Tarja Turunen (ex-Nightwish) vs. Alex Trebek (Jeopardy): No Beef, Just for Shits and Giggles

 

Limerence

“…”

Do you hear that? That is the sound of absolutely nobody being shocked by the news that I experience limerence on a daily basis. It is a condition defined as obsessively imagining romance with someone I have a crush on. Cigarettes taste like shit. Alcohol tastes like an entire outhouse. Heroin and cocaine are even worse for the brain than those two things put together. Limerence is my drug of choice because it costs nothing and it helps me cope with the stresses of life, whether it’s the pandemic blues or schizophrenia eating me alive long before that. Instead of traumatic memories, limerence gives me lovey-dovey scenarios to think about. One of these things is not like the other. A night of laying my head in a woman’s lap while she strokes my hair is very much preferable over reliving every insult that’s ever been said to me.

Who am I currently experiencing limerence for? A lot of women, not just one or two. I feel much more comfortable saying the names of super-famous celebrities than I do of You Tubers and people I know online. Celebrities don’t have time to read my social media posts whereas a You Tuber will know exactly who I am and will hit that block button with cat-like reflexes. To be fair to the You Tubers, how would you feel if you learned that a three hundred pound man who lives with his parents and is currently unemployed thought of you in an obsessively romantic way? While beauty is always in the eye of the beholder, I have a feeling it would be creepy no matter who I was. I could have flowing blond locks and abs that would make a great bulletproof vest. I could be a billionaire who cheats on my taxes, but never on my limerent object. It would still be creepy as fuck.

But what about the celebrities who have no time for me? What about the fictional characters who will never be offended by my romantic thoughts because they’re not even real? Well, that depends on what time period you’re talking about. In the late 90’s, it was Cammy White from Super Street Fighter II. In the mid 2000’s, it was Motoko Kusanagi from Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex. For the rest of the 2000’s, it was Tarja Turunen, the ex-lead singer from Nightwish. In 2018, it was Sarah-Jane Redmond, the actress who played Lucy Butler from Millennium. In the present day, it’s a bunch of lovely You Tubers whose names will go unchecked due to the fact that they might be reading this.

I’m sure none of you want to Google the names I did mentioned. After all, I’m supposed to be showing instead of telling when I write these nonfiction pieces. But there are many common threads among the women I’ve named and haven’t named. They’re beautiful, of course, but not just physically. They have something about them that keeps my limerent mind coming back for more. It could be the intelligence of political discourse, giving safe spaces and love in equal measures. It could be the wisdom of passionate fairytale storytelling, the paladin conquering the ogre and the dragons protecting the elven kingdoms. It could be the talent of singing like an angel from heaven itself, turning the phone book into sensual lyrics. It could be the strength of a warrior who will protect and mother any man she falls in love with. It could be the uncanny knack of seducing men just by being themselves, declaring love and giving kisses to calm the most nervous of men.

Anybody can be physically attractive. Anybody can have ruby red lips that taste like cherry pie, skin that’s soft and arousing to the touch, and hair that when stroked would leave both of your scalps tingling with pleasure. But if someone is physically attractive whilst being a shallow jerk, then that’s a huge turn-off. Nicole Arbour is physically attractive, but because of her fat-shaming rhetoric (“sweating Crisco” and “being unhealthy”), abusive behavior towards past boyfriends (punching faces and isolation from friends and family), and right-wing ignorance (white victimhood and minority bashing), she angers instead of seduces.

Another common thread among my limerent women is that none of my romantic fantasies about them have ever turned sexual. I would never want to taint them in that way. So instead, I imagine them squeezing my shoulders in a relaxing massage, sending tingles throughout my body. I imagine laying my head in their lap while they play with my hair, sending even more tingles throughout my body. I would do the same for them occasionally and earn a few swooning moans. I imagine giving them foot massages that make them close their eyes and drift off into dreamland, probably dreaming about being fed strawberries and cream like a goddess. I imagine laying in bed next to them, not for sex, but for the warmth of cuddling and the peacefulness of sleep. We could even have “A Pillow of Winds” by Pink Floyd playing in the background to accentuate this moment of love. 

These fantasies are especially important to me during moments of sadness and schizophrenic torment. Who wouldn’t want Chun Li from Street Fighter II squeezing their shoulders and lifting them up from a pit of despair? Mild, inoffensive touching at its finest. We could even hold hands together while walking through the desolate streets of either Port Orchard or Seattle. The warmth of her hand and the softness of her fingers would definitely feel good to me when I’m nervous at night. Of course, I would still be nervous about this beautiful lady wanting anything to do with me, but it’s not the same as feeling the danger of Seattle’s cyberpunk atmosphere.

I held off on talking about this topic as long as I could. I’ve already mentioned not wanting to gross anybody out with my lovey-dovey thoughts. But more importantly than that, I didn’t want to be written off as a whiny incel. For all intents and purposes, someone like me would fit in nicely with that clique. I’m overweight, a shy virgin, unemployed, and a lifelong tenant with my parents. I check all the boxes except for one: I’m not a misogynist who believes I’m entitled to free sex. Women owe me absolutely nothing. If they like me, fine. If not, then there’s nothing I can do about it. I certainly would never go on a shooting spree at a lingerie store or yoga studio. I wouldn’t run over random pedestrians with a van over my inability to be attractive. That’s just a LITTLE extreme, in my opinion.

Sometimes limerence is only a fantasy that will never come true. Sometimes we have to accept that we’re not right for everyone. Not everybody deserves a lifetime of cuddling and hot sex with Wonder Woman. Not everybody deserves a shoulder massage and passionate kisses from Tifa Lockhart. And you know what? That’s okay. If we got whatever we wanted all day every day, life would be boring as hell. There’d be no excitement or realism. If everybody is sexy, nobody is sexy. If everything is romantic, nothing is romantic. All the good things in life will come in moderation, which seems cliché to say until you do take it to the extreme and completely fuck up your life because of it. You hear that, Jake Davison? Of course you don’t, because you’re dead.

So why do I have limerent fantasies about people I don’t stand a chance with? Wouldn’t it be easier just for me to go out and meet somebody, pandemic aside? Well, that’s where the shyness and lack of confidence comes in. I don’t enjoy being creepy and I can see if me flirting with a woman would be perceived that way, no matter how mild or harmless it may seem. Being rejected by someone who thinks I’m creepy sounds like the worst kind of pain there is. It’s actually been scientifically proven that romantic rejection activates the same receptors of the brain as physical pain. It’s not as easy as moving onto the next one. It hurts. It can hurt for weeks, months, even years, especially if you’re like me and you’re neurodivergent. Autistic people generally feel pain at a higher capacity than neurotypicals. Criticism and rejection are both necessary parts of life, but goddamn, do they hurt worse than getting kicked in the testicles.

So what do I do about this? Stay in the shadows and partake in the drug known as limerence, of course. What else would I do? Why bother with someone who’s guaranteed to hate me when I’ve got Anette Olzon scratching her nails down my back and setting off my ASMR triggers? Why put myself through unnecessary pain when I’ve got Amy Lee slow-dancing with me at the prom, whispering sweetness in my ear and kissing my cheeks while doing so? Not a tough decision, as you can see. While loneliness may suck and limerence will always be fake, it beats the emotional trauma of rejection any day of the week. This makes me sound like an incel, I’m sure, but mark my words: I despise that ideology and want nothing to do with people who conform to that label. Maybe I’m not that creepy after all? Nah! Of course I am! Lzzy Hale, here I come! What flavor of ice cream sandwich do you want: vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, or all three at once?

