whimpering, and doing her best to avert her ocean blue eyes from the monstrosity floating in front of her. She covered her face in her arms, but felt the warm air of Phanto breathing in her ear. The longer she held onto the key, the deeper the breaths became. Some of these breaths were accompanied by growling sounds. And then…Phanto spoke again…
“Rape vans…if they were called surprise vans, more women would get into them, because everybody loves a surprise…”
Peach screamed yet again and crab-walked towards another corner, the key still in her possession. Her heart thumped in her chest loudly, threatening to explode like a hand grenade. It slowed down just enough for her to ask a question. “Wait a minute…you…how can you…you know?”
“I can still use my mouth!”
Peach yelled.
“And my eye sockets!”
She yelled again and tried to escape by scratching and clawing the dirt walls. She got a few feet at best, but slid down on her royal pampered butt every single time. Giving up was her best option as she sat down and allowed tears to pour from her eyes.
Phanto floated over to her and started breathing in her ear again. That air. That warm, thick, horny air. “If it makes you feel any better…I would have chased you even if you didn’t have my key! Ooooooohhhhh, my!”
Peach sniffed in between ellipses. “You’re…you’re disgusting…you’re so gross!”
“I’m not the one who’s shagging a fat plumber in shit-covered overalls!”
As Phanto laughed at his own remark, Peach’s face boiled red with anger, her arms trembling for different reasons than physical labor and traumatic fear. With the ease of a bodybuilder, she chucked the key at Phanto in hopes of smacking him between his frightening eyes. The key passed right through him like the ghost he was and he laughed some more. “Was that supposed to hurt? You really shouldn’t have let that key go. It doesn’t vibrate…but it can still keep you company for when the fat man can’t save you…”
“Eww, yuck!” Peach dry-heaved on the sandy floor while Phanto continued to chuckle at her. Once all the bile was cleared from her throat and the snot drained from her nose, she scowled at her nemesis, folded her arms, and said, “You know what? I’d rather get killed than listen to another one of your bad jokes! Are you going to kill me off or are you just going to laugh at me like a moron?!”
“What do you think?”
“You know what?! Forget Subcon! Forget King Wart! I don’t need this key anymore! I wouldn’t go inside that grass mountain if there was a blizzard outside and my melons fell off from frostbite!” She marched over to the key and wielded it like a club.
Phanto snickered again. “Young lady, you already tried that and I’m still here. I’ll always be here. I’ll always be in your darkest dreams. I’ll always whisper in your ear and tell you how lovely you are. I’ll always give you kisses that don’t smell like fire flowers and mushrooms. I’ll always…”
“Screw this key!” Peach tried to break it across her knee, but to no avail. Instead she danced around holding her bruised knee in pain while Phanto laughed at her some more. She then threw the key on the ground and tried to break it with various rocks she picked up.
“Young lady, what are you doing? Stop!”
Peach didn’t listen. She pounded the key with stones larger than the last. The golden key flashed and flickered, but wouldn’t break. Instead of seeing the brilliant golden colors, Peach saw dark red. She smashed more rocks…and more…and more….Muscles bulged from her arms, her strength further encouraged by Phanto’s pleas for mercy. The key illuminated and deluminated over and over again…until it cracked and the brilliant light was no more. A deep-voiced death wail echoed across the sandpit and Phanto dropped to his doom, smiling no more, glaring no more, and shining brightly no more.
Princess Peach wiped the sweat off of her forehead with her white gloved arms and plopped backwards against the wall, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. Her heart slowed down. Her skin cooled off. Her sweat dried up and formed a sticky residue. “You know…” she whispered to nobody in particular. “Maybe there’s a way I can pick the lock. Or maybe I’ll just kick the door down. Or maybe I’ll throw some more vegetables at it.”
“Or maybe you can work out a deal with me!” Phanto glowed back to life and grew bigger in size, laughing louder, laughing longer, and laughing powerfully enough to create a cyclone around him, kicking up sand and dirt everywhere. Peach screamed once more as she held onto a jutting stone, her high heeled shoes flying off and into Phanto’s growing mouth, which now had a snake’s tongue and vampire fangs protruding from it. He grew larger…and larger…and his eyes burned with red neon. He opened his mouth in an attempt to chow down on his victim.
Phanto’s gigantic fangs clamped down over Peach’s hips, causing her to sit up in bed and gasp for air. Even after finding out this was all a nightmare, her heart wouldn’t stop thumping and her sweat made her feel like she was being water-boarded. Nonetheless, she plopped on her back and breathed a sigh of relief, provided she could catch her breath in the first place.
She turned her head and smiled at the man laying next to her: a chubby Italian plumber who would never hurt her, who always rescued her when she needed it, and who loved her unconditionally through thick and thin. She patted Mario on the shoulder and kissed the back of his head. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”
Mario rolled over to face Peach and said, “Goodnight, babe!” in a familiar deep voice. And then came the familiar glowing red eyes. And the familiar golden mask. And the familiar evil smile. Mario was wearing Phanto’s face like the Halloween costume it was and Peach’s heart finally couldn’t take it anymore. She rolled off the bed and went into cardiac arrest. As her vision faded to black, Phanto floated over her and said, “What was that you said about killing you instead of making jokes? Oh yeah…I remember…” He gave her a “goodnight” make-out kiss just as she passed into the abyss.
Sweat glistened down from Princess Peach’s forehead, her long blond hair sticky and stale. Her royal pink dress had some dampness here and there, though it still served its purpose of allowing her to float through the air during a long jump. Her skinny bones flared up with pain after so much heavy lifting. Gardening was not her strong suit, nor should it have been. She hunched over and noticed the locked door in the side of a grass mountain. She had a vague idea of the next lifting job required of her, but didn’t want to entertain it too much lest there be even more sweat and aching. And anxiety. And chills. Lots and lots of chills. She gulped a wad of acidic saliva as she leapt down one of the tube-like vases.
Peach descended to the sandy surface at the bottom of the pit with grace and poise. The magical pink dress came in handy yet again, otherwise she’d be doing her heavy lifting with a broken ankle, soft sand aside. And in the middle of this pit was the ultimate test of strength, not only of her arms and chest, but of her intestinal fortitude. The massive golden key shined brightly enough to illuminate the dark pit. Plenty of rocks jutting out for Peach to make her escape. Dexterity wasn’t the issue. Evilly grinning golden masks were what caused Peach to tremble and sweat the most. They surrounded her in a half-circle, motionless, yet menacing. Their dark, curvy eyes gazed upon her with judgment and sadism, daring her to take the key.
She swallowed yet another lump of cold, salty saliva and inched her convulsing hand towards the golden key, yanking her hand away and flinching in anticipation. After some more futile attempts, she forced herself to grow a backbone and snatched the key from its resting place. On cue, one of the Phanto masks’ eyes glowed bright red and a deep-voice laugh echoed throughout the sand pit, causing some dirt to sprinkle below. The mask said, “It drops the key…IT DROPS THE KEY!”
Princess Peach shrieked in terror at the dehumanizing pronoun and leapt from stone to stone on her way out of the vase. She couldn’t believe her own speed. More importantly, she couldn’t believe her own strength. She had the balance of an athlete and the endurance of one as well. Sweat flew off of her face, but there would be a better time to wipe it away. She needed this key. She needed victory. And then…Phanto rammed his face into the back of her head and knocked her off one of the stones. The sand pit cushioned her rapid descent, but Peach held her skull and moaned in pain.
“It drops the key…IT DROPS THE KEY!”
