The Hobby Continues...

 

Selling Your Soul

VERSE 1

You sold your soul for some paper and metal

Digital transactions from lawsuits you settled

All you have left is a mediocre shell

And a special seat for you waiting in hell

Your spirit was once so colorful and bright

Before you fell off hard after turning right

Your road to heaven was paved with blood

Your so-called “truth bombs” were only duds

 

VERSE 2

When I give my soul to the left

I get a return on what I invest

The stories of underdogs just like myself

Told in the form of books on my shelf

Songs, art, movies, and more

Keep me from becoming a bootlicking whore

I grew and matured, I learned from the best

Who cares about results on a standardized test?

 

VERSE 3

Crushing dreams is what keeps you alive

Heaven forbid that creativity thrives

They should sell their souls for a pizza party

In a corporate office packed like sardines

Into cubicles more like trash compactors

That’s how you see them, they suppress detractors

Power corrupts, it’s an insatiable hunger

Feed the addiction while the artists suffer

 

VERSE 4

Why hire meat sacks when robots are cheaper?

Why use your brain when your pockets are deeper?

Why relate to another human being?

When outer beauty is all that you’re seeing?

Beauty fades and so does common sense

Those who enable you are not your friends

They carry knives in search of a back

Slip up just a little and they’re on the attack

They run away with your big money sack

Another soulless wonder, you’re left with jack

“Capitalism breeds innovation” they say

Yet it’s the same old shit every damn day

Gone

“Don’t fall in love with strangers on the internet

Even though their beauty is impossible to forget

There are real life girls who’d love to take you to bed”

It’s the world’s shortest line, because they’re all gone

 

“Don’t spend all your time watching You Tube clips

While you’re munching down on a bag of cheesy chips

There’s so much cinema, characters you want to ship”

There’s just one problem, the best of them are gone

 

“Stop laying in bed when there’s so much to create

Never mind that the discourse is covered in hate

You can counter it with love, why would you want to wait?”

I’ll tell you why: because the good ones are gone

 

“Mother Nature is the very best antidepressant

The cost is cheap for every working-class peasant

You can feed the squirrels, sing with the pheasants”

It’s too hot outside, because the ozone is gone

 

“Get yourself a car, show off your convertible

Get yourself a job, get paid to be serviceable

Buy all the shit you want, stack it high and vertical”

Where are all the good bosses? Oh wait, they’re gone

 

Just gone! Gone! Gone without a trace!

A shitshow of a world is what came in its place

I’ve never seen a broken spirit with a happy face

It’s camouflage for authenticity they want to erase

 

“Can’t we all just get along?” Fuck no, we can’t!

Not as long as we’re repeating the same racist chant

Not as long as the elite cuts us off at the knees

And brainwashes everyone with the greatest of ease

 

Gone! Gone! Gone without a trace!

Beautiful Monster, Prologue

Elves from all walks of life filed into the Magetan church as though they were already in a Death Valley March trance. Farmers, warriors, healers, scholars, adults, children, they had all seen their fair share of trauma by virtue of their light green skin and pointy ears. It was just another form of othering that the human population had gotten far too comfortable with. The Xavier Village was their only refuge from it all, yet the luster of safety was growing dimmer with each passing day, with each missing elf, with each instance of violence and every microaggression. 

The elven flock took their seats in the wooden pews. Some of them breathed slowly to try to calm themselves down. Mothers held their bewildered children in their arms. Married couples of all sexual orientations rested their heads on each other’s shoulders and held hands as tightly as they could, as if letting go would cause them to float away into the dark abyss. Most of these elves didn’t bother dressing up in their finest clothing for this sermon. Dirt-covered overalls, torn leather vests, baggy pants that were the only source of comfort for some, and dresses with faded purple colors were among the fashion of the day. The collective trauma must have made dressing their best seem like a laborious chore. No one could blame them. Combing their flowing locks seemed like the only notable effort.

Conspicuous by her own presence was the woman with prematurely gray dreadlocks sitting alone on the far end of one of the pews. While other elves were simply sick and tired of the grind of their disenfranchised lives, Bijou Birdwing seemed to carry that burden more than anyone else. The bridal gown she wore looked as though it had seen many years of fights and lonely nights in the streets of Morgan Town, judging from the blood and dirt stains smeared every which way. Her body odor was forgivable among the flock, but the constant twitching, muttering to herself, and staring off into the distance caused them to hold onto their loved ones even tighter. Bijou had been through hell and she seemed determined to put the world through worse.

Queen Llewellyn Xavier took notice of every disturbing aspect among the congregation’s presentation, yet remained the sole beacon of hope in this village by virtue of how she herself was presented. Her pristine purple velvet robe adorned with leonine faces and golden trim along with her wooden crown were symbols of her regality, but her calm composure, her hands across her lap, and her gentle stare were what solidified her as a symbol of strength. 

Her therapist and personal confidant Vera Echo rubbing her shoulders helped in keeping her calm as well. One final squeeze and the fluffy blue robed therapist took her seat in the front pew. Llewellyn smiled at her confidant as Vera pulled out her plush doll and flipped it around as her own source of comfort. Everyone had their own things. This was Vera’s. With her age showing in the white strands in her long black hair, she’d seen enough in her lifetime and didn’t want to take shit from people telling her to grow up.

Now that everyone had taken their seats and were waiting patiently for the sermon to begin, Llewellyn took center stage and lightly banged the gong with her mallet. “Nagata,” she said while doing a fist-to-palm prayer stance. Others in the congregation repeated this gesture. This was a sign of respect among the Magetan covenant, a source of siblinghood, and a token of love. These people needed all the love and siblinghood they could get, especially Bijou who continued to twitch like she had consumed something poisonous for her already fucked up mind.

“Welcome, everyone. As you all are aware, there’ve been many changes in our village over the past few months. Most of our brothers and sisters have gone missing through mysterious circumstances. Those who try to investigate end up missing themselves…including my own flesh and blood Windham. He is out there somewhere looking for our loved ones. But until the day comes when everyone returns, it’s important to know why this is all happening. This isn’t but a random occurrence. There’s a history behind these actions. A history of othering. A history of violence. A history of fascism among the human race, the same humans we depend on for our currency with the outside world.”

Llewellyn tucked her head and cleared her throat, the smallest sign of crumbling under pressure, yet invisible to all. “To understand the history of our people, it is always important to remember that this land we call ours doesn’t belong to us at all. It in fact once belonged to a society of dwarves that have since moved underground due to human meddling. It is unclear when they will return to the surface for vengeance. The dwarves were painted as savages and cutthroats, when it was in fact the accidental consumption of a single poisonous plant that caused many of them to lash out the way that they did. Was the Brock Flower planted there on purpose? May have been. But ever since the consumption of that plant, this land was used by other kingdoms as an execution ground for undesirables and prisoners. They would be airdropped into these lands knowing the sickly dwarves would kill them.”

While the Queen took a brief sigh, Vera clutched her doll tighter while Bijou grew more agitated in her little corner. Other elves held onto their loved ones for comfort. The Queen continued. “These undesirables weren’t killers and hardened criminals. They were innocents that we would have welcomed into our church if given the opportunity. Those with mind ghosts, those who loved the same gender, those who identified as other genders, progressives, artists, they were all airdropped onto this island and killed off as to be expected. But then the kingdom got greedy and dropped too many prisoners onto the island. The prisoners soon outnumbered the dwarves and in fact held their own in combat. The dwarves had no choice but to retreat underground.”

Llewellyn noticed Bijou twitching even harder than before, but continued the sermon nonetheless. “The dwarves are not to blame in all of this. They were victims of circumstance. That is why we take care of their land and grow the finest vegetables and fruits…like this one.” She pulled a baby corn cob out of her robe’s breast pocket and handed it to a small child in the front row, who thanked her with wide eyes and gobbled down on it happily. Everyone smiled at this beautiful gesture. Vera held onto her doll like it was a beloved family member. Bijou calmed down, but only a little bit.