My Response to "Noise" by Nightwish

***MY RESPONSE TO “NOISE” BY NIGHTWISH***

I’ve been a fan of Nightwish’s music dating all the way back to 2002. It started with “She Is My Sin” from the Wishmaster album and it snowballed from there. I was heartbroken to learn about Tarja Turunen’s firing from the band in 2005. I also crushed on her and Anette Olzon throughout my college days. I talked with Tuomas Holopainen on My Space (if that was really him). I wrote several creepy essays about Nightwish to cope with my loneliness. Okay, that last part was on a need-to-know basis, but you get what I’m trying to say. And I’ve accepted the fact that my heroes and I are going to have disagreements from time to time. I don’t agree with Roger Waters’s fox hunting. I don’t agree with Daniel Bryan’s anti-meat agenda. I don’t agree with George Carlin’s hatred of fat people. Disagreements happen and that’s a part of life a lot of people are going to have to get realistic about.

A few days ago, Nightwish released a new single from their latest album and that song is called “Noise”. If you’ve watched the video for it or have read the lyrics on Google, then you’d be blind not to notice the strong technophobic themes. You’ve heard these messages before from Baby Boomers and Gen Xers. Staring at your screen all the time will make you mentally ill. Social media will brainwash you into becoming a mediocre zombie. Young people need to wake up. Yada, yada, yada, you get the point by now. There used to be a time when I blindly agreed with these sentiments. But knowing what I know about today’s world and how my generation has been derided for far too long, I’m afraid I’m going to have to crack my knuckles for this post. Tuomas, Floor, Marco, everyone in the band, I love you all dearly. I wouldn’t trade you for anyone else. But you wanted a conversation and you’ve got one.

In case I haven’t whined about it enough online, I live in a small town called Port Orchard, Washington. I’ve lived in small towns for pretty much all of my teenaged and adult life. These small towns all have something in common: they’ve got…and I’m not exaggerating…a whole lot of jack shit. The most entertaining thing one could do in Port Orchard is go to a grocery store or fast food establishment and pig the fuck out on junk food. You can also do drugs and alcohol if you’d like. Me? I could probably go to a bar and meet strangers. There’s just one problem: I don’t have a car nor do I want one. I’ll leave it to someone else to fly through the windshield and plow into a ditch. With no car and with constantly pouring weather, I can’t exactly go out and do whatever the hell I want without someone giving me a lift. Even if I did trust myself behind the wheel of a car, I wouldn’t be able to meet people anyways because I’m too fucking shy. I hate being rejected and I hate embarrassing other people as well.

More often than not, the only form of entertainment I can consistently count on is social media. Whether I’m watching a You Tube video, surfing Deviant Art, interacting with other readers on Good Reads, or boosting my own career as an independently-published author, social media has been there for me. That’s right. Without social media, I’d have no writing career. I could go the traditionally published route, but that would mean getting past gatekeepers that never gave a shit about me in the first place. The reason it’s called social media is because it’s, you guessed it, social. In a town with a whole lot of jack shit, I can go online and talk to other people who are feeling just as lonely as me. Are they online all the time? No. But it’s better than wandering the rainy streets of Port Orchard looking for a whole lot of nothing. What am I supposed to do, knock on random doors in my neighborhood and ask people if they want to be my friend? Please.

Does social media have drawbacks? Yes. Is it unhealthy to compare yourself to the perfect versions of other people? Yes. Should I be looking for other hobbies? Yes. But do I have much of a choice in the matter given my circumstances? Absolutely not. Cars are expensive as hell and they’re fucking dangerous too. Real life people would rather avoid and ignore me than see my vulnerable side. Being a lower class weirdo doesn’t matter on social media because strangers will be there to comfort you and come together for you. Do I still feel lonely sometimes? Yes. But do I blame it all on social media and my generation growing up with it? Hell no. Blaming my generation for everything is a lazy copout for fixing systemic problems within our society.

But this is just my experience. I’m sure there are people out there who do just fine without social media. Hell, I know some old people who are glued to their phones and nobody kicks up a fuss about them. We all have our way of coping with boring lives. We all have a distraction of some sort. Some people snort cocaine. Some people chow down on Kentucky Fried Chicken. Me? I use social media as my escape. Why? Because I don’t have a fucking choice. Do I want choices? Absolutely. But are they going to present themselves to me in a way that’s considerate of my circumstances? No.

Like I said earlier, I love Nightwish and will always cherish their music no matter what. I don’t want you all to think I’m putting the boots to them over a minor disagreement. They’re entitled to their opinions just like I’m entitled to mine. I’m sure Tuomas and I can sit down and discuss this over a nice lunch at That One Place (a diner here in Port Orchard with enormous fucking pancakes). I’m sure Floor and I can share a few plates of chow mein from China Sun Buffet (also in Port Orchard), and no, that’s not me asking her out on a date. Remember, I don’t like embarrassing other people with my flirty behavior and that includes Floor Jansen.

The point is, Nightwish wanted to get a discussion going and that’s exactly what happened. I see a lot of people agreeing with “Noise’s” message on social media (the irony is killing me), but I don’t see a lot of opposition. I can promise you one thing, though: if Nightwish ever comes to my home state of Washington for a concert, I promise I won’t shout “OK Boomer!” after they’re done playing Noise. That dishonor is reserved for Nonpoint and their song “Generation Idiot”. I’m joking, of course. Nonpoint did a hell of a job opening for Hellyeah back in December, though I was secretly doing my happy dance when they neglected to play “Generation Idiot”. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“The days were brighter. Gardens were blooming. The nights had more hope in their silence. The wild was calling. Wishes were whispering. The time was there, but without a meaning. The days departed. Gardens deserted. This frail world my only rest. The wild calls no more. Wishes were hollow. The barefoot boy weeping in an empty night. Cherish the moment. Tower the skies. Don’t let the dreamer fade to gray like grass. No falling for life. A gain for every loss. Time gathered me, but kept me flying. Away, away, away in time. Every dream’s a journey away. Away, away to a home away from care. Everywhere’s just a journey away.”

-Nightwish singing “Away”, which as you can see is not a technophobic diatribe-

It's Okay to Be Single

***IT’S OKAY TO BE SINGLE***

Valentine’s Day is on the horizon, a horizon covered by about ten inches of falling snow, by the way. For those who are single, Valentine’s Day is the hardest holiday to get through because it seems as though your non-existent relationship status is being rubbed in your face. I know this, because I too am single and I hated this holiday for the longest time. I wish someone had told me back in those romantically lonely days that…it’s okay to be single. I know it’s hard for some people to believe that the world won’t judge you if you are, but if it’s a comfort to you at all, I’m the very last person in this world who will judge you for being single. I won’t even judge you for being a virgin. Involuntarily celibate is an entirely different story, but still, you get my drift.

When you learn to let go of this idea that romance is a necessity, you’ll feel as though the weight of the world is finally off of your shoulders. That doesn’t mean you can’t get into a relationship somewhere down the line, but if you obsess over it all the time, then it’ll hurt you emotionally. A lot of the pain from my university days stemmed from being single and wanting someone I could never have. I crushed on Tarja Turunen, the ex-lead singer from Nightwish, and it hurt me constantly that I couldn’t have her. Even when I crushed on women within my location and economic means, I was too shy to approach them because I didn’t want them to be offended by my presence. I carried this pain for a long time, long after I graduated from college.

The idea of letting go of my obsession was insane to me, which I now realize is an ironic thing for a schizophrenic like me to say, but oh well. Why was I so obsessed? Was it a combination of teenaged hormones and having my first slow dance at 15? Was it a long-distance relationship I had in 2002 and 2003 where I desperately wanted to close that gap? Was it my first kiss in 2014? Was it being seduced by random women at rock concerts in 2016 and 2018? Those brain chemicals are addictive as hell, I agree. Any addiction makes letting go a difficult thing.

