Silent Warrior, Chapter 26

“Okay, Tom, you can do this…just go in there…and do you, as the kids say…you can do this…” As Tom Simpson repeated this mantra to himself in the driver’s seat of his car, he breathed deeply and secretly wondered if any of his own former students had to do this right before they walked into his class. Such thoughts were packaged together with the notion that Tom didn’t deserve to do what he was about to do, that he was washed up, tainted, and unforgivable. A few more deep breaths pushed the unwelcome thoughts from his mind. Slowly, yet surely, he exited the vehicle and crossed the moonlit streets of Perkins City.

Tom never expected The Tool Shed to be as laidback as it was. The folk rock music being performed by a drag queen onstage soothed his tense body. The male eye candy made him feel young and colorful again. Yet through it all, he still felt alone even in a gay bar full of handsome men. Nevertheless he straightened his tie and approached the counter hoping for an interaction of some kind.

The burly black barkeep with golden loop earrings asked, “What can I get for you tonight, sunshine?”

“Just a beer would be fine,” said Tom nervously as he looked down where his wedding ring used to be. Ask and ye shall receive: a tall frosty mug of golden beer that probably tasted like horse piss anyways. Tom sipped it and suppressed a bitter face, yet kept on drinking out of necessity. Maybe the phrase “liquid courage” had some meaning to it after all.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” asked the bartender with a warm smile.

Fingering the purple loop where his wedding ring once laid, Tom said, “I’m sure you’ve seen me on the news here and there. I don’t want to say much beyond that, but if you’ve already figured it out, then I’ll get out of your hair whenever you want me to.”

“Nah, nah, I ain’t hating. It’s all good, buddy. We’re all friends here,” said the bartender with a wink, which made Tom chuckle lightly. “Seriously, though, you look like hell. You keep looking down at your finger or some shit. You a married man?”

“Used to be. I had to pawn my ring just to make ends meet.”

“Man, that’s tough. Sorry to hear that. Well, if you’re looking for a new start, you’ve come to the right place. We’ve got good music, good beer, good food, and some motherfuckers that look goooooooo-ood tonight!” The last line was punctuated with a hearty laugh.

“You know…I actually came here for another reason aside from your goooooo-ood beer. You wouldn’t happen to have any job applications handy, would you?”

The barkeep shifted his eyes between the drag queen singing onstage and Tom and smiled as he asked, “No offense, but aren’t you a little old to be taking that dude’s job? I’m not trying to be mean or nothing, but you don’t look like the singer type. Hell, you sound like you lost your voice long before you came in here tonight.”

Taking deeper sip of his beer, Tom said, “I’m not applying to be a singer or a dancer. I was looking for something a little more…higher up. Something more suited to my college degree. Maybe some bookkeeping. Maybe something in the range of…assistant manager?”

Nodding, the barkeep said, “Ah, that makes a little more sense now. You look like a smart dude. I’m sure we can find something for you to do behind the scenes. Hold that thought while I go get you the paperwork.” He ruffled Tom’s hair and walked off to the back office.

Tom took an even deeper gulp of his beer and turned his attention toward the drag queen, who had the voice of a heavenly angel and the looks of a sassy diva. The way his red dress flowed down, the way his long raven hair flopped about, and the way he showed off his hairless body made Tom warm and fuzzy deep in his core. Tom couldn’t remember the last time he had a big goofy grin on his own face, but it was there complete with a line of spittle obliviously hanging from his bottom lip. The drag queen winked and giggled at him and Tom couldn’t help but tuck his head in embarrassment and giggle himself.

“He’s a beauty, ain’t he?” said the returning bartender, who snapped Tom out of his trance long enough for him to notice a fresh job application along with a red inked pen. “You’ll notice on this thing that you’ll be asked for three references. But don’t worry, you don’t have to put down Linda Williams’s name if you don’t want to.” The bartender winked and gave Tom a confused expression.

“Wait a minute, how did you…?”