“But as you all know, not all of our vegetables and fruits have turned out to be healthy. A blight had infected our crops, one which could be solved with our grangers had they not disappeared. They too were victims of othering, just like the first elf Ryoka, a warrior with brain ghosts who was among the class of prisoners who forced the dwarves to move underground. She did nothing wrong other than have a skin condition that turned her dark green and struggle with her inner demons. That’s all it took for her to be considered undesirable. She, like many elves after her, was accused of witchcraft after the accidental burning of Morgan Town property. Maybe there was magic in those days, but it has long since been suppressed by human colonialism.”

The initial happiness from Llewellyn’s corn offering turned to more nervousness and head-tucking sadness from the congregation. “But our story didn’t end there. It only began with the emergence of our leonine god Mageta. Nobody knows where this god came from. Nobody knows why he saved us. But just like the dwarves before us, he deserves respect in our people’s history. Mageta slaughtered those who dared imprison and oppress us. His warm fur coat provided a place for sickly elves to rest. His fuzzy paws, though worn with combat, gave us hugs that would last us for generations. 

That was five hundred years ago and ever since then we’ve given him thanks with our worship and our progressive ways. With this small reprieve he gave us, we as elves temporarily broke our cycles of abuse inflicted on us by the humans. We continue to break cycles and be better versions of ourselves than generations before…because Mageta is no longer here with us. After he was savagely hunted down by those he fought against, he forged his own meadow kingdom in the afterlife. He is waiting for us. He wants to give us comfort and love once again. But first…we must carry on his legacy in this world.”

Llewellyn proudly waved her arm around the church decorations. “You see these lion statues? Do you see these stained glass windows of elven legends past and present? Do you see these paintings of us being victorious in battle? Do you see tapestries and rugs designed with the faces of animals we love today? It is our creativity that makes us feel alive in a world that wants us dead. It is our therapy, much like the animals that live in our village themselves. Ever created a sculpture of a whale and had a nightjar sit on your shoulder the entire time? Windham has. Ever painted a picture of your wife with flowers in her hair while a kitten sits on your lap? Ever chiseled a granite weapon while a dog rubs his head against the blunt end? Progressivism, cycle breaking, creativity, animal care, these things are all what we live for. They make life bearable. They make it worth living. That is why we must take good care of each other for the time we have left. Nagata!”

The congregation, Llewellyn included, did the first-to-palm prayer to end the sermon. This moment of clarity was broken when Bijou stood up and shrieked, “Get your hands out of my underwear! Get your bastardly hands off of me!” She had everyone’s shocked attention, but Llewellyn held her ground.

“Bijou! Who are you talking to?! Who did this to you?!”

Bijou went silent as her paranoid eyes darted around to see everyone staring at her with paranoid eyes of their own. “…Nobody…there’s nobody here…”

“Listen to me, my friend,” said Llewellyn in a firm, yet gentle tone. “Dr. Echo’s door is open to you anytime you need someone to talk to. Things haven’t been the same since your sister Juliet left you to join the Atwood Queendom. Her betrayal is unforgivable. She’s the Mother Ruth archetype we hear about so much. I know you two used to play with dolls together. You told stories to each other. You had so much creative energy inside you. Let us help you get your passion for life back. Please…seek help. It doesn’t even have to be a therapy session with Vera. It could be a backgammon game with her. Or a chess game with me. Maybe we can tell stories together. Let us help you in whatever way we can.”

“Help? You want to help ME?!” Bijou screamed, making everyone jump backwards in fear. “I don’t need your damn help, Llewellyn. In fact, I downright despise you. If I had a knife in my hand, I would slash you from asshole to appetite. You’re the reason why my sister is gone. You’re the reason why my mother abandoned us. And you’re the reason why this village is turning to shit. You stand up there all high and mighty and yet you haven’t done a single thing to restore the peace. Your empty words don’t work on me. My words…” She pointed to her own head. “Come from here. They’re the only ones I can trust from now on. Everyone else is a backstabber.” Bijou gave Llewellyn double middle fingers as she stomped out of the church. She even pushed over a granite statue of Mageta on her way out.

The rest of the congregation stared at their Queen with disbelief in their eyes, as though their symbol of strength had let them down. They exited the church the same way they came in: imitating the Death Valley March, a traumatic condition where marching blindly into combat was the only way to the afterlife. 

I failed them. I failed them all. Damn it, Windham. Where are you? Where are you, Lars? I need someone to lean on. Yet, everyone I love has turned away from me. These were the thoughts that circled Llewellyn’s head as she tucked her chin and turned her back to the audience so that she wouldn’t have to watch them walk away from her. Bijou is delirious. But some of what she said was right… Vera approached Llewellyn for another shoulder rub, but this time was turned away as the Queen trudged out of sight. If my parents were alive, they wouldn’t let this be. The shameful trek back to her throne room ended with a plop on her comfortable bed, face down like a drunk in an alleyway. I have no right to sleep in a comfortable bed when others are suffering. Windham, please come home. Lars, we need to talk. Can anyone help me?!

Celebrate Yourself

VERSE 1

You don’t have to win at March Madness

To earn the right to alleviate your sadness

If all you did was survive another year

Then celebrate yourself with cake and beer

You call yourself weak, but I see the opposite

You’re a badass and a half and alive on top of it

Your value isn’t measured by a teacher’s grade

Or whether or not the boss man gets paid

CHORUS 1

Celebrate yourself, because you’ve got this

Shine your beacon of light, don’t ever stop it

On those days when you’re feeling like hell

Celebrate yourself until you’re healthy and well

VERSE 2

Getting out of bed is worth a thousand Oscars

And a thousand tape gags for the smack-talkers

And a thousand tacos on your dinner plate

And a thousand burgers is what you ate

Getting dressed in your absolute best

Is a feat in itself, you more than passed the test

In a world where everything drains you away

Be thankful that you lived yet another day

CHORUS 1

Celebrate yourself, because you’ve got this

Shine your beacon of light, don’t ever stop it

On those days when you’re feeling like hell

Celebrate yourself until you’re healthy and well

BRIDGE

When racing to the top of the corporate ladder

Leaves you so empty that effort doesn’t matter

Remember that glory is always overrated

When it’s a line of work you definitely hated

What’s so great about grinding and dying

When it leaves you defeated and crying?

A boss man could never really understand

The pain of it all when his head’s in the sand

CHORUS 2

Celebrate yourself, you’re worth more than this

Your strengths belong on a never-ending list

On those days when you’re doubting it all

Celebrate yourself, stand a hundred feet tall

Jerry Frost Is the Colonel Sanders of Jim Roots

We’ve all had days where we were out of fettle. Getting out of bed couldn’t be harder if you were cuffed to the fucking thing. Even the act of ordering fast food proved more difficult than cooking a three-course meal yourself. The wintry mix of gray diarrhea and depressive smoke bears down upon you whether you have a roof over your head or not. Wouldn’t it be nice to have somebody to talk to during these difficult moments? Someone who won’t judge you (because your brain does that enough already). Someone who won’t make you talk about things you’re not comfortable with. Someone who can put things into perspective in a way you couldn’t see before (probably because your damp eyelids were too heavy to lift). That someone could very well be licensed art therapist Jerry Frost, one of the few RPG characters I managed to get right.

