Simping for a Succubus

VERSE 1

It gets lonely in the middle of nowhere

My future plans include, “I don’t care”

Wouldn’t know where to start looking

For adult fun time that’s worth booking

I have dreams about being taken away

Though I wouldn’t know where to stay

Where, oh, where is the Promised Land?

Succubus lady, take me by the hand

CHORUS

Simping for a succubus

She’s the only one I trust

To be tender, to be sweet

Then discard me on the street

VERSE 2

I know it’s wrong, but what else is there?

It’s Valentine’s Day, love is in the air

Smells a lot like a perfume miasma

To mask the stench of a decaying Santa

Candies and chocolates to make me fat

Fall flat on my face, be a perfect doormat

You can call it depression or desperation

It’s better than a lifetime of masturbation

CHORUS

Simping for a succubus

She’s the only one I trust

To be tender, to be sweet

Then discard me on the street

VERSE 3

Doctor man, what is wrong with me?

Psychoanalyze every little fucking thing

Attachment issues because of autism?

Too much width in my social schism?

Too much trauma? Too much Taco Bell?

You can’t even tell? Got more pills to sell?

Being well-adjusted to a fucked up world

Can’t compare the love of a succubus girl

EXTENDED CHORUS

Simping for a succubus

She’s the only one I trust

To be tender, to be sweet

Then discard me on the street

Simping for a succubus

Though she’ll turn me into dust

Just like ashes, just like cocaine

Up the nose into another’s brain

Love Me Back

CHORUS

I could fall in love with life

Life won’t love me back

It’s not a girlfriend or a wife

There’s way too much to unpack

VERSE 1

I could put everything I’ve got

Into this passion that I call mine

But passionate is what I’m not

I guess I’ll settle for just fine

Not enough energy to carry on

Life is better under the blanket

The social contract is just a con

Lowest of lows if you want to rank it

CHORUS

I could fall in love with life

Life won’t love me back

It’s not a girlfriend or a wife

There’s way too much to unpack

VERSE 2

I used to believe in meritocracy

Until they slammed the door in my face

I used to think life was a democracy

Until my vote was stuck in last place

And now I ask myself what’s the point

When the world has forgotten about me

Always been destined to disappoint

The machine pumps along without me

BRIDGE

You could call it a case of apathy

You could call it laziness if that’s better

I don’t know why you’re asking me

Take it up with the real trendsetters

EXTENDED CHORUS

I could fall in love with life

Life won’t love me back

It’s not a girlfriend or a wife

There’s way too much to unpack

I could fall in love with nothing at all

But the abyss won’t love me in return

It’s not a shelter with a roof and walls

It’s an underworld in which I burn

I Don't Feel Victorious

VERSE 1

I did it, I lived through another day

But I don’t feel victorious

Bought a pizza with my monthly pay

But it didn’t taste glorious

Found my emotional charging cord

But I don’t feel like a hero man

Powered down, left to feel bored

My battery’s down to zero, man

CHORUS 1

Forged in fire, what the hell does that even mean?

Can’t be the brightest star that you have ever seen

Greatness is born from a life so torturous

And yet, through it all, I don’t feel victorious

Victorious

Victorious

I don’t feel victorious

VERSE 2

I covered more pages in precious ink

But I don’t feel like a storyteller

I washed all the dishes in my sink

But I still feel deader than Old Yeller

I vacuumed all the dust right off the floor

But I don’t feel like Employee of the Year

Life goes back to being just another bore

But I don’t feel like I belong here

CHORUS 2

Hustle Culture, what the hell is that all about?

Getting fired for having the slightest of self-doubt

And now the big boss man is busy sorting us

Now’s not the time where I feel victorious

Victorious

Victorious

I don’t feel victorious

BRIDGE

Conditioned to feel bad every day of our lives

For daring to exist or trying to just survive

We don’t have a whole lot, not even a nine to five

We don’t want to be dead, but we don’t want to be alive

CHORUS 3

Embrace the suck, what the hell are the layman’s terms?