“Like you said, you’re in the media one way or another. But that’s alright, buddy. We’re all friends here and we don’t judge. I just have one little favor to ask of you before you fill out the application. No more of this democracy is dead shit, alright? It ain’t going to fly here.”

Tom made a flat tire noise and said, “Trust me, I know how ineffective that line was. Ask any of my former students and they’ll be more than happy to tell you about it.” With that said, he got right to work in filling out the application. Now that the bartender mentioned it, there weren’t many people Tom could use as a reference since he spent the last few decades pissing everybody off at Perkins High. By the time he actually reached that point in the paperwork, he froze like Walt Disney. “I think I need a little help here.”

“I’ll have a glass of beer, Charlie,” said a familiar dreamy voice sitting next to Tom. Careful not to make complete eye contact, Tom saw that the drag queen had finished his performance and took a seat next to him for some odd reason. So much for “liquid courage”. Tom buried his attention back into the application when the drag queen patted his shoulders and said, “You look a little lost there, buddy.”

“Honey, I’ve been lost for a long damn time now,” said Tom. “I’m still wrapping my head around this damn piece of paper. I’ve filled out many of them in my lifetime, but this…this reminds me of one of the tests I used to give my kids. Sorry, I’m rambling. Must be the alcohol talking.”

Peeking over Tom’s shoulder, the drag queen said, “You can use me as a reference if you want.”

Snickering nervously, Tom shook his head and said, “That’s really sweet of you, but I’m serious about getting this job.”

“And I’m serious about you having it,” said the smiling drag queen. “We could always use some fresh blood around here. Look around, sweet lips. There’s not a whole lot of business going on around here. It’s like people are afraid to come in here or something. Maybe if you can drum up some business, we can turn this shit around, hmm?”

“I guess so. I’m Tom, by the way. Tom Simpson.”

“Yeah, I noticed on your application there. I’m Dave, but everybody here calls me Davita. Nice to meet you, Tom.”

“So basically everybody here names you after a kidney dialysis clinic? What, do you have little guys in musketeer suits follow you around?”

Tom’s joke earned a hearty laugh from Davita, who squeezed his shoulder and said, “You’re something else, Tom, you really are. You don’t sound like a pissed off history teacher at all. Trust me, I wouldn’t want to work there either, especially with all them football studs walking around beating up ‘queer-mo-sexuals’ as they like to call them.”

“Oh, trust me, Davita, all that’s going to change now that Principal Williams knows what the hell’s going on…and now that I’m gone forever.”

Rubbing Tom’s shoulders, Davita said, “Hey, listen to me. You’re going to make a great worker here. Don’t let any of that past BS get in your way, alright? I know you feel like shit and all, but if you want to work in a gay bar, gay meaning happy, then you’ve got to learn how to smile every now and then. I mean, you looked like you were having the time of your life when I was up there singing. Bring that attitude to your job and you’ll be fine.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Tom as he filled Davita’s name in one of the reference boxes. “One down, two more references to go. Now who do I use?”

“You can use anybody you want, honey. If you don’t want Charlie to contact them, just check that little box and you’ll be fine. Besides, nobody really cares about those things anyways. If they want a new employee, they’ll hire. It really all comes down to how you present yourself in the interview. You give good interviews, right?” The ex-teacher shook his head and Davita said, “Tom?”

“I guess I do give good interviews.”

“That’s the spirit!” squeaked Davita as he kissed Tom on the top of his head. “You’re finally getting to do something you actually love doing. That should give you the happy-ass attitude you want rolling into the interview.”

“I bet you’ve been reading The Secret, haven’t you?” joked Tom. “How many times? Five? Six? A dozen?”

“More like two dozen,” Davita joked back.

Tom shook his head and finished filling out the job application, most likely with bullshit answers. He could have written down Hulk Hogan or Mickey Mouse for one of his references and Davita and Charlie would have warmed his heart with the same smile anyways. Even before he was granted an interview, Tom felt like he belonged, which was a feeling he wish he could have given his students. But enough about the past and forget about the future. It was time to live in the moment for Tom Simpson.

