Bullet With a Name On It

…I’m not a violent person. I don’t carry a gun with me at all times. The last time I got in a fight was in high school. It was a miserable defeat to a guy who mounted my chest and punched me so many times that I got a black eye, numb cheeks, and chewing difficulties. One of the administrators cracked a terrible joke about how I was a lover and not a fighter. I’d expect that kind of humor in the UFC or WWE, but not at school. But I suppose there was some truth in that joke, because ever since that day, I’ve responded to any amount of stress the same way: freezing like Walt Disney eating a popsicle in the middle of a tundra. Fight and flight are gone. Freezing is all that remains. Staying perfectly still and not being confrontational is supposed to be a survival mechanism. But what am I surviving?

 

While I don’t have a violent life or a criminal history of any kind…I have so many violent thoughts swirling in my head. So many people have taken advantage of my freezing response and said whatever the hell they wanted, like the first amendment was made specifically for assholes. No amethyst colors here, just red, white, and blue. I’ve been fat-shamed, called the R-slur, called a pussy for not joining the military, I’ve had slanderous rumors spread about me, and I’ve been accused of laziness when I didn’t want to get a job and go to school at the same time. These people who abused their first amendment rights…they bear the brunt of these violent thoughts. So...many…violent…thoughts…

 

Punches in bunches. Sprawling and brawling. Knees to the face. Kicks to the balls. Maybe a piledriver if I’m feeling strong that day. Hell, let’s go full UFC and throw in a rear naked chokehold. In my brain I’m undefeated, even against well-trained marines and martial arts blackbelts. I justify these victories by saying, “Whose dick did they have to suck in order to get those accolades?” I’m sure they can explain the bruises on their faces, but how will they explain the bruises on the inside of their mouths to their dentist? Dentists can tell what you’ve been up to in the bedroom. Or under the sensei’s desk, wherever you feel more comfortable.

 

But it’s not just unarmed brawling that I fantasize about. Sometimes I’m armed and dangerous. Sometimes I’ve got a big fucking knife. Sometimes I justify those knife victories by saying, “A blackbelt doesn’t give you puncture-proof skin.” Come to think of it…what is a blackbelt good for anyways? Holding up your pants so that we don’t have to look at your Sailor Moon crotchless panties? That kind of intimate wear would never withstand a few strokes from a big ass knife. And neither would your skin. Just hack, slash, hack, slash, an arm there, a leg there, a throat somewhere else, and a glorious bloodbath that will never make me want to shower ever again.

 

But why is it just melee ranged weapons? Why I can’t I shoot a gun? Surely, it can’t be that hard to shoot a gun. It’s like using America Online: point and click. Maybe I’m oversimplifying complicated technology, but remember, it’s my brain, I’m undefeated. If some bozo driving an obnoxiously large truck drives by me and shouts the F-slur, I’ve got a bullet with his name on it. It’s weird to think about, because in order to have a bullet with somebody’s name on it, I have to know that person’s name. Drive-by loudmouths don’t give you their name or any information about them. That’s a big part of what makes them cowards. Not only do they shout their shit, but they drive away before facing any real consequences. Sure, your truck has a badass engine, but can your truck outrun a bullet? Will a V8 engine matter if there’s a bullet in the gas tank? Will all the horsepower in the world matter if the bullet shatters glass and that glass cuts you up? And what good is driving a truck if the driver gets shot and the vehicle flips on its back? Drive-by loudmouths don’t think about these things in advance. Then again, I wouldn’t call anything they do thinking.

 

Violent fantasies are so much fun to have. I love bathing in blood. I love listening to screams. I love the symphonic melodies of bones snapping and organs sloshing. I love listening to my insulters plead for their lives only to lose them anyways. But it’s important to remember that these are fantasies. They don’t exist outside of my brain. If they did, there would be serious consequences. Seeing this many dead bodies would break so many hearts. I’d have my own broken heart as I sit alone in a prison cell with regret on my mind. That’s what you have to remember as you go through life with an imagination: fantasy and reality are not one in the same. That’s why people caution against porn being unrealistic. Porn isn’t designed to tell a realistic story. It has one purpose: to help masturbators achieve an orgasm by any means necessary. If you can’t separate fantasy from reality, you’re already waiting to get fucked.

 

So go ahead and listen to gangsta rap on repeat. Dream of killing your enemies in cold blood. Drink that cold blood like it’s as refreshing as Coca-Cola. Hell, you can even write about some of these daydreams in your stories if you’re an author of some sort. But that comes with its own set of responsibilities. As authors, everything you put on the paper is held in high esteem. Your readers will take everything you say literally and they’ll apply it to their own way of thinking. That doesn’t mean they’re stupid, but they are impressionable. If you’re being held up as an arbiter of truth and you tell a bunch of violent or sexual lies, that’s going to have a bad influence on your readers. Think of all the BDSM rookies who wound up in the hospital after reading Fifty Shades of Grey. Think of all the women who will get pregnant because of birth control misinformation in The Missus, which is written by the same author. You can have your bloody fantasies on paper, but don’t lead your audience astray.