Okay, so he wasn’t 100% perfect, but who would want that anyways since Gary-Stus are about as appealing as a wet paper towel. But while his portrayal of a psychotherapist was dead-on, his background story could have used a hell of a lot more work than I gave it. His childhood would have given Sigmund Freud a massive stroke (the kind in his brain, not the kind in his jockey shorts, you sick fucks). Jerry’s parents were tough on him as they pushed him towards becoming a STEM guy. He could forget his artistic pursuits and just mix chemicals all day long, because that’s what the wallet wanted. But even Jerry knew that wallets were hungry for more than just Big Pharma money or electrical engineering cheddar. Just like with menus at restaurants, there were many avenues for Jerry to choose from. But his strict parents insisted he become a STEM guy, because that was the wallet’s equivalent of an all-you-can-eat Brazilian steakhouse.

Jerry had other plans. Mixing chemicals and fusing wires together sounded about as much fun to him as watching dust accumulate on his bookshelf. Why care so much about the dust when there were perfectly good books there with stories of dragons and elves, kings, queens, and themperors, magical diamonds and fiery swords? He could write his own stories. He could draw his own creatures. He could compose acoustic guitar songs about an elven archer’s final shot into the heart of a cannibalistic ogre. He could do it all! But of course, the message of STEM guys being paid handsomely was beaten into his head so much that he had to come up with a nice compromise so that he didn’t get chucked out of the house before he was ready. Jerry Frost would become an art therapist. He still got to explore his creative avenues, but he could satisfy his STEM obligations since psychology is still a science.

So far, so good. He’s got a background story. He’s got motivations. He’s got a psychological edge to him. Now all he needs is a way to pay for college so that he can get that degree and get out there into the world. And he plans on paying for it by…working extra hours at KFC. Why wouldn’t he want to work at KFC? He looks like Jim Root from Slipknot and Jim Root has that beard and hairstyle combo that almost reminded him of Colonel Sanders. Jerry Frost is the Colonel Sanders of Jim Roots. He made a shit-load of fried chicken and served it to the hungriest bellies, all day, every day, until he earned enough to pay for his tuition. There’s just one problem with all of this: in the real world, working at KFC doesn’t pay for shit. Barely surviving in an apartment that costs an arm, a leg, a brain, and a heart is closer to reality than this dream scenario I concocted. It’s a uniquely millennial and Gen Z experience. That is where Jerry’s back story falls apart.

Another way in which it falls apart is through the act of art therapy itself. I didn’t learn this until after the RPG session, but apparently, having art as your most obsessive hobby is dangerous, because once he lose the will and the energy to do that, you’re left with nothing. Absolutely nothing. I felt personally attacked by this revelation (another uniquely millennial and Gen Z idea). As of today, almost everything I do involves creativity in one form or another: writing, reading, drawing, photography, even watching movies has creative merit (media literacy). And once I’m too tired for creativity, then what? Do I just lay around and wait for the feeling to pass? Yes! Jerry Frost probably should have warned his first patient Christian that this was going to happen, but like the chicken he made, his brain was too fried to comprehend such possibilities.

And thus we segue from the back story to the main role-play. Jerry Frost has his office set up just the way he likes: heavy metal posters nailed to the walls, drawings strewn about on his desk, books on a wooden shelf that told stories of epic fantasy battles and space opera death matches, and of course, a marble skull on his desk. Why a marble skull? Does he really need a reason? Yes, some of these decorations sounded too creepy to be in a psychologist’s office. The In This Moment poster with bloody hands sticking up and the Pink Floyd poster with the screaming face come to mind the most. But Christian didn’t seem to give two fucks about that. He was just sitting there on a puke green couch with his head in his hands and a shit-load of anger boiling inside of him. And so Jerry asked him, “What brings you to my office today?”

Obligation. That’s what brought him there. Christian didn’t see the point in coming, only that he had no other choice. Jerry, being the art therapist that he was, recommended some creative activities as a form of free association, or piecing together someone’s psychological makeup through symbols and phrases in the creations. Jerry even recommended rocking out to Sepultura to getting all of that anger out of his system. And then Christian lost it. “NO! I don’t want to rock out to Sepultura! It’s not going to bring her back!” Jerry knew that he fucked up badly. He pushed buttons that he had no business pushing. Any minute, Christian could have walked out of the room and this would mark Jerry’s first failure as a psychologist. And then he asked…

“What do you mean ‘bring her back’?” And suddenly, Jerry was on the right track once again. Christian opened up about how his lover was murdered by her own family. He wanted to get revenge on them through murder of his own, but if he did, he and Jerry would be doing this session from a prison cell that’s scarier than any heavy metal poster-decorated office. There would be no marble skulls in his cell except for the ones shattered on the floor by a dude named Bubba. So instead of murder, Jerry suggested a creative activity once again, this time as a positive outlet for his pain. Yes, drawing pictures didn’t solve everything, but they were something. And wouldn’t you know it, Christian drew a nice picture of his lover with techniques that even surpassed Jerry’s own abilities. Jerry showered him in compliments and earned his trust, while also keeping his job and his license. But the trust and the humanity was more important than a constantly starving wallet.

In the final moments of the role-play, Christian wanted to take Jerry on a field trip to the cemetery to pay respects to the dead girlfriend. But before that scene could come to fruition, the RPG group went dark for the longest time. It didn’t get deleted. It was just…inactive. A ghost town, of sorts. I didn’t know when they were going to be back. I didn’t know what the future held for Jerry Frost. So I left the group without saying goodbye. Do they still think about me to this day? That’s the hope I have with a character like Jerry Frost. I wanted him to have a positive impact on my fellow role-players.

Come to think of it, that’s what I want for myself going forward: to have a positive influence on the people who read my stuff. For years and years now, I’ve been writing stories purely for shock value. Yes, they had a clear-cut narrative with a beginning, middle, and end, but they also had things like torture, rape, pedophilia, and a whole shit-load of disgusting garbage that would never qualify as positive in this or any other world. Some people don’t mind being disturbed, but if that’s all I have going for my stories, then that’s a good way to drive my audience elsewhere. Everybody has their limits when it comes to raunchy content. We all have things that disgust us beyond belief and none of it makes us “snowflakes”. Okay, maybe the people who are asking schools to remove Maus could be considered snowflakes, but that’s beside the point. At least Art Spiegelman had a message. What do I have? Shock! I’ve got shock!

Jerry Frost is one of the few shining examples I have of a character gone right (KFC and art therapy be damned). He didn’t have to be an edge lord. He didn’t have to be vile. He didn’t even have to be overly flawed. Being a gentle and understanding soul was a requirement for the job he took. If it feels like he’s not flawed enough, that’s why. Yes, he did almost cause Christian to storm out of his office when he pushed the art therapy narrative too hard, but that’s only because he’s still a rookie at his profession. Inexperience is a great flaw for a character to have.

So…will I revive the Jerry Frost character in a future RPG? How about a future story? Or a poem? That all depends on whether or not I need a psychologist in any given work. He has potential to be something greater than a flash in the pan. I might have to tweak his back story a little bit, but there’s still hope for him…somewhere in the world…

I Don't Belong Here

 Rodger Hyde had no damn clue what a Snow Moon Village was…even though he was smack bang in the middle of one. He looked around with glazed and puffy eyes at the wonders around him: gnomes running and playing in the street, bearded wizards in pointed hats selling potions, barbarians in furs laughing it up and chugging beer together, and green elves sharpening their blades with whetstones. The architecture of each building had that old-timey English medieval look, whether it was the cobblestone streets or the wooden structures of the Restful Wishes Inn, Dragon Blade Weapons Shop, Hellforge Armory, or Ogre Tears Tavern. The sounds of flutes and harps glided through the air as half-elf bards played their whimsical tunes, dancing in the streets as they were doing so.