As soon as Peach regained her vision, Phanto’s hideous face came into focus and she screamed in a high pitch death howl once again. She scurried into the corner of the pit with the golden key still in hand and curled into the fetal position, shaking, whining, whimpering, and doing her best to avert her ocean blue eyes from the monstrosity floating in front of her. She covered her face in her arms, but felt the warm air of Phanto breathing in her ear. The longer she held onto the key, the deeper the breaths became. Some of these breaths were accompanied by growling sounds. And then…Phanto spoke again…
“Rape vans…if they were called surprise vans, more women would get into them, because everybody loves a surprise…”
Peach screamed yet again and crab-walked towards another corner, the key still in her possession. Her heart thumped in her chest loudly, threatening to explode like a hand grenade. It slowed down just enough for her to ask a question. “Wait a minute…you…how can you…you know?”
“I can still use my mouth!”
Peach yelled.
“And my eye sockets!”
She yelled again and tried to escape by scratching and clawing the dirt walls. She got a few feet at best, but slid down on her royal pampered butt every single time. Giving up was her best option as she sat down and allowed tears to pour from her eyes.
Phanto floated over to her and started breathing in her ear again. That air. That warm, thick, horny air. “If it makes you feel any better…I would have chased you even if you didn’t have my key! Ooooooohhhhh, my!”
Peach sniffed in between ellipses. “You’re…you’re disgusting…you’re so gross!”
“I’m not the one who’s shagging a fat plumber in shit-covered overalls!”
As Phanto laughed at his own remark, Peach’s face boiled red with anger, her arms trembling for different reasons than physical labor and traumatic fear. With the ease of a bodybuilder, she chucked the key at Phanto in hopes of smacking him between his frightening eyes. The key passed right through him like the ghost he was and he laughed some more. “Was that supposed to hurt? You really shouldn’t have let that key go. It doesn’t vibrate…but it can still keep you company for when the fat man can’t save you…”
“Eww, yuck!” Peach dry-heaved on the sandy floor while Phanto continued to chuckle at her. Once all the bile was cleared from her throat and the snot drained from her nose, she scowled at her nemesis, folded her arms, and said, “You know what? I’d rather get killed than listen to another one of your bad jokes! Are you going to kill me off or are you just going to laugh at me like a moron?!”
“What do you think?”
“You know what?! Forget Subcon! Forget King Wart! I don’t need this key anymore! I wouldn’t go inside that grass mountain if there was a blizzard outside and my melons fell off from frostbite!” She marched over to the key and wielded it like a club.
Phanto snickered again. “Young lady, you already tried that and I’m still here. I’ll always be here. I’ll always be in your darkest dreams. I’ll always whisper in your ear and tell you how lovely you are. I’ll always give you kisses that don’t smell like fire flowers and mushrooms. I’ll always…”
“Screw this key!” Peach tried to break it across her knee, but to no avail. Instead she danced around holding her bruised knee in pain while Phanto laughed at her some more. She then threw the key on the ground and tried to break it with various rocks she picked up.
“Young lady, what are you doing? Stop!”
Peach didn’t listen. She pounded the key with stones larger than the last. The golden key flashed and flickered, but wouldn’t break. Instead of seeing the brilliant golden colors, Peach saw dark red. She smashed more rocks…and more…and more….Muscles bulged from her arms, her strength further encouraged by Phanto’s pleas for mercy. The key illuminated and deluminated over and over again…until it cracked and the brilliant light was no more. A deep-voiced death wail echoed across the sandpit and Phanto dropped to his doom, smiling no more, glaring no more, and shining brightly no more.
Princess Peach wiped the sweat off of her forehead with her white gloved arms and plopped backwards against the wall, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. Her heart slowed down. Her skin cooled off. Her sweat dried up and formed a sticky residue. “You know…” she whispered to nobody in particular. “Maybe there’s a way I can pick the lock. Or maybe I’ll just kick the door down. Or maybe I’ll throw some more vegetables at it.”
“Or maybe you can work out a deal with me!” Phanto glowed back to life and grew bigger in size, laughing louder, laughing longer, and laughing powerfully enough to create a cyclone around him, kicking up sand and dirt everywhere. Peach screamed once more as she held onto a jutting stone, her high heeled shoes flying off and into Phanto’s growing mouth, which now had a snake’s tongue and vampire fangs protruding from it. He grew larger…and larger…and his eyes burned with red neon. He opened his mouth in an attempt to chow down on his victim.
Phanto’s gigantic fangs clamped down over Peach’s hips, causing her to sit up in bed and gasp for air. Even after finding out this was all a nightmare, her heart wouldn’t stop thumping and her sweat made her feel like she was being water-boarded. Nonetheless, she plopped on her back and breathed a sigh of relief, provided she could catch her breath in the first place.
She turned her head and smiled at the man laying next to her: a chubby Italian plumber who would never hurt her, who always rescued her when she needed it, and who loved her unconditionally through thick and thin. She patted Mario on the shoulder and kissed the back of his head. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”
Mario rolled over to face Peach and said, “Goodnight, babe!” in a familiar deep voice. And then came the familiar glowing red eyes. And the familiar golden mask. And the familiar evil smile. Mario was wearing Phanto’s face like the Halloween costume it was and Peach’s heart finally couldn’t take it anymore. She rolled off the bed and went into cardiac arrest. As her vision faded to black, Phanto floated over her and said, “What was that you said about killing you instead of making jokes? Oh yeah…I remember…” He gave her a “goodnight” make-out kiss just as she passed into the abyss.
Tuesday, August 25, 2020
Clown Music
CLOWN MUSIC
A ball on my nose, a smile on my face
Big red shoes stepping all over the place
Bright green overalls to complete the look
Comedy routines from a high school joke book
Who’s ready to laugh? Who’s ready to dance?
Who’s ready to wet their own underpants?
I’m throwing the pies, riding one-wheel bikes
We can party and giggle for as long as we’d like
COMING HOME
It’s getting pretty dark around the trailer park
Wipe off the makeup, frown the shape of an arc
A bottle of jack and some pills for my back
A pizza for dinner, another heart attack
Another episode of Wheel of Fortune
Another news story about the ban of abortion
Fall asleep on the couch, cancer stick in my mouth
I’ve got no rhyme or reason to be fucking proud
BACK TO WORK
Sunbeam aggravates my pounding headache
Still laying on the couch like I’m dead weight
Can’t put on another smile for the little brats
Can’t put on the overalls, I’m too damn fat
Can’t let them know that my magic is gone
No more faking happiness, no more being strong
Where did I put that damn nine millimeter?
I don’t care if you call me a coward or cheater
BANG!
Suicide attempt didn’t go as it was planned
But I’m still walking amongst the damned
Extra hole in my head, brain dead as can be
Little kids cry as they take a look at me
Mommies holding them, daddies glaring
The love is there, but nobody’s sharing
I am a monster in the eyes of the young
No cracking jokes, no birthday songs sung
A ball on my nose, a smile on my face
Big red shoes stepping all over the place
Bright green overalls to complete the look
Comedy routines from a high school joke book
Who’s ready to laugh? Who’s ready to dance?
Who’s ready to wet their own underpants?