But when I finally let go earlier this year, I asked myself a series of questions that had “duh” answers all along. Would being in a relationship truly make me happy? Would having sex for the first time be as magical as books and movies make it out to be? What exactly are the consequences supposed to be for staying single? When the time finally comes to be in a relationship, will I be prepared or will anxiety take over my senses? Truth is, not everyone who’s in a relationship is happy, as evidenced by divorce rates, abusive situations, and constant fighting even when things are going great. First time sex ends too quickly, or so I’ve heard. There are no consequences for being single. I’ve done nothing to prepare myself for a relationship, so my anxiety and nervousness around women won’t dissipate.

None of this means that I don’t believe in romance. It doesn’t mean that if a woman asked me on a date, I would automatically reject her. It simply means that I won’t form unhealthy crushes or obsess over something unattainable. My emotional health means everything to me. It’s the reason why I’m able to sustain a writing career and an overall peaceful life. If I’m constantly in a state of unhappiness, then I don’t care how many poems and stories I write, because I can never satiate those obsessive desires. I wrote three first draft novels this year, all of them centering on my obsession with romance. While I’m grateful for the creative exercises, I can get the same result and probably more work done if I’m happy about life instead of miserable.

It’s particularly bad when you’re in love with a celebrity, especially one that’s been around since your teenaged years. You spend all of this time pining over and dreaming of them. Even when you realize it could never be, you obsess more and more until it ruins your state of mind. You carry this unhappiness with you into adulthood and by that time your celebrity crush is much older than you are. Everybody ages, everybody moves on, and you must do so too.

If you’re single this Valentine’s Day and you don’t know what to do, just treat it like any other day of the week. Do some creative work. Get some reading done. Draw a picture. Order a pizza. Watch a movie. Do something other than give into your unrealistic obsessions. You’re responsible for your own happiness. Treat yourself kindly. Don’t beat yourself up. Take good care of your mind. You only get one in this lifetime, so be good to it and don’t drive yourself insane. If you must get into a relationship, keep it healthy and happy and don’t be codependent. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

Rewriting this story has been a slow process with many gap days in between the work days. You can thank my constant sleepiness for that. But fear not, because before 2019 is over, I will have this novel finished and published. The next chapter to be written will be number twelve, where Windham and Tarja deliver the blueprints to Shelly’s castle to their boss, Orpheus Rinehart. Will the boss man be grateful or will he reward his employees with a year-long membership in the Jelly of the Month Club? It’s the gift that keeps on giving the whole year. You get a cookie if you know what movie that’s from.

***PHILOSOPHICAL QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“You will find that if you get with reality, all thoughts of delusions disappear. But you must remember that the secret to all of this is not to be afraid of fear. When you can really allow yourself to be afraid, and you don't resist the experience of fear, you are truly beginning to master fear. But when you refuse to be afraid, you are resisting fear, and that simply sets up a vicious circle of being afraid of fear of being afraid of being afraid of fear. If then you try to obliterate fear, you're working in the wrong way. To attack at fear is to strengthen it. As if you were God, that is to say, you don't trust anybody and you're the dictator and you have to keep everybody in line, you lose the divine then. 'Cause what you're doing is simply defending yourself. So then the principle is the more you give it away, the more it comes back. The meaning of the fact we see that everything is dissolving constantly, we're all falling apart. We're all in a process of constant death. Then you truly understand that you don't have to let go because there's nothing to hold on to.”

-Alan Watts-

2019

My intentions for the brand new year

Have never been so crystalline clear

Drop a hundred pounds as I walk this town

While listening to favorite heavy metal sounds

Publish a new book full of action and drama

Edit that bitch down to the very last comma

Find a girl who loves me for my soul

Who’ll pull me out of my blackest hole

Read more books and clear my shelves

I’ll review them all, but read for yourselves

Learn how to drive some clunky machinery

Eat less junk food and eat more greenery

See Tarja Turunen perform at a show

Even if the destination is one I don’t know

Buy a T-shirt that says Ego Kills Talent

Vote for justice on the November ballot

Glide my fingers across the piano again

Play some funky music that never ends

Be the best kitty father I can possibly be

Emilio the snuggle buddy sleeping with me

Write more often while being wide awake

Write every day if that’s what it takes

If these dreams and goals sound unrealistic

You’re obviously part of this division

You might as well stand right in my path

Can’t guarantee your safety in the aftermath

You say I can’t do it, I tell you to screw it

You’ve got too much attitude; lose it

This year is mine to grab by the horns

This life is mine, it shall never be torn

New Years Goals 2019

***NEW YEARS GOALS 2019***

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

***LOSING ONE HUNDRED POUNDS***

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

***PUBLISH BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

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

***FIND A GIRLFRIEND***

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

***CURE MY CHRONIC TIREDNESS***

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

***SEE TARJA TURUNEN IN CONCERT***

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

***CONCLUSION***

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

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

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

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

Face Book Short Takes

Per the encouragement of my awesome Port Orchard friend Anna Bradshaw, here’s a compilation of all the funny short takes I’ve posted on Face Book. Enjoy!

EVANESCENCE DREAM:

I haven’t been remembering a lot of my trips to the subconscious theater lately since they involved competitions of some kind (I never remember those for some reason). I do however remember pretty much all of my concert dreams. Last night was no exception. This time I saw Evanescence play a show in an abandoned bank in the middle of nowhere. Amy Lee and her new band mates were all fifty years old. I repeat, between the release of Evanescence’s first album and this dream, Amy Lee became…fifty years old. She had gray hair, wrinkly skin, Marlboro lines in her face, and she was wearing a pants suit like she was running for office. This whole time I kept asking, “What the fuck’s going on here?!” Thank god I woke up when I did. But yes, it’s true, ladies and gentlemen: as of today, Amy Lee is only fourteen years away from celebrating her fiftieth birthday. Let that sink in for a minute and then you can slowly realize it beats the alternative.

CONCERT CO-HEADLINERS:

Because I was too zonked out today to get any real work done, I made a list of bands I haven’t seen perform live yet and paired them together as fantasy co-headliners. I tried to have the pairings make as much sense as possible. Live Nation? Make them happen!

1. 3 Doors Down X Crossfade
2. David Gilmour X Martin Kesici
3. Gemini Syndrome X From Ashes to New
4. Ghost X Babymetal
5. Hellyeah X All That Remains
6. Killer Be Killed X Down
7. Limp Bizkit X Bloodhound Gang
8. Sepultura X Sworn In
9. Serj Tankian X Tarja Turunen
10. Within Temptation X The Dark Element

BATHROOM BREAKS:

Here’s something I’ve always wondered, but never got an answer to. Why is it whenever you’re talking to someone online and you tell them you have to go to the bathroom, they always think you’re looking for an excuse to get away from the computer? Would they rather you soil yourself? Would they rather you wear a diaper at the computer? I don’t know about you guys, but sitting in my own biological sludge isn’t worth maintaining a conversation with someone. It stinks. It stinks very badly. I know this because my elderly dog Maggie shits and pisses all the time and I’m usually the one who wipes it off the floor. Whenever I tell you I need to go to the bathroom, believe me. This is especially important to me after I have a whole pitcher of iced tea to drink….or two…or three. That’s a lot of urine, more than Smokey’s litter box allows. So yes, I’m going to need a non-diapered bathroom break every once and a while. Deal with it.