Die fifteen hundred times and then lay with the worms

The graveyard needs bodies, now the undertaker’s hoarding us

None of us have any right to feel victorious

Victorious

Victorious

I don’t feel victorious

Victorious

Victorious

None of us feel…

Couch Potato Salad

Running late to a party where I don’t belong
What’s the fucking point in staying so strong?
What’s the point in coming out of the shadows?
Small talk never got past the point of shallow

Laying on the couch and staring at the ceiling
Forgetting about my brokenhearted feelings
Forgetting that there are strangers all around me
I’d enter their social circles if they allowed me

Couch potato salad is what I’ve become
Lazy, dead inside, and comfortably numb
I didn’t have to suck down a single beer
To feel like sleeping forever in here

There’s a Denny’s only a few blocks away
Hopefully they’re open twenty-four hours a day
Pancakes and syrup to kill the loneliness
My body’s a temple and I’m his holiness

Nobody noticed that I got off the couch
Not a “goodbye” or “wait up” out of their mouths
That’s okay, they’re invisible to me as well
What about the waitress? Can she even tell?

Walking down the street with my head hung low
Keeping my pace so agonizingly slow
I don’t notice when someone tells me to move
To impatient strangers, I’ve nothing to prove

Another night of waffles and emptiness
Another night of squandered friendliness
Another night of being socially envious
Another night of depressive endlessness

When will I learn to stay home for the night?
When will I admit that I could never be right?
No more philosophy, just syrup and batter
It’s not like any of this even fucking matters

A happy Buddha belly and a frozen heart
This is how the next morning will start
Another day of wishing for bravery
And chowing down on steaks so savory

Kentucky Fried Brain

Kentucky Fried Brain, nothing to do today

The world is just a boring place anyway

No dragons, no elves, no hidden treasure

No aliens, no lizard men, no such pleasure

No cowboys, no knights, no sorcerers

No adventures beyond these white corridors

They say a book is a best friend for life

Closer than family, closer than a wife

But how can I cross this mystical portal

When my soul is aware that it’s mortal?

I don’t have the keys to heaven’s gates

I know that a lot of you can surely relate

If that’s the case, then why the slow pace?

Why am I in last place in this human race?

Why does the back of the line feel lonely?

Why does the prison of my mind feel homely?

Why is my mattress the best place for me?

Why is the white ceiling all I can see?

Why can’t I remember any of my dreams?

Waking up has become impossible it seems

Better luck tomorrow or the day right after

Maybe I’ll wait for another New Years disaster

Maybe I’ll wait until my skin is leathery

Maybe my golden years will have more energy

Even with a bed in the retirement home?

Even when I’ve got nowhere else to roam?

You bet your sweet ass, my fellow corpse

Kentucky Fried Brain, final meal course

Heart attack city, a self-cannibal’s cost

No gravity in heaven, floating and lost

Good thing I have the patience of a saint

You know the old phrase: hurry up and wait

When one door closes, another one opens

Until that one locks and you feel hopeless

The universe doesn’t slow for one person

Even when you’re trapped in the hearses

How Much Longer? Wait Your Turn...

How much longer until this is over?

When my thoughts are clear and sober?

When the voices leave my mind forever?

Please tell me that the answer isn’t never

Wait your turn like a good little boy

Wait your turn to unhear the noise

Like a rainstorm, it’ll eventually pass

Until then, enjoy your kick in the ass

How much longer until I can leave?

Until making a cure has been achieved?

Until authority will no longer deceive?

Hopefully soon is what I can believe

Wait your turn like everybody else

We’re in this together, our moment of hell

Don’t be tempted by the church bells

Don’t forget about the ones who fell

How much longer until permanent peace?

Until the madness of the world will cease?

Until people come before the economy?

Until we can skip this whole tragicomedy?

Wait your turn like a model citizen

What makes you so goddamn different?

Don’t let your selfishness get in the way

Of America living on for another day

How much longer until I can rest my head?

And not have to worry about being dead?

Maybe that’s the only logical conclusion

Maybe I shouldn’t give into delusions

Wait your turn, you’ve got a long way to go

When your time will come, nobody knows

Get to work on your precious purple prose

Work until the day that your breathing slows

I know it’s cruel and it just isn’t fair

All I can tell you is to grow a brass pair

You never signed up for military life

But the truth cuts deeper than a bowie knife

Screw your harshness, screw your indifference

Screw your so-called melodic dissonance

I’ll be back in true form one of these days

Until then, your welcome is long overstayed

I’m the landlord and the rent is now due

Don’t act like this just came out of the blue

I’ll kick your ass out of my mind so fast

You’ll be too far back in the prehistoric past

Lonesome Town

VERSE 1

Like smoking fifteen cigarettes a day

A dead body is the price you will pay

A dead mind is all you’ll ever find

Can’t say isolation without saying I

Depression’s killing you deep inside

Under the blankets is where you hide

It’s never too late to ask for some help

Could be a stranger or one you know well

CHORUS

Welcome to Lonesome Town

Everyone is feeling down

Everyone is reaching out for love

But sometimes it’s never enough

VERSE 2

A crowded party feels empty and cold

No one to talk to and nobody to hold

Nobody is worth being so damn bold

The cycle of sadness is getting so old

Another night of loneliness and shame

Another night of brokenhearted pain

Another night of feeling like shit

Another night of getting sick of it

CHORUS

Welcome to Lonesome Town

Everyone is feeling down

Everyone is reaching out for love

But sometimes it’s never enough

VERSE 3

On the day of your coffin slumber

Do you regret being torn asunder?