I’m throwing the pies, riding one-wheel bikes
We can party and giggle for as long as we’d like
COMING HOME
It’s getting pretty dark around the trailer park
Wipe off the makeup, frown the shape of an arc
A bottle of jack and some pills for my back
A pizza for dinner, another heart attack
Another episode of Wheel of Fortune
Another news story about the ban of abortion
Fall asleep on the couch, cancer stick in my mouth
I’ve got no rhyme or reason to be fucking proud
BACK TO WORK
Sunbeam aggravates my pounding headache
Still laying on the couch like I’m dead weight
Can’t put on another smile for the little brats
Can’t put on the overalls, I’m too damn fat
Can’t let them know that my magic is gone
No more faking happiness, no more being strong
Where did I put that damn nine millimeter?
I don’t care if you call me a coward or cheater
BANG!
Suicide attempt didn’t go as it was planned
But I’m still walking amongst the damned
Extra hole in my head, brain dead as can be
Little kids cry as they take a look at me
Mommies holding them, daddies glaring
The love is there, but nobody’s sharing
I am a monster in the eyes of the young
No cracking jokes, no birthday songs sung
Tuesday, August 18, 2020
Murder Is Beautiful
VERSE 1
It’s amazing the disputes I can settle with a knife
Could have no more problems for the rest of my life
A blade across your wrists, a blade across your throat
Tie bricks around your ankles, throw you off of a boat
Some of you motherfuckers call it a crime of passion
From a guy who followed all the heavy metal fashions
From a guy who was shit on all throughout school
Nah, I just like bathing in bloody swimming pools
CHORUS 1
Murder is beautiful!
Murder is so sublime!
It’s so worth doing time!
Murder is beautiful!
VERSE 2
It’s astounding the problems I can solve with a gun
One bullet to the dome and it’s all said and done
Or maybe I can blast off your itty bitty dicky
Shoot you in the ass, bleed you like a stuck piggy
Some of you clowns call me a little loony toon
While digging your own graves with a big ass spoon
Maybe I just need a glass of water and some pills
Nah, I’d rather rack up some more of those kills
CHORUS 2
Murder is beautiful!
Murder is so precious!
The fun is so endless!
Murder is beautiful!
VERSE 3
I’ve never been a gangster or a mafia don
I’m just a guy whose sanity is all long gone
Had enough of toxic bitches ripping at my stitches
Opening wounds that should’ve stayed hidden
A baseball bat or a stun gun full of juice
Don’t worry about your legs having no use
You won’t need them where your ass is going
Bombs away! Feel the high winds blowing
CHORUS 3
Murder is beautiful!
Murder is sweet sunshine!
Your ass is forever mine!
Murder is beautiful!
Murder is pretty as fuck!
Murder is a work of art!
Slash your asses apart!
Murder is pretty as fuck!
It’s amazing the disputes I can settle with a knife
Could have no more problems for the rest of my life
A blade across your wrists, a blade across your throat
Tie bricks around your ankles, throw you off of a boat
Some of you motherfuckers call it a crime of passion
From a guy who followed all the heavy metal fashions
From a guy who was shit on all throughout school
Nah, I just like bathing in bloody swimming pools
CHORUS 1
Murder is beautiful!
Murder is so sublime!
It’s so worth doing time!
Murder is beautiful!
VERSE 2
It’s astounding the problems I can solve with a gun
One bullet to the dome and it’s all said and done
Or maybe I can blast off your itty bitty dicky
Shoot you in the ass, bleed you like a stuck piggy
Some of you clowns call me a little loony toon
While digging your own graves with a big ass spoon
Maybe I just need a glass of water and some pills
Nah, I’d rather rack up some more of those kills
CHORUS 2
Murder is beautiful!
Murder is so precious!
The fun is so endless!
Murder is beautiful!
VERSE 3
I’ve never been a gangster or a mafia don
I’m just a guy whose sanity is all long gone
Had enough of toxic bitches ripping at my stitches
Opening wounds that should’ve stayed hidden
A baseball bat or a stun gun full of juice
Don’t worry about your legs having no use
You won’t need them where your ass is going
Bombs away! Feel the high winds blowing
CHORUS 3
Murder is beautiful!
Murder is sweet sunshine!
Your ass is forever mine!
Murder is beautiful!
Murder is pretty as fuck!
Murder is a work of art!
Slash your asses apart!
Murder is pretty as fuck!
Thursday, August 13, 2020
The House of Hathaway
Ah yes, the year 2003: a time in my life marked with bad mental health, suicidal thoughts, shitty education, and fights with online friends over inconsequential BS. So what’s the cure for all of this? Playing D&D with my brother James, of course! Whenever my mind wasn’t being bombarded with schizophrenic voices, I could put it to good use and guide my character through an epic adventure filled with magic and wonder! Or I could completely waffle it and confirm everything my head voices ever told me. Whoever said mental illnesses produce the best creativity needs to have their head mounted on a trident.
Speaking of tridents, guess what my character’s weapon of choice was! Everybody else in the campaign used a long sword because they had war in their bloodlines. I used a trident because I allegedly had fishing in my bloodline. Never mind the fact that the minimum damage on a trident cushioned every bad roll I could have made in combat. Nope! I’m just an angry fisherman named Regal. No last name, just Regal. My brother’s player character was named Riant, which apparently gave him a license to call my character Reg...which is short for Reggie…which rhymes with wedgie! Ugh…
But before we could get into the actual campaign, there was a mild disagreement between my brother and I over where in my bedroom we should sit. He sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor and I sat in my computer chair. He urged me to sit on the floor with him, but I refused. So our campaign began with Regal tending a barn full of animals during a thunderstorm. Weird, but okay. I moved the animals all over the place until lightning struck me and killed me. This was all an elaborate April Fool’s joke to coerce me to sit on the floor with him. I of course didn’t catch on, because, you know, schizophrenia and all. Plus, I had just argued with an online friend the night before and pretty much terminated our relationship, so there was that weighing heavily on me.
Now that I was cross-legged on the floor with James, the real campaign could begin. The House of Hathaway (very British-sounding name if I’ve ever heard one) put a bounty on some guy’s head because he stole something valuable from them. There was a poster on the city walls with his likeness and price printed on it. The poster said he was last seen out in the countryside. So naturally, my first move would be to go out to the countryside to look for this thieving bastard. Riant disagreed. He wanted to go to the local jewelry shop to ask a bunch of questions. Regal didn’t see the point of this, but played along nonetheless. He even asked, “Are you ready to go?” Apparently, this came off like an invitation rather than a demand, so Riant dinged Regal for that one.
So Regal goes over to the jewelry shop to interrogate the clerk. When I, the player, couldn’t think of any questions, James urged me to think like Vic Mackey from The Shield. How would he interrogate someone? What kinds of questions would he ask? If you’ve seen The Shield during its heyday in the 2000’s, you would associate Vic Mackey with ass-beatings galore. That’s how he got all of his information. Was James suggesting that I beat this clerk’s ass? Seemed unreasonable to me. Riant started the conversation with, “Any word of thievery?” I continued the line of questioning with a bunch of “personal questions” that got us kicked out of the shop when the clerk got offended. Why did he get offended? Why was he not cooperating with our line of questioning? My first guess would be because the clerk was a dick who didn’t respect our authority. But Riant insisted that Regal was “asking the wrong questions”.
So after that little kafuffle, Regal and Riant finally agreed to go to the outskirts of town where the real clues led. Regal went home to get an ox to ride on and Riant gave him a weird ass look for it. Regal also got weird ass looks from ordinary citizens for carrying a trident around with him. Never mind the fact that every weapon in the D&D franchise has a sheath and that’s what I was trying to do: put it in a sheath. James insisted that tridents didn’t have sheaths (they totally do), so this was the result: a bunch of crazy stares from the extras of the campaign. Oh, excuse me, the “background artists” of the campaign.