 

If you’re watching Quentin Tarantino movies, don’t duct tape your enemy to a chair and cut his ear off while dancing to 70’s music. If you’re watching WWE television from the 2000’s, don’t simulate sex with a corpse as a way of insulting someone who wronged you. If you’re watching Mind of Mencia and I hope to god you’re not, don’t throw racial slurs haphazardly and then later wonder why you’re being “canceled”. And by the way, cancel culture isn’t real. If you write a shitty story chock full of irresponsible violence and rape, your audience has the right to react in a negative way, because criticism isn’t censorship. Criticism is the other half of free speech.

 

If you must have violent fantasies, reign them in. Don’t unleash them out into the real world. If you’re a peaceful guy in real life, but you have violent fantasies, don’t let anybody judge you for it. Truth is, everybody thinks about violence at least once in their life. At least once, don’t let them lie to you. Nobody’s this candid about their violent fantasies, but we all have them. Some are more mild than others, but they still exist. It’s a normal part of the human experience. Thinking about something is a healthy way to process it. Thinking is the best way to travel. Doing these things in real life will cause so much heartache, for you and your victims. And for the love of god…don’t join the military just because you happen to be good at playing Halo.

Head of Cauliflower

A mysterious package, ain’t no head of cabbage

It’s a head of cauliflower with its own brain power

Why the hell not? It’s got a bumpy texture

The kind of head you’d see in a medical lecture

What kind of thoughts are sweeping across?

A silver screen show of the decapitating blow

And now this head is in my shopping cart

In this cinematic trauma, I’m still taking part

Soon this head will be boiled in a pot

Covered with cheese sauce, a whole damn lot

Dandruff flakes and a cerebral cortex

They’re pieces of fiber in my colonic vortex

All that potential for academic genius

Shat away like the flood of melty cheeses

Every head in that grocery superstore

Was capable of brilliance and so much more

Now they’re swimming in stomachs full of gas

Destined for a water slide ride out of the ass

Am I the crazy one for having these thoughts?

Maybe my head is produce one day to be bought

Feels weird carrying severed heads around

But who cares when fiber is good for shedding pounds?

They came from the garden, not the cemetery

But what’s the difference when shit gets buried?

Seeds and corpses grow the finest veggies

Why find the meaning when I can just be edgy?

I’m the only one who can find the connection

These bowel-shaking thoughts are my own invention

Wouldn’t be the first time I didn’t resonate

I’m the only one who gets my own jokes as of late

My Opinion Is the Only One That Matters

VERSE 1

I’m the one who eats the burgers

You’re the one who’s the burden

I’m the one who eats the fries

You’re the one who spews the lies

I’m the one who swallows the pills

You don’t pay my fucking bills

You don’t have a say in this

‘Cause all you do is rip the piss

CHORUS 1

You can plead your case to the judge

My opinion is the only one that matters

My stubborn ass won’t even budge

My opinion is the only one that matters

VERSE 2

I’m the one who dreams my dreams

OK Boomer, my choice of memes

I’m the one who follows my passion

You’re the one who’s out of fashion

I’m the one who loves the world

You’re the one who rapes the girls

You don’t get to choose my destiny

Conformity is my worst enemy

CHORUS 2

You can bang your gavel all you need

My opinion is the only one that matters

Scream at me until your throat bleeds

My opinion is the only one that matters

BRIDGE

Why should I trust you anyways?

Who invited you to forever stay?

Why should I believe in your rhetoric?

You don’t believe in my betterment

You’ve always wanted complete control

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

Got a million ideas of what I should be

Yet the only one who matters is me

CHORUS 3

You can send a SWAT team to my home

My opinion is the only one that matters

You can leave me in a prison cell all alone

My opinion is the only one that matters

You can fry my ass in the electric chair

My opinion is the only one that matters

You can do it all because you deeply care

My opinion is the only one that matters

Chains of Codependence

***CHAINS OF CODEPENDENCE***

I’d like to preface this blog entry by saying that I’m by no means an expert when it comes to matters of the heart. Shocking, right? But it’s true. I’ve only been in two relationships my whole life and they’re over now, so any experience and wisdom I do have is incredibly limited. So when I write a piece of nonfiction about romance, I’m doing so from the point of view of a maladaptive daydreamer and a serial crusher. I’ve got a gazillion crushes going on in my head right now, mostly You Tubers and internet friends. Who are these crushes? Well, on that front, I’ll have to zip it, lock it, and put it in my pocket. Wouldn’t want to weird anybody out and make these lovely ladies keep their distance from me forever, Corona Virus aside. That’s always been a fear of mine whenever I open up and talk about romance or sex: that people will think I’m being creepy. I’m going to word this blog entry as carefully as possible, which is something I should have done with my entry about bastardizing fan fiction characters, but didn’t, and now it’s scrubbed from the internet. Ready? Here we go.