This entire setup jumped straight from the pages of a Dungeons & Dragons handbook. And yet, all Rodger could whisper to himself was…”I don’t belong here.” To his credit, he stood out like a nun at a porn convention with his Crossfade T-shirt, messy brown hair, green khakis, and green marijuana radiating from his clothing. His self-hating mantra was confirmed even further as passersby gave him strange looks, ranging from sorrowful concern to smelling something suspicious.

“I don’t belong here,” he whispered to himself again. Even with all of his experience playing Dungeons & Dragons as a teenager, all the monster-slaying adventures he put his paladin through, all of the seas he crossed with his wizard in toe, all of the pockets he picked with his half-orc thief, the only words that rang true to him at that moment were…”I don’t belong here.” Somebody in his head was saying that to him, but the weed he smoked that morning ensured he wouldn’t have any clear answers.

He was snapped out of his zombie-like trance when a muscular barbarian slapped him on the shoulder and squeezed it. “Hello there, little laddie! Where’re you coming from?”

“I…I don’t know…”

“Well, where’re you going?”

“D…Denny’s…”

“Denny’s! A worthy quest if I’ve ever heard one! Perhaps we can venture together, laddie!”

“I…I don’t…I don’t think so…I, uh…” Rodger wandered off as another barbarian made a weird comment about how awkward he was. That barbarian was right, but the words he really meant to say were…”I don’t belong here.”

Just a few more agonized, cringey steps and he would be out of the Snow Moon Village, on his way to a Moons Over My Hammy with French fries and diet soda. That was his favorite meal as a kid, which he was surprised he remembered so vividly considering the rest of his mind was just as scrambled as the eggs in his would-be sandwich. A few more strange looks, minor giggles, and offers for potions later, Rodger finally made it to the edge of this LARPing convention. Over the hill was the Bastion of Breakfast itself: Denny’s. Maybe the Moons Over My Hammy would have to be scrapped in favor of a rib eye steak. Or a stack of pancakes a mile high oozing with maple syrup and drowning in butter. Or French toast with even more syrup and butter. And then…the realization hit him: “I don’t belong there either.”

What would the other patrons think of him, his wardrobe choices, and his disheveled appearance? Surely, Denny’s had that kind of clientele on a regular basis…but not him. There was something too awkward and flimsy about him. How did he know? The mysterious voice in his head told him so: “I don’t belong here.” And with that, he sat on the sidewalk with face in his hand. How defeated he was to not belong to a place that only cared whether or not he paid for his meal.

Somewhere in his lost thoughts, Rodger overheard a barbarian saying, “Murphy! Miss Witherspoon! I believe that young man over there needs some help.”

“Oh, no…”said Rodger silently to himself, anticipating more awkward interactions ahead from this Murphy Witherspoon person. As sure as the sun shone brightly enough to fuck up his eyes, a light blue elven lady with long red hair, a white puffy shirt, and black baggy pants sat next to him on the sidewalk. No doubt this was her.

“Guess what?” she said in an Irish accent. “Our bards don’t know how to play Crossfade songs.” She chuckled at her own joke while Rodger could only give a weak smile, which in her mind was probably better than none. “Share a story with me?”

“About what?”

Murphy giggled and hung her head. “Your story, of course. Everybody has a story to tell.”

“Well…I, uh…I got out of bed…smoked a roll of weed, and…just wandered here, I guess. I don’t know.”

“That…sounds exciting. Very adventurous.”

“Look, I know I don’t belong here, okay? You don’t have to tell me, because I already know.”

Murphy placed a hand on Rodger’s shoulder. “Nonsense, of course you do. The Snow Moon Village welcomes people of all kinds.”

He made a flat tire noise. “Tell that to the people who were giving me funny looks today.”

“Oh, don’t mind them. They’re worried about you, that’s all. You came here looking like you got mugged by some ogres and spit out by some dragons. It’s only natural that they’d want to know more about you.”

Rodger raised his voice. “I don’t even know about me, okay?!” Murphy edged backwards a little bit. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“No worries, my friend. I’ve faced horrors much worse than an angry pothead. I’ve ventured into fiery caves and blood-covered mountains. If you ever decide to come on an adventure with us, bring lots of potions, like this one.” She held a bottle of red liquid underneath his nose.

Rodger pulled the cork and smelled it. “It’s fruit punch.”

“All that weed must have stunted your imagination, laddie.”

“More like my mom’s boyfriend.”

And just like that, Rodger’s eyes grew wide with the realization of where he heard that familiar phrase before. He let it slip. It all came back to him in an instant. His shouting matches. The shoving. The tears from his own mother pouring down her red cheeks. He suddenly remembered the pettings she gave him on his fluffy hair in order to calm him down from a yelling session. The hugs that were as warm as a thick blanket and much more comfortable to be wrapped around in. He could fall asleep during one of her comfort sessions if not for the nightmare that awaited him when he woke up, hence the reason he smoked so much pot to begin with.

“Are you okay?” Murphy asked, probably noticing a small tear pouring down Rodger’s face.

“…I told him I didn’t want to get a STEM degree…I just wanted to write stories and play D&D…but he kept telling me to man up. He said that real adults don’t play with that kid shit. He said that money was more important than my dreams. We argued like this for hours and…I’m sorry, I don’t mean to dump all of this on you…What was I thinking?” He wiped the tear from his eye.

“So he’s the one telling you that you don’t belong here?”

“…Yes…wait a minute…how did you know I was saying that?”

“Have you seen the concerned faces of everyone around you? Of course they heard you.”

Rodger shook his head. “Who says those things? Why would anybody…it makes no sense…It’s just stupid shit…”

Murphy scratched her fingernails along Rodger’s back. “That says more about your mom’s boyfriend than it does about you. Imagination and creativity should never be suppressed in favor of capitalism. That piece of horse garbage has no idea what he’s talking about.”

“I can deny him all he wants, but it doesn’t make the pain go away.” He wiped another tear from his eye. “Look, I appreciate you trying to help me, but I really just want to eat myself to death at Denny’s, okay?”

“We don’t eat Moons Over My Hammies here in the Snow Moon Village. We eat dragon stew with extra chunks of meat and potatoes.”

“I told you, I don’t belong…”

“Yes, yes, I know what you said! Your mom’s boyfriend said you don’t belong here! I get it! But…I’m saying you do. You belong everywhere you go. Do you understand? If you’re worried about the Crossfade T-shirt and not fitting in, then…” She smiled. “I’m sure we can find some nice wizard robes to dress you in.” Rodger’s eyes started to light up behind his puffy sadness. “Or if you’re more of a fighting man, we can get some splint mail. Or demon-skin boots. Anything you’d like.”

Rodger breathed heavily. “Thank you…thank you so much.”

“The name’s Murphy. Murphy Witherspoon.”

“Rodger Hyde. Nice to meet you.” They shook hands.

Before his grin could fully form, the same barbarian from before slapped his shoulder again, jarring him out of his skin. With a hideous fanged smile, he asked, “What’s your mom’s boyfriend’s name?” He held up a battleaxe. “I’d like to have a word with him!”

NOW was the right time for Rodger to smile. Of course, murder was still illegal, but the sentiment was all that mattered. Belonging in the Snow Moon Village was all that mattered. Belonging anywhere at all was all that mattered.

Impostor Syndrome

VERSE 1

Raindrops on my window, I’ll stay home today

No point in getting wet when I go out and play

No point in getting off my comfortable mattress

If I stay in bed, I can’t be hated by the masses

Putting fingers to keyboard is career suicide

If I fuck up once, then nobody’s on my side

Impostor Syndrome is burying my body alive

No dreams to pursue, no need to really strive

CHORUS 1

Maybe my inner critic has a damn good point

Maybe my answers are traveling an empty void

Maybe this little song is just cacophonic noise

Impostor Syndrome, like I really have a choice

VERSE 2

“Too offensive, too dense, too ugly, too fat

Too young, too stupid, too this, too that

Too many mistakes, don’t you ever learn?