Does taking a chance hurt that badly?

The answer is always yes, sadly

No place lonelier than the grave

Out of reach is the love you crave

Is there a next time? I don’t know

Is it worth the pain so deadly and slow?

CHORUS

Welcome to Lonesome Town

Everyone is feeling down

Everyone is reaching out for love

But sometimes it’s never enough

Goddess of Hate

VERSE 1

You took a struggle for many and made it a big joke

Taking the biggest of shots at the biggest of folks

You’re no beauty yourself, you’re ugly as sin

Your war on the world is one you cannot win

Eighty percent of people don’t look like you

I bet that makes you want to boil and stew

We called you out and you hid from the limelight

Hated being knocked from your perch so sky high

CHORUS

Goddess of Hate! X4

VERSE 2

Beating your boyfriend must make you so tough

But when he puts you on blast, you’ve had enough

Projecting yourself when you call him a bitch

Claiming every story is about getting rich

He doesn’t need you or your jealous ways

He doesn’t need you to make his family prey

If there was ever a time for the phrase “lock her up”

It applies to you, you disgusting mother fuck

CHORUS

Goddess of Hate! X4

VERSE 3

Are you happy now? You got your attention

In the hall of shame, you got your due mention

But that’s okay, just flip the double birds again

I’m sure that will get you plenty of new friends

EXTENDED CHORUS

Goddess of Hate!

Sealed your fate!

Took your own bait!

Gotcha! Checkmate!

Goddess of Hate!

Throwing your weight!

Give us a break!

From all your hate!

Terrible Person

CHORUS 1

If you excuse torture and abuse

If you condone picking at their bones

If human happiness makes you irksome

Congratulations, you’re a terrible person!

VERSE 1

Call it tough love, call it what you will

You still make the public collectively ill

Beatings, insults, hatred, and more

Rated NC-17 for violence and gore

You’re not rehab, you’re a terrorist cell

You’re not a doctor, but a cultist from hell

You’re not a savior, you’re a fucking bully

You’re not a god, you’re fucking unholy

CHORUS 2

If you enjoy the times when you destroy

If you take their brains and drive them insane

If you take part in making teens feel worthless

Congratulations, you’re a terrible person!

VERSE 2

You have no authority to enforce conformity

You have no balls to face the wrath of the majority

You have no business calling yourself an orderly

You have no right to smile ever so cordially

You have the right to watch your empires burn

You have the right to watch your victims unlearn

You have the right to fork over the Benjamins

‘Cause there’s no denying the courtroom evidence

BRIDGE

Isolation is mutilation!

Condemnation is devastation!

Victimization is desecration!

Retaliation is our salvation!

VERSE 3

Say goodbye to the white padded walls

Say goodbye to the screams in the halls

Say goodbye to your dystopian future

Say goodbye, you’re a fucking loser

CHORUS 3

If your methods count as weapons

If your beatings count as feedings

If your message becomes worthless

Congratulations, you’re a terrible person!

Congratulations, you’re a piece of shit!

Congratulations, you’re a perfect fit!

For a prison camp not unlike your own!

Congratulations, you’re fucking boned!

Bent To Fly

***BENT TO FLY***

The last journal entry had to do with song lyrics that resonated with me and this one will be no different except for the song in question. As I was at the YMCA doing my water-walking today, the Slash and Myles Kennedy song “Bent To Fly” came up on my waterproof MP3 player. Until today, I never paid close attention to what the lyrics really were. Now that I’m home and I’m reading the lyrics online, I realize just how powerful this song really is. Like the singer, I too had aspirations of living independently from my parents. Not because it would actually benefit me, but because society told me that that’s what success looks like. And then I started taking classes at WWU and living in a dormitory with three strangers. I’d never felt so alone in my life. No animals, no family, very few people who were permanent friends, I went to Bellingham and had nobody to turn to. Because of my loneliness and isolation at WWU, I was constantly depressed, bored, and in a negative state of mind. My family in Port Orchard has always been my go-to place for love and friendship whether it came from my parents, my brother, his girlfriend, their daughter, or my pets. I don’t live at home purely out of financial stability. I live there because my family loves me and I love them. When I listened to “Bent to Fly” today and paid closer attention to the lyrics, they hit me almost as hard as the lyrics to “In Perfect Harmony” by Within Temptation. Take a look.