FIFTY SHADES JOKES:

If you surf You Tube a lot like I do, you’ll eventually watch a few less-than-romantic videos and some wiseass in the comments section will say, “Still a better love story than Twilight.” Well, I’ve never read Twilight, so I can’t say for certain, but I have read its fan fiction predecessor Fifty Shades of Grey. I gave that book three out of five stars (mixed grade), but now that I have the benefit of hindsight, it deserved less. Much less! So that got me thinking: what are the most extreme, fringiest examples of movies or books that are better love stories than Fifty Shades of Grey? In the interest of bad taste, I’ve actually compiled a list for you so that you don’t have to. Starting with…

1. A Serbian Film
2. Boston Public (stalker episode)
3. Different Strokes (bike shop episode)
4. Fatal Attraction
5. Millennium (A Room with No View)
6. NCIS (Bete Noir)
7. NCIS: Los Angeles (An Unlocked Mind)
8. Pink Floyd the Wall (“Don’t Leave Me Now”)
9. Pulp Fiction (pawn shop scene)
10. Savages (Blake Lively’s captivity)
11. Star Wars: Return of the Jedi (slave Leia scene)
12. Suicide Squad (Joker X Harley Quinn)
13. Tales From the Hood (spinning table scene)
14. Team America: World Police (scat fetish scene)
15. The Shield (David Aceveda blowjob scene)
16. Through the Shattered Glass by Jeanie Clarke (marriage to Stone Cold Steve Austin)

With a virtual cornucopia of extreme examples, I want you to think carefully the next time you make a Fifty Shades joke. Let’s say you decide The Shield is more romantic. You’re basically saying that you’d rather get orally raped by a Mexican gangster than have a bondage romance with Christian Grey. I know, I know, you desperately want to put those things on the same level, but trust me, you’re exercising your hyperbole muscles when venturing into this territory.

BLACK TEA:

In all this time of drinking iced tea, I’ve always thought black tea had a negligible amount of caffeine. I can’t stress the word negligible enough. Turns out it’s one tier below coffee and I’m just now paying the price for drinking entire pitchers of black tea. Caffeine and schizophrenia is a fucking horrible combination. Plus, there must have been some reason why I kept waking up at ten in the morning despite going to bed late at night. If you don’t see any creative work from me for a while, it’s because the black tea caffeine is working its way out of my system and I’m constantly in beddy-bye with Smokey. I can’t concentrate if I’m perpetually sleepy. It probably doesn’t help matters that I’m constantly listening to “True” by Spandau Ballet and having romantic (not sexual) thoughts while doing so. Negligible, my ass!

CHEERIOS AND SOCCER:

When I was a nine-year-old preparing to play in a soccer game, I wanted to eat a bowl of Cheerios before the match, because…and I quote directly from the tube…they had “Morning power! Kid power! Go power!” James laughed his ass off at that while I was having a hard time undoing the brainwashing of television advertising. Truth is, Cheerios won’t help you win a soccer match. As a matter of fact, my team and I, the lovable losers known as The Thunder Eagles, got our asses handed to us like a bunch of jobbers. Drinking warm Gatorade didn’t help me win either. It gave me some cardio, but not a victory. I could have eaten a hot fudge sundae and had the same results. Is it any wonder why I didn’t want to shake the other team’s hands afterwards? Participation trophy, my ass!

BABY INITIALS:

I’m too zonked out today to get any real work done other than build a few of my birthday Legos. So instead I’m going to have some fun with potential kid names (even though I still haven’t any plans to father children). Tonight we’re going to look at initials, excluding the T in Temons and keeping the H in Haines (assuming initials are only supposed to have three letters). Ready? I sure am.

1. Grant Thomas Haines-Temons (GTH (Go to Hell))
2. Heath Edgar Haines-Temons (HEH)
3. Hunter Hearst Haines-Temons (HHH (Triple H))
4. Ivan Cody Haines-Temons (ICH)
5. Marcus Edge Haines-Temons (MEH)
6. Neville Alexander Haines-Temons (NAH)
7. Roger Owen Haines-Temons (ROH (Ring of Honor))
8. Samuel Mitchell Haines-Temons (SMH (Shaking My Head))
9. Tucker Oliver Haines-Temons (TOH (Treehouse of Horror))
10. Uriah Garrison Haines-Temons (UGH)
11. Walter Travis Haines-Temons (WTH (What the Hell?))

That’s all I can come up with for now. Happy Father’s Day!

COUPLES:

Here’s something I’ve often wondered, but never got a definitive answer to. Why is it whenever I go out in public with someone, everybody thinks we’re a couple? I’ve had people assume me and my brother James to be a gay couple, especially when we have Reina in tow. Hell, I’ve had a massage therapist in Hawaii assume that me and Aunt Ruth were a couple. You’ve got to have Ray Charles vision in order to fuck that one up. This isn’t Game of Thrones, people. My family tree actually forks. If it didn’t, then according to Jeff Foxworthy, I might be a redneck. Actually, my neck is red anyways since I go out for long distance walks in eighty degree heat, but that’s beside the point. Back to the topic at hand, it would be REALLY fucking disastrous if someone thought me and Reina were a couple. And while we’re at it, why don’t we just assume that people walking their dogs are in bestiality relationships. Good god almighty!

CREATIVE NONFICTION IS REAL, DAMN IT!:

When I was taking a nonfiction creative writing class in 2009, I overheard some kid questioning whether or not the words “creative” and “nonfiction” belong in the same sentence together. His major talking point was that since the memories are real and nothing is made up, it can’t be creative. The counterpoint to his argument was that the author still had to tell a story, which means the same rules as fictional writing still apply whether it’s showing vs. telling, being a reliable narrator, using colorful descriptions, dictating a desirable pace, using correct grammar, etc. No matter how many times the kid was proven wrong, he just kept insisting that there’s no such thing as creative nonfiction. It was like talking to a brick wall. Actually, the brick wall would have a higher IQ. Roger Waters seems to agree since he built one out of his own insecurities and made a classic rock album out of it with his Pink Floyd mates. See? I told you creative nonfiction was real!

DANIEL BRYAN X PAIGE:

Another weird ass goddamn dream from last night? Sure, why not? This one is WWE themed as it involved Smackdown wrestler Daniel Bryan and Smackdown General Manager Paige. Both of them were kidnapped by a religious cult after yesterday’s show. One of the cult members openly admitted to masturbating to Paige’s leaked sex videos, which naturally made her shiver in disgust. Once the cult’s van got to a high school gymnasium to perform a ritual, they gagged Daniel and Paige with tall Red Bull cans and duct tape. It was up to me and a special team of whoever-the-fucks to raid the gym and rescue the two Smackdown personalities. Daniel was successfully rescued, but Paige was nowhere to be found even as I kept desperately screaming her name. Then I woke up feeling happy for some strange reason, probably because I got a lot of work done last night at one in the morning (blogging Escape From Chehalis, writing Because of You, and reading chapter three of The Savior’s Champion). Although that might not be the official reason for my happiness, I chose not to question the source and actually let myself have a good day today.

DISTURBING NAPTIME MUSIC:

As someone who likes good music and good naps, I can tell you now that there’s nothing depraved about falling asleep to “She Don’t Want the World” by 3 Doors Down. The lyrics are disturbing as fuck, but the music is soothing enough to cure insomnia. Same thing goes with “Out of Hell” by In This Moment, a gentle piano melody with…questionable content. Not once have I fallen asleep to these songs and had a horrible nightmare afterwards. Most of my dreams are about school, concerts, and occasionally Unitarian churches (I used to go to those as a kid and a teenager, but not anymore). Last night’s trip to the subconscious was about me actually WANTING to go to school, so I signed up for a creative writing class and a gym course. Normally Roger Waters and I would agree when it comes to crappy school experiences, but this time, I actually wanted to go. Huh. Weird shit.