Not enough achievements, nothing to earn”

CHORUS 1

Maybe my inner critic has a damn good point

Maybe my answers are traveling an empty void

Maybe this little song is just cacophonic noise

Impostor Syndrome, like I really have a choice

BRIDGE

“Don’t you cry, you brought this on yourself

All your life’s work will never leave the shelf

What life’s work? Oh yeah, you don’t have any

How many years did you waste? Too damn many”

CHORUS 2

Maybe my inner critic is teaching me a lesson

Maybe my outer critics should be holding weapons

Maybe the universe has come to collect the rent

Impostor Syndrome a.k.a. the never-ending debt

Impostor Syndrome a.k.a. the reason I’m dead

WHISPERY DIALOGUE

Shh…Shh…It’s okay

Everything will be okay

You just fell down a rabbit hole again

You’re still mourning

You have to make peace with the past

And the present

And the future

Everything will be okay

I promise you

I love you

I always will

Wooden Puppet Man

INTRO DIALOGUE
You know…I figured something out today…The reason why thin is in…is because the lighter you are…the easier it is to carry you on puppet strings…It all makes sense now…

VERSE 1
You dance on the stage
And live in a cage
Like a wooden puppet man!
Nose grows when you lie
Kiss innocence goodbye
Like a wooden puppet man!
Hand goes up your ass
You’re obedient in class
Like a wooden puppet man!
Ventriloquism
Sadomasochism
Like a wooden puppet man!

CHORUS
Slice through your strings
It’s your own song to sing
Listen closely to your heart
I think it needs a restart

VERSE 2
You’re not made of flesh
But your wounds are fresh
Like a wooden puppet man!
Can’t wipe your own ass
Without a hall pass
Like a wooden puppet man!
Can’t spend your own money
Can’t sex up your honey
You’re just a wooden puppet man!
Where’s all the appeal?
Short end of the deal
You’re just a wooden puppet man!

CHORUS
Slice through your strings
It’s your own song to sing
Listen closely to your heart
I think it needs a restart

BRIDGE
When you wish upon the rings of Saturn
You’d better make it fucking matter
When you wish upon the sands of Mars
Don’t let them dictate who you are
When you wish upon the flames of Venus
You’re the one who makes the edict
When you wish upon the shithole of Earth
Get out of your coffin and rise from the dirt

FINAL VERSE
From the moment of birth
You know your own worth
You’re not a wooden puppet man
There’s a steep price to pay
If you give it all away
Don’t be a wooden puppet man

Zombie Sex

VERSE 1

We need to talk about aliens and lizard men

I don’t even believe nor will I try to pretend

We need to talk about your conspiracy theories

And how you should save them for stories and queries

You can play with my brain like a lump of clay

Just kidding, little lady, there ain’t no fucking way

You believe in the strange, but not a witch’s hex

It was all supposed to lead up to zombie sex

Come here, baby

Zombie sex

VERSE 2

We need to talk about guns and the ammo inside them

And how you wear a big ass trench coat to hide them

Who exactly are you defending your white ass from?

If you need some gas money, I can loan you some

You can spray paint my brains all over the sidewalk

Just kidding, sweetheart, put away the body chalk

You can shoot like a cowboy sheriff named Tex

But I won’t give into your calls for zombie sex

Come here, lovely

Zombie sex

VERSE 3

We need to talk about the k-pop you blast from your speakers

And the trippy techno beats you play for the tweekers

And the hip-hop bass shattering my bedroom windows

If you explode my brain, that would make you a widow

Burn me a copy of what you’ll put on the loop

Just kidding, baby cakes, I like heavy metal groups

You can blow my eardrums on records and tape decks

I won’t change my tastes for a night of zombie sex

Come here, angel

Zombie sex

FINAL VERSE

I march to the beat of my own two bass drums

I won’t conform to you, do you think I’m dumb?

A real lady wouldn’t ask her man to change

Even if it means the love is far out of range

I don’t have the body of an incubus seducer

I just have the mind of a creative producer

When you take that away, what will you take next?

An hour of my time for vanilla zombie sex?

No way, baby

No zombie sex this time

No way, sweetheart

No tradeoff for my mind

My Opinion Is the Only One That Matters

VERSE 1

I’m the one who eats the burgers

You’re the one who’s the burden

I’m the one who eats the fries

You’re the one who spews the lies

I’m the one who swallows the pills

You don’t pay my fucking bills

You don’t have a say in this

‘Cause all you do is rip the piss

CHORUS 1

You can plead your case to the judge

My opinion is the only one that matters

My stubborn ass won’t even budge

My opinion is the only one that matters

VERSE 2

I’m the one who dreams my dreams

OK Boomer, my choice of memes

I’m the one who follows my passion

You’re the one who’s out of fashion

I’m the one who loves the world

You’re the one who rapes the girls

You don’t get to choose my destiny

Conformity is my worst enemy

CHORUS 2

You can bang your gavel all you need

My opinion is the only one that matters

Scream at me until your throat bleeds

My opinion is the only one that matters

BRIDGE

Why should I trust you anyways?

Who invited you to forever stay?

Why should I believe in your rhetoric?

You don’t believe in my betterment

You’ve always wanted complete control

You’ve got an iron fist and a heart so cold

Got a million ideas of what I should be

Yet the only one who matters is me

CHORUS 3

You can send a SWAT team to my home

My opinion is the only one that matters

You can leave me in a prison cell all alone

My opinion is the only one that matters

You can fry my ass in the electric chair

My opinion is the only one that matters

You can do it all because you deeply care

My opinion is the only one that matters

"So Much I Want to Tell You" by Anna Akana

BOOK TITLE: So Much I Want to Tell You: Letters to My Little Sister

AUTHOR: Anna Akana

YEAR: 2017

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Memoir and Advice

GRADE: Pass

Whenever a You Tuber releases a book, they can’t seem to shake off the stigma that it’ll automatically be met with low expectations. Sometimes that paranoia is justified as we’ve seen with Gabbie Hanna’s poetry book and Lilly Singh’s autobiography. Anna Akana, on the other hand, has shattered that stigma with this piece of nonfiction. Yeah, there are times in this book where I wish she was more descriptive. Sometimes I wish this read like a professional novel and not like an outright telling. But you know what? If the content is good enough, mediocre writing styles don’t always matter. Anna Akana is wise beyond her years when it comes to giving advice based on her life experiences. Whether the topic is racism, sexism, bad relationships, mental illnesses, or whatever, she always delivers in a way that’s relatable and easy to digest. She doesn’t come off as condescending, but rather as an equal to the reader, which is part of what makes the advice relatable. You will feel like you’ve gained a lot from reading this short, but sweet memoir.

Out of all of the stories Anna tells in this book, the ones that hit me the hardest were her experiences with romances gone horribly awry. Like her, I too once believed in the idea of a fairytale relationship with fireworks and beauty all throughout, not an imperfection in sight. Real relationships are built on the idea of accepting flaws and being good for each other in spite of them. Some of Anna’s past relationships didn’t meet these criteria. One of her romances was with a serial cheater whom she thought she could “heal” because of his past traumas. He had a brother who committed suicide, she had a sister who committed suicide (the basis of her book), so why not bond over that? Turns out he was a toxic person anyways and had to be dumped. You know who else was toxic? An emotionally abusive screamer named Cameron. He yelled for no reason, cut her off from her friends and family, criticized her, and played the victim whenever he was called out for his ill behavior. Anna actually had to be told this was emotional abuse before she made the hard decision to dump Cameron. Reading these portions of the book tore at my heartstrings. Nobody wants to see Anna get hurt. Nobody wants her to feel unhappy because of someone she trusted. When she cries, you’ll probably cry as well. When she rises above the abuse and toxicity, you’ll feel inspired to do the same.