VERSE 1
Mama, don't you cry
Don't you worry
I cannot stay here any longer
The time has come to find
A distant calling
That only seems to get much stronger
And I know it's hard
To see the one you come to lean on make his way
Far beyond the womb
But I can't stay

CHORUS
I won't stop running
I'm only getting closer
To getting off the ground this time
The sky is calling
The wind is at my shoulders
Won't let this chance pass me by
Mama, I'm bent to fly

VERSE 2
Remember yesterday
Before the storm
Before the innocence was lost
I promised I would stay
Forevermore
But every boy in time moves on
Your wounds will heal someday
This I know
But I am restless and so torn
Mama, I can't stay here anymore

HOOK
I can feel it coming
A perfect storm is rising
Gotta say my last goodbye


Who would’ve known that such sensitivity could come from two hard rock badasses like Slash and Myles Kennedy? We’ve got tears, say beers! Wait, that’s not how it goes.


***DOMESTIC DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

SUSAN: If you see a girl you like, just ask her if she wants to get some coffee with you.

ME: I don’t like coffee.

SUSAN: She might like coffee, you ass! What are you going to do, ask her out for some cheese and energy drinks?!

Battleground

Charles McLean was a lucky man, either because of his Irish heritage or the fact that he could very well have a golden horseshoe up his ass. Only someone of his luck could say he was allowed to train at Battleground MMA Gym despite constantly knocking out and injuring his sparring partners. Did he even know the proper rules for sparring? Was he even dimly aware that knockouts and injuries weren’t supposed to happen? Did he already lose sight of the fact that it was all supposed to be practice and not an actual fight?

Ignorance wasn’t much of an excuse these days, because the only way the light heavyweight cage warrior could ever have access to the gym was after it was closed, which meant a screwed up sleep schedule and nobody would be there to return the favor of knocking him out. Believe it or not, this was the head coaches’ idea of being charitable to someone who deserved no charity at all.

It was ten o’clock at night and the red Mohawked Irish-American entered the gym in preparation for a light heavyweight championship match he had coming up. With nobody there to help him train or to coach him, he was all on his own. Charles seemed to be taking isolation a little better than most would. He went around to the various treadmills, stair steppers, and Jacob’s Ladder machines and beefed up his cardio like the super athlete he was. In a five-round championship match, cardio was the key to success.

Charles had spent two hours in the gym just working on his strength and conditioning. By the time he ran his final few steps on the treadmill, he was a sweaty mess. His bare chest was covered in perspiration, his black MMA shorts were damp, and his shoes and socks smelled like a bus station bathroom. Despite all of the hard work he put in, he stood proudly with his hands on his hips as opposed to huffing and puffing on the floor ready to pass out.

But there’s a reason why the sport was called mixed-martial arts and not cardiovascular arts: because beating the shit out of your opponent was the only way to win. Without a sparring partner, Charles thought he was going to have to clock out early. And then he noticed the boxing ring in the center of the gym had a black body bag mounted against one of the turnbuckles.

“Is this supposed to be funny?” yelled Charles to no one in particular. “What, am I supposed to fight with a dead body now? Cute, guys! Really fucking cute!” He stomped his way to the ring and stepped between the ropes to investigate this special package. Charles even gave the bag a sniff to make sure it was really a corpse. The odor was horrendous, but then he realized it was his own swampy armpits. He was definitely getting in the showers after this was over.

With mild trepidation, Charles McLean unzipped the body bag from head to toe and found something that put a whacked out smile on his face. “No way. No fucking way. Are you guys serious?” The object in the body bag was a 6’11” tall robot dressed in black gothic attire from his trench coat to his boots. Even the spiky black hair and black and white makeup was enough to give away the chilling appearance. Charles wasn’t chilled. He was thrilled.

He pulled the robot out of the bag and tossed the bag aside with excitement, for this was like opening presents at Christmastime. He looked the warrior up and down with wide-eyed excitement and heart-beating amazement. The name “Floyd” was written across the robot’s black tank top in the creepiest font imaginable.