So as Regal and Riant make their way to the countryside (with no ox to ride on), Riant gives Regal a lecture about his poor performance in this bounty hunting mission so far. “Why am I always the one helping you? I wish you’d help yourself.” This would have been the perfect time to mount Riant’s head on a trident, but Regal held back and also held his tongue. The reasonable answer would have been to complain about everybody no-selling the seriousness of what Regal was doing. They treated him like a clown for reasons I would never understand. Then again, understanding everything isn’t in the schizophrenic’s arsenal, especially under heavy medication.
The two bounty hunters go out to the countryside to interview various farmers about the last time they’ve seen the House of Hathaway’s prized thief. Regal goes up to one farmer and says, “Excuse me, can I talk to you for a moment?” The farmer says, “We’re talking now, aren’t we?” Another example of NPC’s no-selling the gravity of the situation. We weren’t talking before, that’s why Regal asked the fucking question! I can’t remember what questions Regal asked after that, but the conversation took another steep turn when the farmer asked why he was being interrogated. Regal admitted to being a bounty hunter and the farmer lectured him about how that lifestyle could get him killed or arrested. To be fair to me, I had no idea bounty hunting was a sensitive issue since bounty hunters are on the same side as traditional law enforcement. But oh well. Can’t put the words back in my mouth now!
Regal and Riant go out to the forest to look for clues and they find a series of footprints in the dirt. Regal’s assessment of the situation was that there was a struggle taking place due to the awkward angle of the foot prints. Maybe a cult had gotten the thief. Was the thief even here? Who knows? Before I had the chance to find out more, our campaign ended when James and I were called away from the game by our parents.
This campaign was supposed to be a tribute to The Shield, but it looked more like The Three Stooges…except there was only one stooge and multiple straight men. That stooge was named Regal. He was a stooge because he couldn’t figure out basic detective protocol. To my young mind, The Shield wasn’t about nuance and politics. It was about ass-beatings and edginess. If Regal tried any of the tactics Vic Mackey used on The Shield, he would have been locked up a long time ago. Regal had no official authority; he was a freelancer and didn’t have any of the privileges of a traditional cop.
I don’t want you all to think that the House of Hathaway campaign was a microcosm on its own. My role-playing abilities suffered all throughout the 2000’s due to my mental illnesses and general naivety. You talk about NPC’s no-selling the gravity of the situation? That happened in pretty much every RPG I was a part of, including ones where I was the game master and had complete control. From 2010-2011, I took the role of Dungeon Master once more, but this time had better results. My players were actually being receptive to my awkward and insane ideas. It’s because of this newfound success that I decided to write fiction on a regular basis, not just movie scripts where the characters went along with each other despite the awkward writing.
To this day, I still have ups and downs when it comes to mental health. The one rule I follow to keep D&D campaigns and creative writing pieces from getting too weird is to not work on them while I’m having a bad mental health day. If the schizophrenic demons keep me boiling with anger or the depression keeps me tired and unmotivated, that would be the perfect time to take the day off. The other important rule I have to follow is to not shame myself for needing a personal day. I shame myself a lot and I think it contributes to my mental health being worse overall. Then again, mental illnesses depend on the victims cycling through negative thoughts. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be mentally ill in the first place.
I can look back on the House of Hathaway campaign and laugh about how silly it all was. Even if failing miserably hurt my self-esteem for a while, I think I’ve gained some of it back over the years and that’s why my writing career has picked up along the way. Come to think of it, writing novels is basically just playing D&D by myself. Or playing WITH myself, depending on the adult content of any one novel. Hopefully, I’ve come a long way from Regal in 2003 to Garrison Kelly in the present day. I’d like to think so. Maybe. Sometimes. I don’t know. Could you repeat the question?
Speaking of tridents, guess what my character’s weapon of choice was! Everybody else in the campaign used a long sword because they had war in their bloodlines. I used a trident because I allegedly had fishing in my bloodline. Never mind the fact that the minimum damage on a trident cushioned every bad roll I could have made in combat. Nope! I’m just an angry fisherman named Regal. No last name, just Regal. My brother’s player character was named Riant, which apparently gave him a license to call my character Reg...which is short for Reggie…which rhymes with wedgie! Ugh…
But before we could get into the actual campaign, there was a mild disagreement between my brother and I over where in my bedroom we should sit. He sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor and I sat in my computer chair. He urged me to sit on the floor with him, but I refused. So our campaign began with Regal tending a barn full of animals during a thunderstorm. Weird, but okay. I moved the animals all over the place until lightning struck me and killed me. This was all an elaborate April Fool’s joke to coerce me to sit on the floor with him. I of course didn’t catch on, because, you know, schizophrenia and all. Plus, I had just argued with an online friend the night before and pretty much terminated our relationship, so there was that weighing heavily on me.
Now that I was cross-legged on the floor with James, the real campaign could begin. The House of Hathaway (very British-sounding name if I’ve ever heard one) put a bounty on some guy’s head because he stole something valuable from them. There was a poster on the city walls with his likeness and price printed on it. The poster said he was last seen out in the countryside. So naturally, my first move would be to go out to the countryside to look for this thieving bastard. Riant disagreed. He wanted to go to the local jewelry shop to ask a bunch of questions. Regal didn’t see the point of this, but played along nonetheless. He even asked, “Are you ready to go?” Apparently, this came off like an invitation rather than a demand, so Riant dinged Regal for that one.
So Regal goes over to the jewelry shop to interrogate the clerk. When I, the player, couldn’t think of any questions, James urged me to think like Vic Mackey from The Shield. How would he interrogate someone? What kinds of questions would he ask? If you’ve seen The Shield during its heyday in the 2000’s, you would associate Vic Mackey with ass-beatings galore. That’s how he got all of his information. Was James suggesting that I beat this clerk’s ass? Seemed unreasonable to me. Riant started the conversation with, “Any word of thievery?” I continued the line of questioning with a bunch of “personal questions” that got us kicked out of the shop when the clerk got offended. Why did he get offended? Why was he not cooperating with our line of questioning? My first guess would be because the clerk was a dick who didn’t respect our authority. But Riant insisted that Regal was “asking the wrong questions”.
So after that little kafuffle, Regal and Riant finally agreed to go to the outskirts of town where the real clues led. Regal went home to get an ox to ride on and Riant gave him a weird ass look for it. Regal also got weird ass looks from ordinary citizens for carrying a trident around with him. Never mind the fact that every weapon in the D&D franchise has a sheath and that’s what I was trying to do: put it in a sheath. James insisted that tridents didn’t have sheaths (they totally do), so this was the result: a bunch of crazy stares from the extras of the campaign. Oh, excuse me, the “background artists” of the campaign.
So as Regal and Riant make their way to the countryside (with no ox to ride on), Riant gives Regal a lecture about his poor performance in this bounty hunting mission so far. “Why am I always the one helping you? I wish you’d help yourself.” This would have been the perfect time to mount Riant’s head on a trident, but Regal held back and also held his tongue. The reasonable answer would have been to complain about everybody no-selling the seriousness of what Regal was doing. They treated him like a clown for reasons I would never understand. Then again, understanding everything isn’t in the schizophrenic’s arsenal, especially under heavy medication.