Even though the toxic romances hit me the hardest, I didn’t relate to them nearly as much as I did her experiences with mental illness. I’m autistic and schizophrenic, so the passages about easy burnout are all too familiar to me. I take medication for my problems and Anna did too even though she had to be thoroughly convinced to do so. She knows about the stigma of taking medication. She’s heard the comments about mental illness being “fake” and medication being for “weak-minded” people. But once she started taking her pills, she could manage her life efficiently and with a clear head. Granted, her medication didn’t completely solve her depressive and anxious problems; the pills just made those illnesses more manageable. She knows there’s no cure for such ongoing issues. But if life could just be a little easier, it could go a long way in getting things done and being an all around healthy person. Anna is a perfect spokeswoman for breaking the stigma of mental illnesses and I’m glad to have her as an ally. We don’t know each other on a personal level, but I already feel a connection because of the vulnerability she’s shown in this book and in her You Tube videos.

Anna Akana rises above her racist gatekeepers. She tackles her creative projects with a combination of passion and efficiency. She takes pride in her wealth of experiences and openly shares them with her loyal audience. She does all of this with warmth and humor, not arrogance and coldness. Is it any wonder why she has so many subscribers on You Tube? People want to gravitate towards her. They want to be sympathetic and empathetic to her life struggles. They want to be around her every chance they get and tell her how much her advice as changed their lives. Whoever scoffs at the idea of You Tubers putting out good books needs to have their eyes dragged across these pages until they learn something valuable. This book certainly has a lot to offer in that department and it’s why she gets a passing grade from me. If Anna’s suicidal sister were alive today, she’d be proud to have such a beautiful piece of writing dedicated to her. Rest in peace, Kristina Akana. We love you.

Death Bed Sellout

If you don’t like the way I vote

Jam my penis down your throat

If you don’t like the way I eat

Unzip my jeans and beat my meat

If you don’t like the way I write

Be prepared to lose a fistfight

If you don’t like the way I talk

Open wide and suck my cock

If you don’t like the people I love

Put on a pair of boxing gloves

I’ll never be your death bed sellout

If you don’t like it, get the hell out

Sorry not sorry for your precious feels

I promise you your wounds will heal

I’m the only one who chooses my path

It’s not rocket science or three-D math

If you don’t like the way I’m living

You’re the one who needs forgiving

Give It Back

Give me back my money, give me back my mind

These priceless treasures were never yours to find

Give me back my freedom, take away my demons

Give me back my house keys to the Garden of Eden

Give me back my beauty so people can still use me

Give me back my rights in case they want to sue me

Give me back my toys, give me back my animals

Give me back the snacks you feast on like cannibals

Give me back my life, give me back my dreams

Give me back my art and turn STEM into STEAM

Give me back my story in all its rough draft glory

Give me back my creativity so I won’t be boring

Give me back my energy, give me back my health

Give me back my teenage clothes, a new notch in my belt

Give me back my hopes, give me back my jokes

Give me back my career so I don’t have to be broke

Give me back my passport so I can go on adventures

Give me back my courage so I can be an avenger

Give me back my strength so I can be a badass

Not a puddle of pudding and a fucking sad-ass

Give me back everything that you took from me

Before I make you suffer, before I make you bleed

Torture you for information, torture you for fun

Torture you with a whip, maybe even a loaded gun

You drove me to this and gave me no other choice

This is heavy ass metal, not cacophonic noise

Give me back my innocence, let me walk the streets

Without cuffs on my wrists and shackles on my feet

I had the right to rage for my very last page

Now you’ll never live beyond your final age

Normal Is Overrated

VERSE 1

If creativity is considered crazy

Normalcy is considered lazy

If rock and roll makes me evil

Then fuck the holiest of people

If awkwardness makes me a pariah

Your social mask makes you a liar

If being me is a sin and a curse

Being you is ten times worse

CHORUS

Normal is overrated

Life is fucking wasted

Individuals sacrificed

For the capitalist price

VERSE 2

If normalcy will get me a job

I’ll lie on the couch like a slob

If mediocrity will get me paid

I’d rather sleep in the grave

If ordinary is the way to live

Two weeks notice I shall give

If average is the new future

I’d rather be a lowlife loser

CHORUS

Normal is overrated

Life is fucking wasted

Individuals sacrificed

For the capitalist price

BRIDGE

I’m too good for you

And your money too

You’ll never change me

You’ll just enrage me

VERSE 3

If you don’t believe in me

Set my crazy ass forever free

If you want to leave my side

The coffin is where you hide

If you want to cancel my career

I’ll give you something to fear

I’ll do whatever the hell I want

If normal is right, I want to be wrong

CHORUS

Normal is overrated

Life is fucking wasted

Individuals sacrificed

For the capitalist price

The Land of Milk and Medication

VERSE 1

Take me by the hand to dreamland

Tell me a story of fantastic glory

Everything is ours for twelve hours

The recesses of my mind are all mine

Give me a reason to greet the season

Give me a tale I can write without fail

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

Buy from the hovel of paperback novels

CHORUS

The land of milk and medication

Is where I do my best meditation

From reality I take a vacation

To a brand new mystical destination

VERSE 2

Milk and honey for my cinnamon bunny

Milk and Xanax for my creative annex

Milk and cereal for the morning ethereal

Milk and fudge to give my face a smudge

Every day is Christmas, night is Halloween

Thanksgiving is somewhere in between

No Valentines for the girl I shall pine

No firecrackers from patriotic attackers

CHORUS

The land of milk and medication

Is where I do my best meditation

From reality I take a vacation

To a brand new mystical destination

BRIDGE

When the sun is kissing, something is missing

Is anybody watching? Is anybody listening?

Where will I get today’s creative fuel?

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

EXTENDED CHORUS

The land of milk and medication

Is where I do my best meditation

From reality I take a vacation

To a brand new mystical destination

A world of wonder and musical thunder

Realm of magic born from something tragic

Imagination is my favorite medication

Milk and pills still give me the chills

Milkshake Blender

VERSE 1

Everything looks the same to me

Blended together by conformity

Every line and every rhyme

Characters who never shined

Every plot hole I couldn’t fix

Masked by phony Jedi tricks

Everything I’ve ever created

Has left me bitter and jaded

CHORUS

A milkshake blender of blood and shit

Mixing together vinegar and piss

It’s all the same, I am to blame

It’s my only claim to fame

VERSE 2

Starting over never felt so tough

My macho façade is only a bluff

A blank sheet of paper glaring at me

Stripping my heart of its self-esteem

CHORUS

A milkshake blender of blood and shit

Mixing together vinegar and piss

It’s all the same, I am to blame

It’s my only claim to fame

BRIDGE

A legacy built on repetition

Antithesis to the artist’s mission

Molded by the public opinion

I’ve taken more than I’ve given

VERSE 3

Now’s not the time to say goodbye

Now’s not the time to fucking cry

Now’s not the time for a lullaby

Pick up that pen and redefine

What it means to be creative

Instead of fearful and evasive

If at first you don’t succeed

Write until your fingers bleed

ALTERNATIVE CHORUS

A milkshake blender forever destroyed

My artistic side will never be a toy

My life is not a divine comedy

Not dictated by a capitalist economy

Things That Empower Me

***THINGS THAT EMPOWER ME***

I had a look at my most recent blog entry about things that scare me. Goddamn, did I sound like a sad sap. It could have been that the month of June was a weird one for me and I was still grieving. But July is finally here and it’s time to start over again. No going back this time around! Instead of talking about things that scare the shit out of me, I’m going to talk about things that empower me, thus turning a negative thought into a positive one. Positive thinking has been at the forefront of my happiness since December 2014, when I vacationed at Lego Land in San Diego and when I had the best goddamn Christmas I could ask for. I lost sight of that positivity somewhere in early 2018, but I’m working on bringing that shit back and it begins with this blog entry. Let’s start the list off with…