“Alright then, Floyd. Let’s see what you’ve got!” said Charles as he looked for the on switch to this robot, which ended up being on its asshole. “That’s right, guys, laugh it up! Because this motherfucker is going to the scrap yard!” The light heavyweight brawler flicked the switch and sparks shot out of its crevices, sending the hulking brute backwards several feet.

Once Floyd the training robot stopped showering sparks, he began to look around the arena like this was all new to him. The mechanical nightmare looked across the ring at a bewildered Charles McLean with disdain and disgust. Once both combatants put their dukes up and got in their fighting stances, it was time to go to war.

Charles was the early aggressor in this sparring session as he rushed up to Floyd and threw haymaker after haymaker, each punch easily bobbed and weaved by the mechanical drone. Floyd threw one quick and stiff jab and caught Charles on the jaw, back him up a little, but doing not too much damage.

“You want to screw around with me, Floyd? Heh. Floyd. What kind of name is that for a badass robot?!” taunted Charles, an action which almost got him knocked out with a barely dodged head kick. Floyd started throwing other kicks to the hamstring, shin, and ribcage. Being made of metal allowed the pissed off robot to inflict sharp amounts of pain to the normally rough and tough Charles McLean, who was stacked from head to toe with muscles and tone.

Charles threw a few kicks and punches of his own, but Floyd kept him at bay with his height advantage, quick jabs, and leg kicks. After a while of being smacked around with metal parts, Charles was beginning to bruise up. He had a mouse under his right eye, a slash on his left thigh, and a lump on his ribcage.

But if Floyd thought for a minute that Charles was learning his lesson about treating his sparring partners better, he was dead wrong. Out of frustration, the MMA contender threw a blatant kick between Floyd’s legs and brought the mighty giant to his knees. Charles followed it up with an illegal knee to the skull that landed Floyd on his back, seemingly unconscious.

“Yeah! Who’s the man now, bitch?! I’m the goddamn man around here! Woo!” cheered Charles McLean as he danced around the ring holding his fists up in victory. His ego was inflated to the size of a hot air balloon.

And then Floyd nipped up in an attempt to deflate that ego forever. Charles turned around and immediately stopped celebrating his ill-gotten “victory” when he saw the mighty robot staring down at him with even more venom than before. Sparks were flying from his crevices like they were before, but in even greater volume and with even more rage.

Charles looked on at this angry display with paralyzing fear. If one of the sparks touched him, he would need to be rushed to a burn ward. With nobody here to call 9-1-1, it was a deathtrap in the making. Just when the final spark was about to touch the frightened combatant’s foot, the showers stopped instantly and were replaced with a good old fashioned blitz.

Floyd bolted up to Charles with superhuman speed and clutched him around the throat with one powerful hand before hoisting him to the sky and putting a spiked blade to his throat. Not even the mighty number one contender could deal with this kind of punishment and started kicking and squealing in pain to prove it.

The gothic robot put his face in Charles’ reddening face and said, “Please exit the MMA business, punk!” With one arm, Floyd tossed the 205 lb. Charles over the ropes and watched him crash land through one of the metal benches. The normally cocky fighter was rolling around on the ground clutching his back and screaming like a girl.

Such a pathetic display got no sympathy from the cold and calculating Floyd, who proceeded to slowly step outside the ring and kneel down to where Charles was writhing and squealing. With one fist held high, Floyd said in his demonic voice, “This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me!” All it took was one stiff punch to the jaw and Charles was out like a light. No more writing, no more growling, only silence and sleep remained.

By the time Charles woke up, which wouldn’t be until the very next morning, his head and body were pulsating with dull pain and he didn’t want to make any effort to move his body. He thought he was in the afterlife after taking a beating like that, but he was right back where he was when he was knocked out: on the floor of Battleground MMA Gym. The only difference was that there were people there who were happy to see him broken and bruised.

One of the head coaches of the gym looked over Charles’ glassy and wet eyes and said, “You have a 13-0 MMA record, which means you don’t know what it’s like to be knocked unconscious or submitted. And then you ran into Floyd and hopefully he did more damage to your ego than he did to your body.”

“Wha…wha…what about my match? What about my championship match?” said Charles with an aching jaw.

“Your match has been cancelled due to your injured state,” explained the coach. “But it’s probably for the best anyways. I hope you learned something from all of this, Charles. Be nice to your sparring partners and they’ll be nice to you. You’re probably too out of it right now to digest all of that, so maybe you’ll learn it eventually when I make you spar with Floyd again.”

The coach patted Charles on his painful shoulder and allowed the EMT’s t take him away. There was only one thing the Irish-American could say to having his ego deflated and his body broken at the same time: “Fuck!”