JAPANESE RESTAURANT:

It’s day three of zombie brain BS, so the most you’re going to get from me today is a post about a weird ass dream I had last night. Or as I like to call it, a trip into the subconscious theater. The dream opened with me getting a report card from college: two Ds and one F. I was so fucking pissed that I threw my report card in the garbage and went on a hissy-fit rampage in front of my teachers. To calm me down, one of the teachers suggested that I find a job at the Japanese restaurant on campus. When I started working there, the TVs at the sushi bar were playing Isle of Dogs and nobody batted an eye. I changed the channel to WWE and watched Dean Ambrose, Carlito, and Mojo Rawley give a member of The New Day a triple power bomb a la The Shield. I woke up wondering just what the hell happened (what a fucking surprise). Now that I’ve written this dream post, there might be some hope for me yet when it comes to creative work. The question now is, do I want to write a blog entry about Incel Terrorism or Creative Crossroads? Hmm…decisions, decisions…

SPIRO’S FAUX PAS:

As I ate dinner with my brother James at Spiro’s, he introduced me to a new word I apparently should have learned a long time ago: Faux Pas. It comes from the French for “false step” and it’s an idiom for an embarrassing or awkward mistake. Apparently during dinner, I made two Faux Pas that night. One, I ate the entire chocolate topping off of James’s peanut butter pie (which reminded him of the episode of South Park where Eric Cartman eats the crispy skin off of everybody’s KFC meals). The other Faux Pas was when I refused to engage in small talk with our waitress. She asked me if I did anything fun for the fourth of July and I simply said, “No”, prompting James to chuckle awkwardly for some reason. Even though he’s introverted too, he can’t understand why small talk is so difficult for me. All in all, it was a fun way to end our evening. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have many more Faux Pas to make.

STUPID HOSE!:

A few years ago, I was out on the back porch trying to get my garden hose to work. I can’t remember if I was watering flowers or cleaning out the rubbish bin, but I needed that hose to work. Much to my frustration, the damn thing wouldn’t spray any water. I tried everything from checking for knots to turning the faucet on. Nothing. Instead of looking for calmer, more rational solutions, I scream, “Come on, you stupid fucking hose, get working!” Little did I know that there were little children getting off school and parents who could have misinterpreted the word “hose” as being spelled H-O-E-S. What a disaster that would have been if someone thought I was a pimp. But I assure you, I’m just a guy who gets pissed off at little things. If you’ve ever wondered why my stories and poems have an angry tone, that’s why. I swear I’m not a pimp. Hehe!

GARRISH:

One day while going out to lunch with my dad and brother, the clerk who made my sandwich called me Garrish instead of Garrison, which my dad attributed to my poor handwriting when I placed my order. Dad and James joked that Garrish sounded like an Eastern European name, but it turns out it’s a real English word, albeit spelled with one R instead of two. Dictionary.com defines it as “tastelessly colorful”, like the Hawaiian shirts I used to wear back in my twenties. You learn something new every day, folks.

INUYASHA, SIT BOY!:

One of my favorite things to watch as a college kid was Inuyasha, but the one thing that always frustrated me about that show was how Kagome could bend Inuyasha to her will by using a “sit” command. Every time she said the magic word, the dog demon would fall flat on his face and become instantly obedient. Well, I think I’ve figured out a solution to that mess. To paraphrase Agent Smith from The Matrix, “What good is a sit command if you’re…unable to speak?” Sorry Kagome, but there are no M’s in the word sit. Hehe!

LIMP BIZKIT:

Whenever I need entertainment in the late hours of the night, I can always count on the subconscious theater to deliver a five star performance. Some might disagree about the five stars in this particular dream, but I don’t. Last night’s dream featured yet another weird ass rock concert, but this time the venue wasn’t in a building that was supposed to be something else like a Chinese restaurant or an art museum. This time the nightclub setting actually made sense. The main act? None other than one of the most hated bands on planet earth, Limp Bizkit. Some of their onstage antics included blowing cigarette smoke out of a desk fan, having a face-to-face screaming match with yours truly, and doing a cover of Metallica’s “St. Anger” (as if they couldn’t be more hated). It was a nice way to wake up for my 33^rd birthday, to say the least. Another nice way to wake up was seeing everybody’s birthday wishes on my Face Book page, so thank you all for that. The rest of my birthday was well-celebrated and now all I want to do is nap with Smokey. Maybe if I nap with her long enough, Limp Bizkit will give me another kick-ass performance.

MANIC PIXIE DREAM GIRL:

I just looked up the term Manic Pixie Dream Girl on Wikipedia. It’s a literary pejorative for a supporting female character whose main role in the story is to boost the self-esteem of the depressed or brooding male protagonist, thus helping him come out of his shell. Examples include Susanna from “The Way, Way Back”, Sam from “The Perks of Being a Wallflower”, and to some extent Sophie from “Obselidia”. When it comes to my current work in progress called Silent Warrior, I have strong reasons to believe Adrienne Simpson also falls under this category. Good god, what have I done?!

THE MARINE TEST:

Today’s my second straight day of mental sluggishness, so instead of actual writing, I’ll tell you all about a weird ass dream I had last night. In this episode of the subconscious theater, Mom, Dale, and I were vacationing in Afghanistan. While there, Mom had me apply for a job and as part of my recruitment, I had to take something called The Marine Test. It wasn’t actual military training like one would expect, but a written exam followed by a drawing test. I gave up halfway through it and decided to fly home to America. I called Mom and asked her when she and Dale were coming home. Mom said they were stuck in Israel, so I got even more frustrated. Then when I went out to the driveway, Dale and Mom were pulling in. I woke up wondering what the fuck just happened. The Marine Test? What does that even mean? And why was drawing something part of the exam? I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for this, but unfortunately, Sigmund Freud is one dead motherfucker and I’m not trained in the art of necromancy. Bummer.

MEET JOE BLOW:

When I was in middle school in the late 90’s, I refused to go on a date with a girl because the movie we were going to see at the theater was Meet Joe Black. I wanted to see either American History X or Rush Hour, but no, it had to be the lovey-dovey Meet Joe Black because it meets the criteria for a “date movie”. Fast forward to 2014 and I realize that anything can be considered a “date movie” no matter what the genre. My now ex-girlfriend and I went to see The Lego Movie and Peabody & Sherman when they came out. Let that sink in for a minute. Still to this day, I haven’t watched Meet Joe Black nor have I desired to. Maybe I’ll research it on Wikipedia and call it a day. Or maybe one of you, my lovely readers, has seen it and can give the Cliff’s Notes version of it.

WHY ARE YOU UP SO LATE?:

I have a question for my fellow night owls. Have you ever been online past midnight and a friend sends you a message asking why you’re up so late? Usually these people live in a time zone far ahead of yours, so they’re technically up much later than you. I swear to god, one night I was online at ten-thirty and someone from the east coast asked me why I was up so late. By my math, that means the guy asking me is staying up until one-thirty in the morning. What is HE doing up so late? I’m not sure what the time difference is between the pacific coast in America and countries from across both oceans, but I’ve gotten the “Why are you up so late?” question from friends over there as well. Technically, I should be going to bed at a reasonable hour since I have sleep apnea and psychological exhaustion is one of the reasons why I don’t write or read every single day. My body says, “Go to bed”, but my mind says, “Fuck no” and wins that battle on a frequent basis. Maybe I just think that listening to music and fucking around on the internet is more entertaining than lying in bed. Perhaps this will answer some of your questions as to what I’m doing up so late, even though technically you’re up much later than I am.

ROCK AND ROLL WILL NEVER DIE!:

Would someone like to explain to me why I keep hearing the phrase “rock is dead”? Last time I checked, brand new rock and heavy metal albums are still being released to the public. Plus, if you love the old stuff, you can always, I don’t know, go back and listen to it. Music genres don’t just “die out”. People said rap rock was dead in 2001, but you still have bands like Hollywood Undead and From Ashes to New performing in that genre. Hell, there are still people performing classical symphonic music. Lindsey Stirling plays a goddamn violin, for Christ’s sake. Nightwish uses an orchestra for some of their songs. Hell, Evanescence released a symphonic album called Synthesis in 2017. If you have a favorite music genre, don’t give up on it because it’s not “trendy” or “hip”. Trends come and go, but music is forever. It’s the soundtrack of our lives. It’s medicine for the soul. Rock and roll isn’t dead now and it won’t be dead anytime soon. If for some reason it does die out (which it won’t), don’t blame it on young people, because that’s just a cheap copout. Plus, it’s bigoted as fuck. Can’t we all just…enjoy the music?!