***SELF-TALK***

Dr. Phil can be full of more shit than a cow pasture sometimes, but the one thing he got right on the nose was that the words we tell ourselves are very powerful, for better or worse. When you tell yourself you’re too fat, too ugly, or not good enough, you believe those things like they’re the word of god. But what if you start sending yourself positive messages instead of negative ones? Let’s say I, for instance, repeat the mental phrase, “If you step outside your comfort zone, good things will happen.” Or what if I just imagine a good-looking version of myself with a skinny body and a sexy haircut like the one I had in my senior year of high school? Or what if I tell myself that I can afford anything I want to buy? What if I tell myself that the world loves me? You say these things often enough, you believe them and you become a happier person because of it. You know what? I’m going to have these thoughts more often, especially the one where I look like a sexy stud with a sweet ass haircut….not an ass haircut, that’s different. Hehe!

***MUSIC***

Some people call it “just noise”, but to me it’s more intoxicating and enchanting than the world’s most powerful drug. I remember being a little kid and listening to my dad’s CD’s from The Police, Pink Floyd, The Moody Blues, and Toto. I loved my Pink Floyd CD’s so much that I spent the entire late 90’s listening to the shit out of them. Then the 2000’s came along and I started listening to alternative metal like Limp Bizkit, Linkin Park, Three Days Grace, Korn, and Papa Roach. My musical library expanded tenfold since then and I wouldn’t trade any of those bands for the world. My current favorite bands include Soulfly, Nightwish, Five Finger Death Punch, Pantera, and Halestorm among others. I love music so much that I refer to concerts as “one-day vacations” and “pilgrimages” rather than “just shows”. I went to a Roger Waters concert in 2000 and my dad referred to at as “taking us to heaven to see god”. There will be many more concerts in the future, which means more opportunities to get high on my drug of choice…which if you haven’t figured it out already is music.

***HAVING AN AUDIENCE***

I know I said in my “Things That Scare Me” blog that being in front of large amounts of people makes me want to swallow Xanax. But make no mistake about it: the fact that there are people out there who are willing to listen to me is a blessing. Whether you’re complimenting my writing or critiquing it (hopefully not trolling), I’m grateful to have you as a member of my audience. I know writing is supposed to be a business, but you can’t put a price tag on having someone’s attention and never letting go. Whether writing becomes my main source of income or not is irrelevant, because some things in life are more important than money, like love, friendship, good advice, creative fuel, and the power of a good story or poem. To everybody who has supported me throughout my career, thank you so very much. To everybody that doubts me, your creative fuel is every bit as welcome. There’s another thing to be positive about: creative fuel can literally come from anywhere, whether it’s a news story, a personal experience, or the pencil sharpener sitting on my desk, which I once used in a toy photograph of Razor Ramon doing elevated pushups.

***SPENDING MONEY ON OTHER PEOPLE***

This goes hand-in-hand with my self-talk about being able to afford anything I want. When you believe you’re good with money, you can probably afford to shell out some of it on other people. That’s why I buy birthday and Christmas gifts months in advance for the ones I love: because I can and love them…that, and buying gifts ahead of schedule is a good way to avoid the stress of things like Black Friday. I also donate some of my money to various charities whether it’s the ASPCA, Extra Life, or St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital. Spending money on other people, whether in a big or small way, will actually make you happy in the long-term, because you’re strengthening your relationship with that person. You don’t have to clean out your life savings just to make one person happy, but having that kind of confidence with your money and that kind of love for the one you’re spending it on, that says a lot about your mindset.

***CREATIVITY***

To paraphrase Cenk Uygur from The Young Turks, OF COURSE this was going to be a list item! Writing stories and poems gives me a sense of purpose in an economy where English majors and Millennials are frowned upon. I don’t write for the money or the fame. I do it because I fucking love it. I do it because it’s hard work that I can be proud of. I do it because having a legacy is important to me. Do I have lazy days occasionally? All the time. But lazy days are temporary while legacies are forever. I realize that not everybody will like what I have to write, but that’s the nature of subjectivity. There are people who love the shit out of Fifty Shades of Grey and despise Winnie the Pooh. Yes! People actually hate Winnie the Pooh! But if I denied my audience the right to hate my works, I’d come off as a dictator rather than a role model for individuality. Life doesn’t end because of a bad review, or even ten of them. Your career isn’t over until you say it is.

***CONCLUSION***

Goddamn, I’m taking a long time to write this blog entry. Then again, it’s nearly one o’clock in the morning and I spent most of my day in a mental fog. If you can’t concentrate, you can’t write…at least not very well. Here’s hoping my messages of empowerment are well-received by you, my lovely audience. If not, well, at least I tried. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***DOMESTIC DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

(In the summer of 2017…)

JAMES: Hey Garrison, what was in the Amazon package you got in the mail today?

GARRISON: Duct tape and a CD.

JAMES: Those two things do not go together! What are you going to do, bind and gag one of your Face Book women and torture her with your music?

GARRISON: That’s not what the duct tape is for!

JAMES: Uh-huh. Sure! The only thing more disturbing than that was that it came in a long and narrow package. I thought it was another one of your corporate pop metal posters.

GARRISON: Goddamn it, James!

The Last Child Comedian

***BEFORE I BEGIN***

Just a quick heads up to readers of Beautiful Monster: chapter eleven will be featured exclusively on Wattpad and nowhere else due to its strong sexual content. You won’t need a trigger warning this time, because the sex will be consensual (and maybe a little pornographic, depending on my own personal knowledge of sex). This chapter has been a long time coming, though it’s only the beginning of a much larger story of recovery and sensitivity.

***THE LAST CHILD COMEDIAN***

Many of you already know this, but when it comes to my sense of humor and my writing, George Carlin has always been one of my biggest influences. He swears like a sailor, he’s unafraid of being censored, he’s poignant as hell, and best of all, he’s funnier than a motherfucker. Speaking of which, “A father is a motherfucker.” That’s a direct line from George Carlin and it got my laugh motor going at the time. Thank god he came into my life when he did, because my sense of humor was suffering as an early teenager slash little kid.

Before Curious George became part of my comedic repertoire, I had guys like Johnny Carson and Benny Hill giving me my fill. There’s nothing wrong with either of those two comedians, but there was something wrong with the way I’ve processed their jokes into my own creativity. They told a lot of adult jokes that I wasn’t old enough to get yet, so all I had was their G-rated material. And from those jokes came some…questionable material on my part.

I knew it was questionable because when I told these manufactured jokes to my dad and brother, they didn’t laugh. Quite frankly, I don’t blame them. Want to hear my version of Jeff Foxworthy? Prepare to cringe hard. “If you fly all the way to Big Ben just to see what time it is, you might be a redneck.” Good god almighty. What the fuck? You think that’s awful, listen to this: “Why don’t criminals use pens? Because they might go to jail (pen as in penitentiary)”. Ugh. I’m cringing just writing these jokes down.

But it didn’t stop there. In fact, it got progressively worse. I’m sure my older brother remembers the infamous “Buttered Toast Shop” routine. It told the fictional story of a crabby restaurant owner with a lisp who only served buttered toast at his establishment. You couldn’t order anything else, not jam, not peanut butter, not even water. Just buttered toast. You also couldn’t dress like Wonder Woman in his diner because he’ll accuse you of wearing a diaper instead of a one-piece suit. I’ll let you all shiver for a few seconds before I continue.