The two bounty hunters go out to the countryside to interview various farmers about the last time they’ve seen the House of Hathaway’s prized thief. Regal goes up to one farmer and says, “Excuse me, can I talk to you for a moment?” The farmer says, “We’re talking now, aren’t we?” Another example of NPC’s no-selling the gravity of the situation. We weren’t talking before, that’s why Regal asked the fucking question! I can’t remember what questions Regal asked after that, but the conversation took another steep turn when the farmer asked why he was being interrogated. Regal admitted to being a bounty hunter and the farmer lectured him about how that lifestyle could get him killed or arrested. To be fair to me, I had no idea bounty hunting was a sensitive issue since bounty hunters are on the same side as traditional law enforcement. But oh well. Can’t put the words back in my mouth now!
Regal and Riant go out to the forest to look for clues and they find a series of footprints in the dirt. Regal’s assessment of the situation was that there was a struggle taking place due to the awkward angle of the foot prints. Maybe a cult had gotten the thief. Was the thief even here? Who knows? Before I had the chance to find out more, our campaign ended when James and I were called away from the game by our parents.
This campaign was supposed to be a tribute to The Shield, but it looked more like The Three Stooges…except there was only one stooge and multiple straight men. That stooge was named Regal. He was a stooge because he couldn’t figure out basic detective protocol. To my young mind, The Shield wasn’t about nuance and politics. It was about ass-beatings and edginess. If Regal tried any of the tactics Vic Mackey used on The Shield, he would have been locked up a long time ago. Regal had no official authority; he was a freelancer and didn’t have any of the privileges of a traditional cop.
I don’t want you all to think that the House of Hathaway campaign was a microcosm on its own. My role-playing abilities suffered all throughout the 2000’s due to my mental illnesses and general naivety. You talk about NPC’s no-selling the gravity of the situation? That happened in pretty much every RPG I was a part of, including ones where I was the game master and had complete control. From 2010-2011, I took the role of Dungeon Master once more, but this time had better results. My players were actually being receptive to my awkward and insane ideas. It’s because of this newfound success that I decided to write fiction on a regular basis, not just movie scripts where the characters went along with each other despite the awkward writing.
To this day, I still have ups and downs when it comes to mental health. The one rule I follow to keep D&D campaigns and creative writing pieces from getting too weird is to not work on them while I’m having a bad mental health day. If the schizophrenic demons keep me boiling with anger or the depression keeps me tired and unmotivated, that would be the perfect time to take the day off. The other important rule I have to follow is to not shame myself for needing a personal day. I shame myself a lot and I think it contributes to my mental health being worse overall. Then again, mental illnesses depend on the victims cycling through negative thoughts. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be mentally ill in the first place.
I can look back on the House of Hathaway campaign and laugh about how silly it all was. Even if failing miserably hurt my self-esteem for a while, I think I’ve gained some of it back over the years and that’s why my writing career has picked up along the way. Come to think of it, writing novels is basically just playing D&D by myself. Or playing WITH myself, depending on the adult content of any one novel. Hopefully, I’ve come a long way from Regal in 2003 to Garrison Kelly in the present day. I’d like to think so. Maybe. Sometimes. I don’t know. Could you repeat the question?
Magic
The thunderstorms of electromancy
Elven royalty dressed in robes so fancy
Pixies and gnomes dancing together
Underneath purple sunset weather
Ogres mourn the loss of beauty
Old witches still call them cuties
Orcish children play among dwarves
A fantasy world removed from war
But in today’s world of disgust
Wizards are met with distrust
The dragons don’t fly anymore
Gatekeepers make life a bore
It’s all about STEM and business
Calling the disenfranchised “idiots”
For daring to believe in a better place
Rebelling against the corporate rat race
The magic is gone, but will it ever return?
Or will the beautiful pages continue to burn?
It’s up to us to slay these hellfire beasts
To bring back childhood memories so sweet
Don’t let the overlords tell you to grow up
Be there for your army when they show up
Fight with swords, staves, and magic wands
Your barbaric war cry is your epic song
The magic didn’t die; it took a vacation
Now it’s alive in a world of devastation
Throwing fireballs and summoning gods
Electrifying the sky with a serpentine rod
Raising an army of skeletons and zombies
Shapeshifting into grizzlies, animal mommies
Our legacies will live on forever and a day
Let’s dance in celebrate in the gnomish way
Elven royalty dressed in robes so fancy
Pixies and gnomes dancing together
Underneath purple sunset weather
Ogres mourn the loss of beauty
Old witches still call them cuties
Orcish children play among dwarves
A fantasy world removed from war
But in today’s world of disgust
Wizards are met with distrust
The dragons don’t fly anymore
Gatekeepers make life a bore
It’s all about STEM and business
Calling the disenfranchised “idiots”
For daring to believe in a better place
Rebelling against the corporate rat race
The magic is gone, but will it ever return?
Or will the beautiful pages continue to burn?
It’s up to us to slay these hellfire beasts
To bring back childhood memories so sweet
Don’t let the overlords tell you to grow up
Be there for your army when they show up
Fight with swords, staves, and magic wands
Your barbaric war cry is your epic song
The magic didn’t die; it took a vacation
Now it’s alive in a world of devastation
Throwing fireballs and summoning gods
Electrifying the sky with a serpentine rod
Raising an army of skeletons and zombies
Shapeshifting into grizzlies, animal mommies
Our legacies will live on forever and a day
Let’s dance in celebrate in the gnomish way
Are You Alive?
OPENING LINE
You owe it to society to be better than your tormentors, not worse.
VERSE 1
Remember when I was fourteen years old?
You and your friends took away my soul
You cracked some jokes about my pole
Lied about me sticking it in the ugliest holes
The conspiracy spread throughout school
Believed by every white bread redneck fool
And to this day I’ll always wonder
If you can still hear my voice of thunder
CHORUS 1
Are you alive or are you dead?
Why are you renting space in my head?
Am I insane or was I right all along?
When do I get to be the hero so strong?
VERSE 2
Remember when the year was 2003?
I had stars in my eyes, a head full of dreams
But all I remember about that year
Was your insults buzzing in my ear
Grew up believing I would never be loved
By a man to whom I shouldn’t have looked up
And to this day I’ll always ask
Why your words always poured from your ass
CHORUS 2
Are you alive or are you dead?
I’d rather you were the latter instead
Am I crazy or do I have a point?
Was this all just a combat boot to the groin?
BRIDGE
I’m so tired of your excuses
I’m so tired of feeling useless
Break the cycle of my abuses
So I can finally hear the music
VERSE 3
Remember when the year was 2009?
Everybody moved on, left me behind
I’m sick of hearing, “Get a life!”
From those who stabbed my back with a knife
I can’t move on and follow my ambitions
Got a bottle of pills and shitty nutrition
And to this day I’ll sit and wait
For the world to give up on its hate
CHORUS 3
Are we alive or are we dead?
Do we lie awake in our beds?
Am I nuts or is it true
That I grew up to be like you?
You owe it to society to be better than your tormentors, not worse.
VERSE 1
Remember when I was fourteen years old?
You and your friends took away my soul
You cracked some jokes about my pole
Lied about me sticking it in the ugliest holes
The conspiracy spread throughout school
Believed by every white bread redneck fool
And to this day I’ll always wonder
If you can still hear my voice of thunder
CHORUS 1
Are you alive or are you dead?
Why are you renting space in my head?
Am I insane or was I right all along?
When do I get to be the hero so strong?
VERSE 2
Remember when the year was 2003?