TARJA TURUNEN DREAM:

It’s been a while since my last weird ass dream (mostly because I couldn’t remember them in the morning). This one really takes the goddamn cake. I dreamed I was in a long distance relationship with Tarja Turunen. While we’re talking on the phone, she mentions having to be cryogenically frozen until there’s a cure for whatever she has. She also says that because she lives in Philadelphia (she doesn’t in real life) and it’s polluted as hell, kissing her would be the equivalent of drinking hemlock. I tell her that since I live in the Pacific Northwest, kissing me would be the equivalent of kissing Walt Disney (because it’s cold up here and Mr. Disney is frozen). Before we hang up, I make a promise to wait for her until she’s awakened from cryogenic stasis. My mom then tells me that I don’t actually love her and that I’m only crushing on her for “pedestrian reasons”, whatever that means. I woke up with Smokey curled around my head since she’s made a habit out of trying to steal my pillow. Pedestrian reasons?! What?!

THEY’RE JUST FUCKING CLOTHES:

You know how people like to say, “He doesn’t know how to dress himself?” Well, I’ve come up with a little test to see if that’s true. Are you naked? If not, then congratulations, you know how to dress yourself. It doesn’t matter if you’re wearing sweatpants, New Romantic style, Goth boots, an Armani suit, or even a Speedo. If you’re clothed, you’re clothed. Hands down. End of story. Although I must admit, if these sweatpants weren’t so damn comfortable already, I wouldn’t mind dressing like a Goth or a New Romantic (despite the fact that it’s no longer the early 1980’s). But as it is, fashion is overrated and clothes are only good for warming up an otherwise naked body.

OVER-THE-TOP NAMES:

Reina and I just had a conversation about unrealistic names in my stories. When it comes to a college drama like Incelbordination, she thinks the names Oswald Crow and Antero Magnus sound too over-the-top and fantasy-like. They sound like they’re about to slay dragons rather than pine over hot chicks. Then there’s Beautiful Monster. Reina was strangely okay with the name Windham Xavier, but she thought the name Shelly Atwood didn’t fit the bill for a gothic seductress. Reina’s grandma is named Shelly. She rests her case. And then there’s Silent Warrior, which features a monstrous puppet teacher that appears in Scott’s dreams. Her name is…drum roll please…Aloysius Striker. As long as she’s relegated to the nightmare role, Reina has no problem with that name. Basically, her rule for naming characters is to have one of the names be fancy and the other be basic. She would have been okay with a name like Oswald Smith and she’s okay with Nikita Johnson. And then I explained to her that Crow was the last name of a pop singer (Sheryl Crow) and an actor (Russell Crowe). She didn’t buy that excuse. Me? I bought it with one hundred percent interest. I plan on showing Reina more of my overly exotic names tomorrow. Right now, it’s time for bed. Goodnight, everyone!

BEAUTIFUL MONSTER WEAPONS:

I have an hour to kill before WWE Monday Night Raw comes on TV, so I’ll use part of it to explain why in my WIP Beautiful Monster, Windham uses a whip and Tarja uses a staff. There’s no Freudian psychology behind either of those choices. Windham isn’t secretly into BDSM or anything like that, but if that’s what you got out of his characterization, I won’t argue with you. The reason I gave Windham Xavier a whip is because Simon Belmont from the Castlevania videogame series had one too. I gave Tarja Rikkinen a wooden staff because Donatello from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles franchise had one as well. As long as I’m dispelling Freudian psychology in my weapon choices, Commander Rinehart doesn’t use a punching dagger because he’s secretly into fisting. He uses it for the same reason anybody else would: because it fucking hurts. I shall say no more. I’ve said enough already. Hehe!

Yearly Muses

***DOMESTIC DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

REINA: Garrison’s got a crush! Garrison’s got a crush!

JAMES: On who?

REINA: I’m not at liberty to say.

JAMES: You can tell me, Reina. You’re an American. It’s in the constitution. It’s your right.

GARRISON: No, it isn’t! That’s extortion!

JAMES: Well, whoever it is you have a crush on, you probably shouldn’t tell them that you like “Sickened” by Disturbed.

GARRISON: Those two things have nothing to do with each other!

JAMES: Uh-huh, sure! You don’t relate to that song, Garrison. It’s just your emo, angsty white boy music. Disturbed has nothing to do with barbarians and wizards.

GARRISON: That’s not all I think about!

JAMES: Fake news!

GARRISON: Goddamn it, James!

***YEARLY MUSES***

I don’t normally open my blog entries with the quote/dialogue of the day, but in order for the context to make sense, I had to do that. This blog is about muses, or lovey-dovey goddesses who inspire creativity. I was hesitant at first to do this blog because I didn’t want to appear like a thirsty fuck-boy. But during that above conversation I had with James and Reina, I learned not to be embarrassed by my own emotions. James and Reina weren’t making fun of me for having a crush. They were proud of the fact that I could feel those emotions to begin with. Or as I would say, “It’s a natural function!” Hell, if you don’t believe me, listen to Mister Rogers talk about how natural loving emotions are. Are you going to doubt Mister Rogers? No? I didn’t fucking think so. But yes, it’s true, every year there’s a new muse in my life. I don’t know why it’s a yearly thing, but as long as I’m being inspired to be a better person creatively and emotionally, I won’t question it. I’ve lived a long time, so I won’t go through every single year. I’ll settle for a top five instead. Starting with…

***2018: SARAH-JANE REDMOND***

Many of my readers have heard me talk about her before and how her performance as Lucy Butler in an episode of Millennium called “A Room with No View” has shook me to my core. I talk about Ms. Redmond a lot because if it wasn’t for that performance, Beautiful Monster wouldn’t be possible. Thank you for that haunting character! It’s true, though: Shelly Atwood (my villain) and Lucy Butler (Millennium) have a lot in common. They’re femme fatales who lead men into darkness. They use sex as a weapon and leave psychological ghosts for their victims. If you’re wondering why I like “Sickened” by Disturbed so much, it’s because I can picture Shelly and Lucy’s victims listening to it on repeat after being free from their clutches. “That’s enough of all your taunting. Seems I can’t remove you from my mind. Don’t you know sometimes I wish they’d kill me for wanting you?” Goddamn, that’s some powerful shit! I’d take twenty-four hours of that over “Love Is Blue” by Paul Mauriat any day of the week, though the latter is a good song too. Thank you for the creative fuel, Ms. Redmond! Now Beautiful Monster is about to be sliced and diced by the iron chefs at Hollow Hills Books. I’m both excited and terrified at the thought of receiving those future critiques! Maybe I should ask Lucy Butler for a comforting hug. Oh dear god…

***2013: RONDA ROUSEY***

Ever since she became a then-undefeated UFC Bantamweight Champion, Ronda Rousey set the motherfucking world on fire. Ass-beating after ass-beating sent her opponents packing for higher grounds. Since I wrote a lot of action-packed stories during this time, the ultra-tough warrior chick Ronda had to be my muse. To this day, I don’t know if she was a direct inspiration for Occupy Wrestling, but I wouldn’t doubt it if someone said it to me. Oh, and she also inspired some angsty/lovey-dovey poetry that would eventually be published in my first collection entitled Confessions of a Schizophrenic Savage. I won’t say which poems, but trust me, my muse was there. Beautiful, athletic, tough, and golden-hearted, Ronda was everything a man could ever want. That’s why I rejoiced when her memoir came out in 2015. The Wrestling Observer Newsletter ended up awarding Best Book of the Year to Daniel Bryan’s “YES!” (which I’m equally happy for), but if I was voting, I would have given the nod to “My Fight/Your Fight” by virtue of the graphic descriptions of violence that “YES!” didn’t have. Today in 2018, she’s in the WWE and her next match will be against Alexa Bliss at Summer Slam for Bliss’s Raw Women’s Championship. And by the way, Raw is the name of the brand she’s on. I’m not saying you have to be a raw woman in order to win it. Hehe!