And then there was a routine about a fat black guy named Tiny winning a vacation to Hawaii. Only he didn’t pronounce it the way people normally do. He pronounced it “Hwy.” That’s it. That’s the punch line for this whole joke. People would constantly try to correct him, but he just kept calling it “Hwy”, so he had his vacation revoked. I bet some alternative right motherfuckers would eat this shit up, but not my brother, who rightfully told me that my sense of humor was for little babies.

And then it got worse once again. My next routine was about an airline traveler who wanted to go to Japan, but kept getting his ass kicked by ninjas. In fact, the ninjas told him in a butchered sing-song accent, “We are the Japanese ninjas and we’re going to kick your butt!” Okay, so just don’t go to Japan. Problem solved. But then this traveler kept going to other countries and getting his ass kicked by ninjas. “We are the [Insert Foreign Country Here] ninjas and we’re going to kick your butt!” Even when he was on an airplane over the Pacific Ocean, he’d still get his ass kicked by international ninjas. Not one laugh. Not one goddamn laugh was earned that day. I can’t imagine why. Oh, excuse me. I can’t imagine “hwy”.

I didn’t watch my first George Carlin HBO special until I was fifteen years old. It was a VHS version of “Doing It Again”, where he talks about euphemisms, politically correct language, dog turds, and anything else that would make the censors rip their hair out. I watched these comedy bits and I thought to myself, “I want to do that!” So I took myself over to The Matrix Coffeehouse in Chehalis, Washington and performed George Carlin routines from memory. “If crime fighters fight crime and fire fighters fight fires, what do freedom fighters fight?” And of course, some wiseass from the crowd just had to yell, “Freedom!” Even so, I probably got more laughs doing this than I would have talking about a fictional Buttered Toast Shop.

It was from that George Carlin special along with the movie Pink Floyd the Wall that gave me my strong sense of individuality. I could crack offensive jokes and listen to devilish music without ever once caring what other people thought of me. I still take that nonconformist attitude into my adult life, though I’ve calmed down just a little bit during those lengthy years. Thank you, George, for bringing me the mental emancipation I needed from dull G-rated comedy that makes no goddamn sense. He’s been dead for a whole decade now, but I still keep his comedy close to my heart.

The lesson for the day: if you must process creative fuel and form your personal identity around it, don’t let anybody tell you you can’t do this or you can’t do that. Do what feels right to you. Do what makes you happy. Unless you’re a serial killer, in which case, you should probably surrender yourself to the authorities. Other than that, try not to crack under the pressures of society. They don’t care about you and your dreams. They only care about keeping the machine moving, a machine which grinds individuality into pieces of homogenous meat. I told you Pink Floyd the Wall had a strong influence on me! I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***COMEDY ROUTINE OF THE DAY***

“Let’s take a look at some of these food words, particularly “old-fashioned”. When you hear the words “old-fashioned”, you’re supposed to think, “Oh, this goes back to the old days!” Right! The old days! Before we had sanitation laws. Before hygiene became popular. When botulism was still considered to be a sauce. Old-fashioned is supposed to give you a warm feeling. It makes you think about your grandma. Well, I don’t know about you, but when I’m picking out food, I don’t want to picture ninety pounds of wrinkles in a black dress…with a big hairy mole sticking out…and an infected lip.”

-George Carlin, 1937-2008-

Creative Crossroads

***CREATIVE CROSSROADS***

Creatively, I have most of the things I could ever want as an author. I have six published books which are doing moderately well as far as reviews go. I have eight rough drafts which could be turned into awesome books under the right guidance. I have other creative outlets which give me the online attention I need as an author. But as far as marketing and putting myself out there go, I could be doing a lot more. I repeat: a LOT more. So I’ve decided to make a list of marketing techniques that will no doubt get me more views and book buys. Starting with…

1. Build a street team to promote my books (that’s a lot of fucking people)
2. Build a website (seems easy enough, right?)
3. Convert my Face Book page to an author’s profile (which means calling myself Author Garrison Kelly instead of using my real name)
4. Enlist the help of extra beta readers and editors (Ashley Uzzell is fantastic, don’t get me wrong, but getting multiple opinions is important to a book’s success)
5. Enroll in Skill Share classes about marketing (Jenna Moreci has an awesome one, I just need to sign up for Skill Share)
6. Find a time during the day where I have complete privacy from my family members and the phone (probably late at night, most likely)
7. Get a twitter account (fourth time is a charm, right?)
8. Get an Instagram account (even though it’s a veritable troll’s nest)
9. Get video editing software (for that special time of day when I’m brave enough to shoot You Tube clips)
10. Learn how to shoot videos on my digital camera (actually, I know how to do it, I just need the confidence to be in front of the judgmental lens)
11. Rent advertising space online

I have the time and funds to do pretty much all of these things (most of them are dirt cheap). So if these are the answers to my marketing problems, why am I not taking these steps right away? Well, that’s where the crossroads part of this blog entry comes from. I’ve been putting off discussing this topic for a while now, because I don’t want to be inaccurately perceived as lazy or uncaring.

The thing is, though, I’m not the kind of person who jumps into decision making right away. I’ve made a lot of shitty decisions in my life and I’m cautious about going back to those stressful days. Going to Western Washington University gave me the degree I needed to solidify my writing career, but being away from my family and friends that long made going to college one of the worst decisions in my life. I’ve applied for writing jobs that turned out to be creativity crushers and stress magnets. I’ve traveled to places that turned out to be shitty vacation destinations at best. I could go on and on when it comes to long-term decisions that have gone sour.

When it comes to book marketing, the worst that could happen is undue stress, which doesn’t seem like a big deal on the surface. But when you consider that I’m operating on a schizophrenic and autistic brain, stress is my worst enemy. To hear other authors describe the marketing process makes it sound like they’re having their teeth pulled. I’ve even heard one author describe it as working at least five hours a day. I’ve heard another describe it as eight hours. Or twelve. Or more. On top of all these marketing chores, they also have to write every single day in order to stay sharp. That’s a lot of responsibilities and it can get overwhelming.

Here’s where I’ve come to a crossroad. On one hand, I can keep doing what I’m doing and live comfortably for the time being, but my career would be stagnant forever. On the other hand, I could take all these necessary steps and throw myself into the fire, where the risk is schizophrenic and autistic stress and the reward is being well-known in the world of writing. It seems like an easy decision to an outsider, but when you’ve got my mind and my circumstances, it’s a decision that I can’t take lightly like I have the other ones in my life (which ended up being poor choices).

I know I talk about making bad decisions all the time, but this time, it could determine where I go from here as a writer. Do I live comfortably and go nowhere or do I overwhelm myself and have a slightly better chance at rising above mediocrity? And don’t think for a minute that this has anything to do with being a “snowflake” or a “momma’s boy” or whatever the case may be. It’d just be nice to have a safety net to catch me when things go haywire, that’s all.

I’m Garrison Kelly! As soon as forever is through, I’ll be over you!

***FAMILY DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

REINA: Garrison, no sleeping at the table. You’re not five anymore.

JAMES: He’s just mad because we’re not talking about barbarians and wizards.

GARRISON: That’s not all I write about!

JAMES: Yes, it is!

REINA: He also writes about necromancers and scatomancers.

JAMES: Those are wizards too.

GARRISON: You’re stereotyping me!

***POST-SCRIPT***

This coming Friday, I’m going to Seattle to watch Papa Roach put on a live show, with Nothing More and Escape the Fate as their opening acts. It’ll be my third time seeing Papa Roach live, but it’ll be my first time seeing the other two bands. I’ve especially wanted to see Nothing More live since they always put on elaborate performances. I’ll try to get my creative work done before the night of the concert, but no promises.