I had stars in my eyes, a head full of dreams
But all I remember about that year
Was your insults buzzing in my ear
Grew up believing I would never be loved
By a man to whom I shouldn’t have looked up
And to this day I’ll always ask
Why your words always poured from your ass
CHORUS 2
Are you alive or are you dead?
I’d rather you were the latter instead
Am I crazy or do I have a point?
Was this all just a combat boot to the groin?
BRIDGE
I’m so tired of your excuses
I’m so tired of feeling useless
Break the cycle of my abuses
So I can finally hear the music
VERSE 3
Remember when the year was 2009?
Everybody moved on, left me behind
I’m sick of hearing, “Get a life!”
From those who stabbed my back with a knife
I can’t move on and follow my ambitions
Got a bottle of pills and shitty nutrition
And to this day I’ll sit and wait
For the world to give up on its hate
CHORUS 3
Are we alive or are we dead?
Do we lie awake in our beds?
Am I nuts or is it true
That I grew up to be like you?
Wednesday, August 12, 2020
Depression Is Boring
***DEPRESSION IS BORING***
So…I went for my annual physical a couple of weeks ago…and part of this physical with the new doctor was for me to fill out a brief questionnaire about my mental health. These questions included things like “Can you concentrate on basic activities?” and “Do you get easily angered?” Long story short, I scored high on the depression part of the quiz and low on the anxiety portion, although the most defining part of that anxiety quiz was how easily I get angered by little mishaps in life. Obviously, this questionnaire isn’t meant to be an official diagnosis, but if what it says is leaning towards the truth…then there’s a good chance I could have depression alongside my other mental illnesses. It would make the most sense because of the isolation from the pandemic. Everybody’s feeling on-edge right now and it’s particularly worse for people with preexisting mental health problems.
If you follow me on Face Book and/or Twitter, you’ll find that I’m quite candid about my mental illnesses. Lacking the energy to concentrate on basic creative tasks is something I experience far too often these days. The gaps in time between editing chapters of Beautiful Monster, between writing fan fiction shorts, between drawing (passable) pictures of fantasy characters, they’re far too long for my liking. While resting up is pretty much the only way to recover depleted energy, what am I supposed to do until then? If my concentration levels suck that badly, that means anything I do will be usurped by depression. This leads me to believe that…above all else…depression is fucking boring. More than anything, it’s a fucking bore. Staying in bed all day might sound glorious, especially to someone with an exhausting work schedule. But trust me, there’s no glory in feeling defeated all day long.
So what do I do to fill the time in between projects, where resting is paramount? Surely, I can’t just lie in bed all day with my racing thoughts and new age music in the background. If that’s the only thing filling the gaps of time, then that truly is the definition of boredom. Would there be any activities that didn’t require a great deal of focus? I know of at least one of them: You Tube videos. Some of my favorite You Tubers of all time include Jenna Moreci, Hannah Lee Kidder, The Authentic Observer, Cynical Reviews, Krimson Rogue, Casey Aonso, and Strange Aeons to name a few. But like me, they too have long gaps in between creative activities, their primary source being You Tube uploads. So while I’m waiting for new content…what will I do until then?
I suppose I could just watch movies and TV shows since they’re generally considered mindless activities. I have the power to do that since I got a Roku for my birthday this year. The thing is, though, I consider movies to be yet another one of my creative outlets since I write reviews for them once they’re over. So why can’t I just watch a movie for fun and forgo the review entirely? Because reviews are my personal contribution to the world when everything else is on hold. The same can’t be said for TV shows, though, because in order to properly review one, I’d have to condense the many episodes down to one or two talking points. That’s why I don’t review TV shows as often as movies, so maybe TV shows will be strictly for enjoyment and not creative fuel.
You want to know what I’m watching right now? Well, since I’m depressed as fuck, there’s only one wrestling show that can pick me up again: Dark Side of the Ring. If that sounds ironic, it should. Dark Side of the Ring is a documentary series produced by Viceland that covers shameful topics in professional wrestling, whether it’s the death of Gino Hernandez, the Montreal Screwjob, the Chris Benoit double-murder suicide, or if you need a more recent example, New Jack’s controversial behavior. Seriously, the New Jack episode made me feel grateful that I didn’t become a hardcore wrestler, because I probably would have been carved like a Thanksgiving turkey by this insane motherfucker. Rest in peace, Mass Transit. Eat shit, New Jack.
Another go-to source of fun during times of depression has been taking photographs of my animals and toys and Photoshopping them in creative ways. I have over a hundred pictures of Piper alone, more than any other animal I’ve had or currently have. What about my Lego ogre? The one with the tooth hammer and the nasty demeanor? He probably got more camera time than any other toy I’ve got.
But therein lies the problem: every time I take a picture and post it online, it feels like I’m playing the greatest hits and doing the same thing over and over again. Yes, there are over a hundred pictures of Piper, but what’s the difference between each of them individually? One of them was adjusted through a green filter to make it look like she was being abducted by aliens. One of them was adjusted through a red filter to make it look like she was being haunted by demons. One of them is a close-up of her face with a purple filter. So what? A few unique pictures out of many similar ones? Something needs to change. Same goes for the toy pictures.
Here’s another activity that I can fall back on during days of depression: long distance walks, either to the Hi-Way Market convenience store or around the Fred Meyer plaza, the latter of which will give me more exercise due to how long it is. But since we’re in the middle of a summertime heat wave, is it really wise for me to stay outdoors longer, especially when my energy is sapped from my body and mind because of the heat? Am I really getting much of a workout going to the convenience store since it’s a shorter distance? Either way, I can only do these outdoor walks once because of the physical toll it takes on my 300 lb body. Once they’re over for the day, I’ve got to find something else to do.
I’m probably leaving a lot of potential activities out for the sake of brevity. Yes, it’s Port Orchard and even if it wasn’t, it’s still not safe to go out in public for anything other than necessities. The only source of fun has to come from my own home and that’s where a lot of my mental health problems get triggered. Yes, I’m an introvert who craves solitude, but isolation and loneliness are an entirely different ball of wax. That shit messes with my head in ways I never thought possible. Negative memories from under two decades ago are flooding my mind like they actually matter in 2020.
I was lucky enough to find the peace and quiet I needed to write this blog entry, but that’s not always the case. Waiting for the memories to die down takes time…and taking time is boring, just like depression itself. Let me say it one more time for the armchair psychologists in the back: depression is a fucking bore! Depression is like watching three hours of Monday Night Raw in the fall of 2018. Depression is like watching paint dry. Depression is like watching grass grow. It is…a FUCKING BORE!
***ONLINE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
(Circa 2005)
MY SPACE TROLL: You need some serious help if you thought that movie was good.
GARRISON: Help? What kind of help? I know! Why don’t you come on over here and help me with my pants zipper! There’s a special prize for you underneath if you do!
So…I went for my annual physical a couple of weeks ago…and part of this physical with the new doctor was for me to fill out a brief questionnaire about my mental health. These questions included things like “Can you concentrate on basic activities?” and “Do you get easily angered?” Long story short, I scored high on the depression part of the quiz and low on the anxiety portion, although the most defining part of that anxiety quiz was how easily I get angered by little mishaps in life. Obviously, this questionnaire isn’t meant to be an official diagnosis, but if what it says is leaning towards the truth…then there’s a good chance I could have depression alongside my other mental illnesses. It would make the most sense because of the isolation from the pandemic. Everybody’s feeling on-edge right now and it’s particularly worse for people with preexisting mental health problems.