***2006-2009: TARJA TURUNEN AND ANETTE OLZON***

In 2005, operatic singer Tarja Turunen was fired from Nightwish for not getting along with her band mates. She was subsequently replaced by rock singer Anette Olzon. Fans online have been going at each other’s throats over who is the better vocalist, but I tried to encourage the rabid wolves to be happy with both and to not take sides. They’re both beautiful songstresses who put love and passion into their vocal work. They both elevated Nightwish to the popularity it has today. And they both inspired lovey-dovey essays and poems for me during my college days. To be honest, there was nothing fun or exciting about college since I was constantly away from my family and very few people wanted to be my friend. I filled the void by having romantic visions of both Tarja and Anette, but I would never sully them with crass sexual fantasies. Granted, the poems and essays I wrote sucked ass, but at the time my ego was so massive that I didn’t want to admit it. Today in 2018, Tarja is enjoying a lucrative solo career while Anette is now part of a band called The Dark Element. They both still make beautiful music and they’re still beautiful muses that anybody can draw inspiration from.

***2004-2005: MOTOKO KUSANAGI***

Just like with Ronda Rousey after her, my affinity for tough and brutal women was present with the main female character from Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex. I still to this day have no idea why I enjoy the presence of tough chicks, but back then, Motoko inspired a piece of fan fiction called “The Heart of the Sun”. Because I was young and immature with regard to how writing works, this fan fic was a self-insert job. Yep. I was the lead character and with the help of Unreal Championship villains, I had a love/hate feud with Motoko. Like the Tarja/Anette poetry afterwards, this fan fic story sucked major ass. But again, my ego wouldn’t allow me to see the error of my ways, mainly because I had someone on Deviant Art comment on how funny it was. Then again, if a bunch of angry nerds told me it was dog shit, I would have packed my bags and left DA in a heartbeat. The first step to being sort of good is to suck major ass. Just because someone sucks at what they do, doesn’t mean the whole world agrees with that opinion. Trust me, I know. So thank you, my lovely Motoko, for giving me the creative fuel necessary to keep my young career going full speed ahead. May you continue to kick ass and take names with the boys at Section 9, all of whom I’m jealous of. Hehe!

***CONCLUSION***

Just to clarify, when I said top five, I didn’t mean five entries, I meant five muses. Two women took up one entry, so my top five is officially complete. All I have to say now is, I can’t wait to see who my muse is going to be in 2019! I have a half year to pine over someone new, so let’s see who it is already! I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

Unused Dialogue

***UNUSED DIALOGUE***

Whether these pieces of dialogue are based in reality, dreams, or random thoughts, they somehow found a place in my mind, but not in my work. They may never be used for anything. The may be pieces of dialogue in a song. They may be used as prompt suggestions. I have no idea what the future holds for these pieces of dialogue, so I’m going to share them with you all to see if they have any true potential for anything bigger than random thoughts. Starting with…

TEENAGE GIRL: (Sobbing)

COP: What’s wrong? Are you okay? Why aren’t you in school?

TEENAGE GIRL: The teacher told me I’m too stupid to go to school…(more sobbing)

LITTLE BOY: That Lacey Sturm is so pretty! When I grow up, I’m going to marry her!

CROWD: (Erupts into obnoxious laughter.)

LITTLE BOY: W…why are you laughing at me?

CROWD: (Continues laughing.)

LITTLE BOY: (sniff, sniff)…Why?

DETECTIVE: State your name for the record.

ME: Garrison Edward Ethan Kelly.

DETECTIVE: G.E.E.K.? Okay, um. I want you to tell me again how you knew those Denny’s cooks were aliens from another planet.

ME: Because they kept making offensive remarks about Europeans.

CASHIER: Hello.

ME: Hi.

CASHIER: Is that a work uniform?

ME: No, it’s just a regular polo shirt.

CASHIER: Oh. Where do you work?

ME: I don’t work anywhere. I’m unemployed.

CASHIER: Um…okay…uh…Are you self-employed?

ME: No, I’m unemployed.

CASHIER: Oh. Okay.

TARJA TURUNEN: You’re being awfully quiet tonight.

ME: I, uh…I get tongue-tied around beautiful women, that’s all.

TARJA TURUNEN: (Giggles) That’s just adorable!

SCOTTISH TEACHER: What have we here, laddie? Mysterious scribblings? A secret code? No, drawings, no less. Drawings, everyone!

STUDENTS: (Burst into laughter.)

SCOTTISH TEACHER: The laddie reckons himself an artist!

STUDENTS: (More laughter.)

SCOTTISH TEACHER: (Showing off the drawings.) And here we see Eddy from Ed, Edd, n’ Eddy performing oral sex on Kevin.

STUDENTS: Eww!

SCOTTISH TEACHER: While Kevin is standing on top of a coffin!

STUDENTS: Eww!

ONE STUDENT: Holy shit!

STUDENTS: (Laughing.)

SCOTTISH TEACHER: (Mouthing) Watch your language!

STUDENT: Sorry.

SCOTTISH TEACHER: (Showing off more drawings.) And here we see Bambi with a rope around his neck, a ball gag in his mouth, and a dildo in his arse!

STUDENTS: Eww!

SCOTTISH TEACHER: And the dildo has the words written on it, “Deer spear”.

STUDENTS: Eww!

SCOTTISH TEACHER: That is NOT how sex works! (Slaps artist’s hand with a pencil.) Pervert!

MISS SCHNEIDER: So, does anybody here have an example of what a community is? How about you, Garrison?

ME: Uh…shopping carts?

STUDENTS: (Laughter.)

ME: Shut up! (Pounds one of the laughing students over the head with a text book.)

MATT MCNAMARA: I just watched The Faces of Death. (Sick smile.)

SEAN MCNAMARA: What do you watch that shit for?!

MATT MCNAMARA: Because it’s cool!

CHRISTIAN TROY: Because he’s a serial killer in training.

MISS GRADY: Garrison, do we allow gum in Chehalis Middle School?

ME: No, we don’t.

MISS GRADY: And why is gum not allowed in our school?

ME: Um…I don’t know.

STUDENTS: (Laughing.)

ME: I don’t want to say anything! Call on somebody else!

MISS GRADY: Anybody else want to give it a shot?

Anybody want to take a guess as to which categories these pieces of dialogue fall under (fact or fiction)? I suppose it doesn’t matter, because this blog entry is as far as they’ll get…maybe…I don’t know…I’ve tried using dreams as creative fuel before and it ended disastrously. Maybe these dialogue snippets will be part of a larger song, kind of like how “Song of Myself” by Nightwish had a whole bunch of dialogue near the end; although, Tuomas Holopainen has me beaten in the songwriting department by a country mile. Speaking of Nightwish, I wonder what Marcelo Cabuli will think of me calling his wife “beautiful”. What about Lacey Sturm’s husband finding out a little boy had designs of marrying her? Anyways, we’ve got ears, say cheers!

***POISON TONGUE TALES 2: THE RIGHT TO REMAIN PSYCHOTIC***

Yesterday was a fine day for PTT2 action as I’ve penned a short story called “Where’s My Damn Money?” Now it’s onto the next one, as Jay-Z once said. This new story will be called “Robo Heck” (a lame ass play on words for Robotech, and yes, I’m trying to think of a new title for it, so back off). Here’s the synopsis for it:

CHARACTERS:

1. David Masters V, Human Mech Pilot
2. Amalia Strom, Amazonian Viking

PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.

SYNOPSIS: David crash lands his giant robot on a tropical island and spends most of the day trying to fix it so he can get back to his military base. Amalia, the giantess who owns the island, wants to crush David underneath her foot and “make the world a better place for women”. In her words, men are responsible for creating war and David is part of the problem since he pilots a gigantic weapon for a living. With his mech only partially fixed, David has to fight off the Amazonian with what he managed to repair. He would also be better served to try and reason with his attacker before she completely obliterates him.