Serial crushing can be lots of fun as long as you’re doing it for entertainment purposes only. You can daydream about holding hands together. You can fantasize about your crush giving you a hug after a particularly draining cry spell. Me? I like to pretend I’m resting my head on my crush’s lap while she strokes my hair. By then I will have already showered and my hair will be softer than a Humane Society kitty baby. These kinds of fantasies can bring a smile to your face…until you start to bemoan the idea of never being able to attain a relationship with said crushes. I’ve done this before as you can tell. And the more you bemoan this idea, the more depressed you become. This is what I like to call the “Chains of Codependence”. Imagine that: being codependent on somebody who not only barely knows you, but also wouldn’t want a relationship anyways. Usually when people are codependent, it’s with someone who’s physically there. But if it’s a long distance stranger…my god, does that shit hurt.

But if you talk yourself through this logically, it doesn’t have to hurt anymore. You’re crushing on someone whom you have limited knowledge of, whether it’s a You Tuber, a celebrity, an athlete, or whatever. You only see the best version of that person unless they voluntarily become vulnerable, which is rare in and of itself. And because you’ve only seen their best side, you don’t often see them at their darkest. They may have views that you strongly disagree with. They may be drama queens when the cameras aren’t rolling. They could have a criminal secret that you won’t be aware of until it’s too late. This is information you can obtain if you’re in a solid relationship with someone. What you do with that information could negate your schoolboy crush from so long ago. You see memes floating around social media that say, “If you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best.” While this might set off a few red flags, there’s actually a lot of truth in it should you decide to commit to a relationship.

As long as you’re aware of the illusion in front of you and as long as your chains of codependence are broken, you can have a lot of fun serial crushing on long distance targets. Fill your mind with happy thoughts of you and your crush together. Play your favorite romantic song while you’re zoning out. Write a poem or short story about the experience (without using the person’s real name, of course). I wrote a poem not too long ago called Hand Massage and it’s about, you guessed it, smearing lotion over my crush’s hands as a way not only to heal her cracked skin, but also to relax her and earn her trust. Hand Massage ended up being a favorite poem of mine in recent memory, in a sea of marginally acceptable ones. I was open, honest, unafraid, and most importantly, I didn’t sound like a total creep. That’s a small victory in my book. Even the smallest victories will be vital in the never ending war against your own mind.

In March alone, I’ve had so many days of autistic and schizophrenic burnout that my writing output has been minimal at best. During these boring days of lying in bed and doing jack shit until the tiredness passes, I like to keep my imagination fresh by daydreaming of…whatever comes to mind. I’ve had thoughts about my own stories, I’ve had positive thoughts, evil ones, and yes, romantic ones. With the current Corona Virus spreading like wildfire all over the goddamn planet, my fantasies will be more important now than they’ve ever been. Movie theaters are closed, rock concerts are being canceled, public life in general has screeched to a grinding halt. As long as I’m staying home waiting for both the virus and my burnout to subside, I’m going to have my thoughts to keep me busy for the time being. Whoever said, “Thinking is the best way to travel” was probably living in my hometown of Port Orchard and had nothing to do whether the virus was spreading or not.

By all means, daydream until you’re ready to face this maddening world yet again. You can get attached to your crushes, but don’t get so attached that your happiness depends entirely on them. Have fun with your downtime. The world will come back to life soon enough. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

The last time I wrote a chapter of Beautiful Monster was either March 1^st or 2^nd and I spent so long getting it pumped out that I began to doubt my abilities as a writer. I began to question whether or not I was being too cautious in my approach. Even now I’m debating with myself about whether the next chapter, number ten, will be written with caution and slowness or reckless abandon and quickness. No matter which style I choose, I hope I can remember all of my talking points this time. I’m going to need them. In this chapter, Windham and Tarja venture into Devon Bay, one of the Atwood Queendom’s major cities, so that they can keep warm in a hotel room during the freezing weather. If you’re going to make “Get a room!” jokes, get them out of your system, because there will be nothing sexy about what Windham does in this chapter with a Smoke Wagon XT, the medieval equivalent of a handgun. Good thing Ordell Robbie from Jackie Brown isn’t giving him access to firearms. Otherwise, he just might have to “absolutely, positively kill every last motherfucker in the room”.

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Walking home with you last night, you said the world is beautiful and how things look that way when you’re in love. I love this world. When I’m in your arms, is this heaven? I opened up the letter that the postman gave to me this morning. Had to stop myself from shouting out, “I love this world!” When you’re in my arms, is this heaven? I know that heaven waits for those whose love is true. I want to be there when the age of love has come again. Tell me all about yourself and how you came to me like in a dream. And every night I dream of you. I dream of you. When I’m in your arms, is this heaven? I know that heaven waits for those whose love is true. Don’t ask me where or when the time for us will come again. I sit and watch the sun go down. And in the darkness there’s no sound while in the sky tonight the stars all cry, “I love you!” Are they crying out over you? ‘Cause you’re in my arms. Is this heaven? ‘Cause the story starts and ends with you.”

-The Moody Blues singing “Is This Heaven?”-

***POST-SCRIPT***

You could totally use the above song as fodder for one of your romantic daydreams with your gazillion crushes. I know I do.