If you follow me on Face Book and/or Twitter, you’ll find that I’m quite candid about my mental illnesses. Lacking the energy to concentrate on basic creative tasks is something I experience far too often these days. The gaps in time between editing chapters of Beautiful Monster, between writing fan fiction shorts, between drawing (passable) pictures of fantasy characters, they’re far too long for my liking. While resting up is pretty much the only way to recover depleted energy, what am I supposed to do until then? If my concentration levels suck that badly, that means anything I do will be usurped by depression. This leads me to believe that…above all else…depression is fucking boring. More than anything, it’s a fucking bore. Staying in bed all day might sound glorious, especially to someone with an exhausting work schedule. But trust me, there’s no glory in feeling defeated all day long.
So what do I do to fill the time in between projects, where resting is paramount? Surely, I can’t just lie in bed all day with my racing thoughts and new age music in the background. If that’s the only thing filling the gaps of time, then that truly is the definition of boredom. Would there be any activities that didn’t require a great deal of focus? I know of at least one of them: You Tube videos. Some of my favorite You Tubers of all time include Jenna Moreci, Hannah Lee Kidder, The Authentic Observer, Cynical Reviews, Krimson Rogue, Casey Aonso, and Strange Aeons to name a few. But like me, they too have long gaps in between creative activities, their primary source being You Tube uploads. So while I’m waiting for new content…what will I do until then?
I suppose I could just watch movies and TV shows since they’re generally considered mindless activities. I have the power to do that since I got a Roku for my birthday this year. The thing is, though, I consider movies to be yet another one of my creative outlets since I write reviews for them once they’re over. So why can’t I just watch a movie for fun and forgo the review entirely? Because reviews are my personal contribution to the world when everything else is on hold. The same can’t be said for TV shows, though, because in order to properly review one, I’d have to condense the many episodes down to one or two talking points. That’s why I don’t review TV shows as often as movies, so maybe TV shows will be strictly for enjoyment and not creative fuel.
You want to know what I’m watching right now? Well, since I’m depressed as fuck, there’s only one wrestling show that can pick me up again: Dark Side of the Ring. If that sounds ironic, it should. Dark Side of the Ring is a documentary series produced by Viceland that covers shameful topics in professional wrestling, whether it’s the death of Gino Hernandez, the Montreal Screwjob, the Chris Benoit double-murder suicide, or if you need a more recent example, New Jack’s controversial behavior. Seriously, the New Jack episode made me feel grateful that I didn’t become a hardcore wrestler, because I probably would have been carved like a Thanksgiving turkey by this insane motherfucker. Rest in peace, Mass Transit. Eat shit, New Jack.
Another go-to source of fun during times of depression has been taking photographs of my animals and toys and Photoshopping them in creative ways. I have over a hundred pictures of Piper alone, more than any other animal I’ve had or currently have. What about my Lego ogre? The one with the tooth hammer and the nasty demeanor? He probably got more camera time than any other toy I’ve got.
But therein lies the problem: every time I take a picture and post it online, it feels like I’m playing the greatest hits and doing the same thing over and over again. Yes, there are over a hundred pictures of Piper, but what’s the difference between each of them individually? One of them was adjusted through a green filter to make it look like she was being abducted by aliens. One of them was adjusted through a red filter to make it look like she was being haunted by demons. One of them is a close-up of her face with a purple filter. So what? A few unique pictures out of many similar ones? Something needs to change. Same goes for the toy pictures.
Here’s another activity that I can fall back on during days of depression: long distance walks, either to the Hi-Way Market convenience store or around the Fred Meyer plaza, the latter of which will give me more exercise due to how long it is. But since we’re in the middle of a summertime heat wave, is it really wise for me to stay outdoors longer, especially when my energy is sapped from my body and mind because of the heat? Am I really getting much of a workout going to the convenience store since it’s a shorter distance? Either way, I can only do these outdoor walks once because of the physical toll it takes on my 300 lb body. Once they’re over for the day, I’ve got to find something else to do.
I’m probably leaving a lot of potential activities out for the sake of brevity. Yes, it’s Port Orchard and even if it wasn’t, it’s still not safe to go out in public for anything other than necessities. The only source of fun has to come from my own home and that’s where a lot of my mental health problems get triggered. Yes, I’m an introvert who craves solitude, but isolation and loneliness are an entirely different ball of wax. That shit messes with my head in ways I never thought possible. Negative memories from under two decades ago are flooding my mind like they actually matter in 2020.
I was lucky enough to find the peace and quiet I needed to write this blog entry, but that’s not always the case. Waiting for the memories to die down takes time…and taking time is boring, just like depression itself. Let me say it one more time for the armchair psychologists in the back: depression is a fucking bore! Depression is like watching three hours of Monday Night Raw in the fall of 2018. Depression is like watching paint dry. Depression is like watching grass grow. It is…a FUCKING BORE!
***ONLINE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
(Circa 2005)
MY SPACE TROLL: You need some serious help if you thought that movie was good.
GARRISON: Help? What kind of help? I know! Why don’t you come on over here and help me with my pants zipper! There’s a special prize for you underneath if you do!
Friday, August 7, 2020
Reincarnation
***REINCARNATION***
This pandemic has left a lot of us on cruise control, which means a lot of time to think about whatever. For people like me who suffer from a variety of mental illnesses, that’s not always a good thing. Imaginations aren’t always about unicorns and dragons and woodland elves. Sometimes they’re a lot more sinister. Sometimes you argue with your head voices and accomplish nothing except for ensuring your own heartache in the process. And somewhere in this sea of diarrhea, you find a few gems. My gem happens to be the concept of reincarnation. It’s something I’ve made up my mind about a long time ago, but haven’t really discussed it at length with anybody, let alone the public. So in the interest of coming to grips with our own mortalities in the midst of worldwide trauma, here are my thoughts on the subject:
Despite being a hardcore atheist with no desire for heaven and hell, I do believe in reincarnation. It doesn’t have to be influenced by religion or politics. My own belief in reincarnation is one out of necessity. The idea of dying and being frozen in time with no consciousness and nothing to do is just boring to me. So boring, in fact, that it would drive me insane despite not having a consciousness. I do want to be reincarnated when I die. I don’t want to just sit around and stare at a blank screen for all eternity. Would I have any say as to how I would be reincarnated? Of course not. That would ruin the whole mystery of it all and make death completely meaningless.
What would I be reincarnated as? A human child in a loving home? A human child in a broken home? A future metal head in the making? A future country star in the making? An author again? An atheist? A Christian? An American? A Canadian? A Saudi Arabian? Whatever this new life would be, it would come with its own lessons and challenges, just like any other life. There would be complexities, opinions, feelings, and three-dimensional characteristics. I would have my own set of demons that would either traumatize me for life or give me something to conquer. Or maybe I could just be reborn as a lap cat and completely laze my way through existence. That would be nice!
If you think I’m spouting a bunch of verbal diarrhea when it comes to my reincarnation beliefs, that won’t bother me at all. You can agree or disagree with or without evidence. There really isn’t a whole lot of science to confirm my beliefs, so I could very well believe in something strictly for comfort’s sake. But I do have some questions for you all to think about. Why were we born in this specific time period? Why do I have this specific consciousness? What was I doing long before my birth into this specific life? Was I just staring at a blank screen this whole time? But how can I if there’s no consciousness or eyeballs to speak of? Why wasn’t I born in the middle ages? Or the old west? Or in Russia? Or in Germany? Or in South Africa? Am I making sense or am I word barfing onto the page?