EXTRA NOTE: Remember what Bastian said in The Never Ending Story: “It’s just a story! It’s not real! It’s a fucking story!” Well, he didn’t drop an F-bomb, but the sentiment is the same: don’t make too much out of that synopsis.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Chetty Claymore, the debt-collecting elven necromancer from “Where’s My Damn Money?”, is next on deck for this series. Yes, folks: it’s yet another guy wearing a monk’s robe. Deal with it. What else is a necromancer like him supposed to wear: flip-flops and Daisy Dukes?

***STUCK RUBBER BABY***

With Paper Towns in the rear view mirror, I’ve been reading a new book these past few days: “Stuck Rubber Baby” by Howard Cruse. Because it’s a graphic novel and easy on the eyes, I plan on finishing it sooner than later and then giving a glowing review of it. I haven’t decided yet if I’m going to give it an extra credit grade or a passing one. It’s about being a gay man in the bible belt during the civil rights era, so naturally the main character has a huge struggle ahead of him. I highly recommend it both as an eye-opener and as a compelling story.

***MOVIE QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“The video arcade is just up the street. Here, we sell small rectangular objects. They’re called books. They require a little effort on your part and make no bee-bee-bee-bee-beeps. On your way, please.”

-Mr. Correander (the grumpy book salesman) from “The Never Ending Story”-

Unrequited Love Stereotype, or "That Guy"

***UNREQUITED LOVE STEREOTYPE, OR “THAT GUY”***

In all my time of surfing the internet, I never knew the Urban Dictionary could actually be educational on some occasions. I thought it was just a safe haven for swear words and sex terms like “See You Next Tuesday”, or the clearly made-up “Quaker Cum Meal” (if you don’t know what that is, I’m not going to tell you). The other day when I surfed the Urban Dictionary, I typed in the words “Unrequited Love” and the results were mildly depressing. It’s basically when you love someone (or have a crush on them) and they don’t love you back (either because they don’t know you or don’t give a damn). Every celebrity crush in the world is an example of unrequited love. Every damn one.

When I was going to Western Washington University from 2007 to 2009, my source of unrequited love was Tarja Turunen, the former lead singer from Nightwish. I set the bar pretty high for myself and was let down when my stubby arms couldn’t reach it. So naturally I assumed every local crush was just as high on the bar as well. I wrote tons of essays and poems dedicating my love to this opera metal diva, but I tiptoed around the language used to write them because I didn’t want to be...that guy. I didn’t want to be the stereotypical 300 pounder with a Princess Leia poster on my wall, a Tifa Lockhart photo for a desktop screen, and a sorrowful attitude towards romance. I tried hard not to be an embarrassing version of…that guy. So I kept it all on the inside most of the time.

You know what happens to people who are…that guy, right? Well, the minute they bear their feelings to the world, some yo-yo will sit them down, pat them condescendingly on the shoulder, and give them a familiar speech we’ve all grown tired of. “You know, Garrison…Japan had an earthquake, Haiti had an earthquake, there’s mass starvation in Africa, there’re wars going on in Afghanistan and Iraq…and you’re crying over chicks?” Granted, some of those travesties are dated in today’s world, but you’ve heard that speech, I’m sure. Folks, not one time has anybody thought of worldwide earthquakes and immediately felt like a million bucks about their own problems. The author of “The Perks of Being a Wallflower” makes this clear in his novel (read it, damn you!).

If someone who has been labeled…that guy gets any kind of reward for his awkward and depressing behavior, it will be because of sympathy and no other reason. I didn’t want that for myself either. If I ever decide to date again, I want it to be with someone who genuinely thinks I’m a cool person, not because they feel like they have to. When a girl feels like she has to, it’s not a sign of a healthy relationship. Nobody is obligated to date anybody for any reason, and that’s the way it should be, quite honestly.

Even now, I don’t talk about unrequited love these days because I’m still fighting the urge to be…that guy. I used to talk about it a lot whenever I’d blog about dreams I’ve had or music I’ve listened to. Not anymore. It got old after a while and I had successfully become…that guy. So what happens to people when they refuse to become…that guy and they still don’t have it in them to approach their love interests? They become indifferent to romance. Every once a while the urge will come back, but ultimately, indifference takes over.

If you’d like to know how hard someone has to work to not be…that guy, do me a favor. Get on your computer, smart phone, or smart TV and type in Netflix (or some other movie streaming service). In the search engine, type in the movie “Obselidia” and you’ll find out all about your precious unrequited love. I did a review on this movie once, but I didn’t give away any spoilers. Well, just for this journal, I’m going to spoil the movie for you, so if you enjoy surprises, skip this part of the blog.

George is an introverted librarian who has tasked himself with keeping an encyclopedia of all things obsolete (hence the title “Obselidia”). He even believes romance is obsolete as evidenced by the way he turns down a date from a customer at the library. He’s lonely, but doesn’t want to admit it. And then as part of his research for his encyclopedia, he meets a projectionist named Sophie, who is all bubbles and smiles when it comes to the world. The two of them go on a trip to Death Valley together and get an earful from an environmentalist who believes climate change will destroy our world sooner than later (it actually might, I’m not doubting him).

George is ready to include the whole planet in his encyclopedia, but spending more and more time with Sophie brings the positivity out of him that he needed. They get back to the city and George finally musters up the courage to bring Sophie flowers and confess his love. But when he arrives at her apartment, some guy in the background says, “Who is it, sweetie?” George barricades himself in his own home and refuses to answer Sophie’s pleading messages on his machine. In this one moment of unrequited love, Sophie has managed to squeeze George’s eyeballs dry of tears like she was making the most sorrowful pitcher of orange juice.

Unrequited love is basically a catch 22. If you don’t talk about it, you get hurt. If you do talk about it, you get hurt. Nobody would have blamed George if he sheltered himself forever, yet he manages to keep the positive attitude he gained from his experiences with Sophie. It makes perfect sense as a movie ending, but brain chemistry doesn’t always work like that in the real world. And that’s really all romance is: brain chemistry with an addictive reward system. When you get one kiss from a pretty girl, you want more. And when you don’t get more, you get withdrawal. And when you get withdrawal, you try your hardest not to become…that guy.

***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***

I’ve been waiting forever for an excuse to write the following short story. Now that the prompt is “butterfly”, I’ve got to strike while the iron is hot. This story is a combination of the WWE Divas Revolution in 2015 and life with cats that I currently have or have taken care of in the past. My mom calls our cats divas all the time (because of how often they want attention), so this short story will be called “Divas”. It goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1. Piper, Divas Champion
2. Tori, Leader of the Supermodel Kitties
3. Stitches, Enforcer for the Supermodel Kitties
4. Calypso, Rookie from the Supermodel Kitties
5. Willem, Schipperke Referee

PROMPT CONFORMITY: The Divas Championship belt has a butterfly design on it.

SYNOPSIS: In a pro-wrestling organization where the female wrestlers are humanoid cats, Piper is defending her Divas Championship against Tori at a pay-per-view main event. Piper has held the championship for over a year on the platform of making her dreams come true and being a role model for young cats. During their rivalry, the Supermodel Kitties have made Piper’s life miserable by calling her “Piper-Diaper” and other childish middle school names. With Stitches and Calypso to serve as ringside distractions, Piper could very well lose her championship to Tori and disprove the idea that all dreams come true.

***FACE BOOK POST OF THE DAY***

(Here’s an interaction I’d like to see happen on WWE Monday Night Raw.)

MICHAEL COLE: And here comes Bayley for her one-on-one match!

COREY GRAVES: Keep your hands above the table, Saxton!

BYRON SAXTON: That’s not PG.