Again, my beliefs are strictly for comfort’s sake. It’s kind of like the idea of The Rainbow Bridge, which is the animal version of heaven. Our puppies and kitties can run around freely and play and wrestle as long as they want to and when they get tired they can get in one big cuddle puddle. When they’re ready to return to earth, they can keep on being their cute selves, but in a different body with a different set of circumstances. There’s no proof that The Rainbow Bridge is real. It’s something we tell each other so that our dead animals don’t feel alone. I say it a lot when it comes to my own animals, whether it’s my gray and white kitty Emilio, my chubster kitty Oswald, or my saggy-jowled Maggie puppy. Nobody has disputed these talking points and I wouldn’t want them to. We don’t want to think of our animals as being alone out there in space. We want them to dance and play on The Rainbow Bridge.
If you’re still not satisfied with the idea of reincarnation, then there’s one more way to stay alive: immortalization in the minds of others. Your decisions and actions have a huge impact on the people around you whether these actions are small or magnanimous. You could donate a million dollars to the poor or you can say hello to a random stranger. Those things matter and they will immortalize you. But for me personally, I want my impact on this world to live on in the digital world. That’s why I publish my books with Amazon and post blogs like this one on social media. The bigger my digital footprint, the harder it is for people to forget, and the longer I’ll stay alive even after I’m gone.
I’m not one to force my ideas upon the world and make people conform to me. Imagine how boring life would be if everybody thought the way I do. That’s a lot of schizophrenic weirdoes! In all seriousness, though, if you don’t want to believe in reincarnation or you want to see it through an entirely different lens, then that’s your prerogative and I won’t harass you for it. I’m merely sharing my thoughts with the world, that’s all.
But whether reincarnation exists or not, I want you all to do me a favor. Live the very best life you can. I know that’s hard to do with the pandemic and world news going on, but your happiness is important. If you can’t find it on a larger scale, then you can try to find it in the little things. Life is worth living, Corona Virus or not. Tell the people around you that you love them and mean it with every fiber of your being. We will get through this. And if you don’t, then may you be reincarnated into a saggy-jowled puppy-duppy who gets lots of pettings and love from your owner. I’m Garrison Kelly! Thank you for keeping the faith!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“Come and share this painting with me. Unveiling of me. The magician that never failed. This deep sigh covers all of my chest. Intoxicated by a major chord. I wonder, do I love you or the thought of you? Southern blue. Morning dew. Let down your guards. I love yous. Ice cream castles. Lips to ear rhymes. A slumber deeper than time. Slow, love, slow. Only the weak are not lonely.”
-Nightwish singing “Slow, Love, Slow”-
This pandemic has left a lot of us on cruise control, which means a lot of time to think about whatever. For people like me who suffer from a variety of mental illnesses, that’s not always a good thing. Imaginations aren’t always about unicorns and dragons and woodland elves. Sometimes they’re a lot more sinister. Sometimes you argue with your head voices and accomplish nothing except for ensuring your own heartache in the process. And somewhere in this sea of diarrhea, you find a few gems. My gem happens to be the concept of reincarnation. It’s something I’ve made up my mind about a long time ago, but haven’t really discussed it at length with anybody, let alone the public. So in the interest of coming to grips with our own mortalities in the midst of worldwide trauma, here are my thoughts on the subject:
Despite being a hardcore atheist with no desire for heaven and hell, I do believe in reincarnation. It doesn’t have to be influenced by religion or politics. My own belief in reincarnation is one out of necessity. The idea of dying and being frozen in time with no consciousness and nothing to do is just boring to me. So boring, in fact, that it would drive me insane despite not having a consciousness. I do want to be reincarnated when I die. I don’t want to just sit around and stare at a blank screen for all eternity. Would I have any say as to how I would be reincarnated? Of course not. That would ruin the whole mystery of it all and make death completely meaningless.
What would I be reincarnated as? A human child in a loving home? A human child in a broken home? A future metal head in the making? A future country star in the making? An author again? An atheist? A Christian? An American? A Canadian? A Saudi Arabian? Whatever this new life would be, it would come with its own lessons and challenges, just like any other life. There would be complexities, opinions, feelings, and three-dimensional characteristics. I would have my own set of demons that would either traumatize me for life or give me something to conquer. Or maybe I could just be reborn as a lap cat and completely laze my way through existence. That would be nice!
If you think I’m spouting a bunch of verbal diarrhea when it comes to my reincarnation beliefs, that won’t bother me at all. You can agree or disagree with or without evidence. There really isn’t a whole lot of science to confirm my beliefs, so I could very well believe in something strictly for comfort’s sake. But I do have some questions for you all to think about. Why were we born in this specific time period? Why do I have this specific consciousness? What was I doing long before my birth into this specific life? Was I just staring at a blank screen this whole time? But how can I if there’s no consciousness or eyeballs to speak of? Why wasn’t I born in the middle ages? Or the old west? Or in Russia? Or in Germany? Or in South Africa? Am I making sense or am I word barfing onto the page?
Again, my beliefs are strictly for comfort’s sake. It’s kind of like the idea of The Rainbow Bridge, which is the animal version of heaven. Our puppies and kitties can run around freely and play and wrestle as long as they want to and when they get tired they can get in one big cuddle puddle. When they’re ready to return to earth, they can keep on being their cute selves, but in a different body with a different set of circumstances. There’s no proof that The Rainbow Bridge is real. It’s something we tell each other so that our dead animals don’t feel alone. I say it a lot when it comes to my own animals, whether it’s my gray and white kitty Emilio, my chubster kitty Oswald, or my saggy-jowled Maggie puppy. Nobody has disputed these talking points and I wouldn’t want them to. We don’t want to think of our animals as being alone out there in space. We want them to dance and play on The Rainbow Bridge.
If you’re still not satisfied with the idea of reincarnation, then there’s one more way to stay alive: immortalization in the minds of others. Your decisions and actions have a huge impact on the people around you whether these actions are small or magnanimous. You could donate a million dollars to the poor or you can say hello to a random stranger. Those things matter and they will immortalize you. But for me personally, I want my impact on this world to live on in the digital world. That’s why I publish my books with Amazon and post blogs like this one on social media. The bigger my digital footprint, the harder it is for people to forget, and the longer I’ll stay alive even after I’m gone.
I’m not one to force my ideas upon the world and make people conform to me. Imagine how boring life would be if everybody thought the way I do. That’s a lot of schizophrenic weirdoes! In all seriousness, though, if you don’t want to believe in reincarnation or you want to see it through an entirely different lens, then that’s your prerogative and I won’t harass you for it. I’m merely sharing my thoughts with the world, that’s all.
But whether reincarnation exists or not, I want you all to do me a favor. Live the very best life you can. I know that’s hard to do with the pandemic and world news going on, but your happiness is important. If you can’t find it on a larger scale, then you can try to find it in the little things. Life is worth living, Corona Virus or not. Tell the people around you that you love them and mean it with every fiber of your being. We will get through this. And if you don’t, then may you be reincarnated into a saggy-jowled puppy-duppy who gets lots of pettings and love from your owner. I’m Garrison Kelly! Thank you for keeping the faith!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“Come and share this painting with me. Unveiling of me. The magician that never failed. This deep sigh covers all of my chest. Intoxicated by a major chord. I wonder, do I love you or the thought of you? Southern blue. Morning dew. Let down your guards. I love yous. Ice cream castles. Lips to ear rhymes. A slumber deeper than time. Slow, love, slow. Only the weak are not lonely.”
-Nightwish singing “Slow, Love, Slow”-
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