Silent Warrior, Chapter 25

Tom Simpson dared not tread on sacred ground, otherwise known as the Xanax Pavilion, where a special kind of ceremony was being held. Instead he sat in the driver’s seat of his car and allowed the soft sound of “True” by Spandau Ballet to relax his aching soul. He closed his eyes like a dam keeping his raw tears in check. He knew what was going on in that pavilion. Cheers, screams, and general happiness, the latter of which he knew nothing about. This was the next generation of greatness…and among that generation was Scott fucking George.

The sound of that name running through his pounding head caused Tom to clutch the steering wheel with strangulating force. He could have ripped the damn thing off if he wasn’t careful. But if such hulk-like strength was possible, he could only imagine how easy it could be to disconnect Scott’s head from his shoulders. Maybe he wouldn’t have to do that. Maybe it could be a series of powerful haymakers. Maybe Tom could gouge his eyes out through the back of his skull. Maybe he could feast on Scott’s worm-infested brain like a zombie and never have to eat again. Oh shit, there he was.

The new generation of knowledge and wisdom poured out of the pavilion dressed in gowns, caps, and bright smiles. Scott led the pack with happy tears in his eyes, though Tom would be more convinced if such wetness came from a crocodile. Even more disturbing to the disgraced teacher was watching Adrienne and her mother Julie hugging it out with Scott and showering him with sugar and kisses. Julie looked beautiful in that flowery sundress and blond hair. Adrienne looked cuter than a baby bunny as she hopped up and down on her love interest’s arms. But Scott…oh, Scott…

Tom turned off the ignition and got out of his car to stare down the unsuspecting trio. His heart was frozen cold and his blood was boiling hot at the same time. Just a few punches to Scott’s jaw would make everything okay again. Daddy would come to the rescue and put the Simpson family back together again. No more would Scott become man of the house. But even in Tom’s icy heart, he knew such an outcome was only a Hollywood fantasy. A tear rolled down his cheek as he sat on the sidewalk with his head lurched forward. “What am I doing?” he quietly asked himself. He continued ranting in solitude, “This isn’t me…this isn’t me…I couldn’t…I couldn’t…uh-oh….”

The last bit came when the shadow of a rotund woman was cast over him. Tom slowly peeked upward and saw a lovely smile on the face of a high school graduate in a cap and gown. She appeared to have Down Syndrome, which still made her more beautiful than Tom could ever imagine himself being. The young lady held a tiny LGBT flag in her hand and waved it around while shuffling her sneaker-wearing feet. “It’s okay to be gay!” she sang over and over again in a cutesy-wutesy voice before handing the flag to Tom.

For the first time in a long while, Tom’s smile was genuine and heartfelt. “I guess it is okay. I guess so. But how did you…?”

“These things have a way of getting out. That’s okay, though. I still like you anyways!” said the young lady as she patted Tom on his disheveled hair. She introduced herself as Misty Keith before Tom introduced himself offered her a place to sit, which she took. Misty gently rubbed the ex-teacher’s shoulder blades and pointed at Adrienne while saying, “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

“Yeah…yeah, she is. And smart too,” said Tom with solemnity. “She’s going to grow up to be quite the remarkable woman, that’s for sure. But unfortunately, I probably won’t get to see it happen. Not in my lifetime.”

“How come?”

“…You wouldn’t understand. It’s…rather complicated.”

“Try me.”

Tom took a deep breath and held his face in his triangulated hands. “I said some things to her and her mother that I shouldn’t have said. I raised my voice at them. I tried to make them something they’re not. And this is the end result of it all: a nasty divorce and a new man in their lives. I can’t even find it in my heart to be angry anymore. I’m just…” Another tear traveled down Tom’s face and Misty was there to wipe it away with a restaurant napkin. “Thank you, young lady.”

“You’re welcome,” said Misty as she ruffled Tom’s hair yet again. “Why don’t you just tell them you’re sorry?”

“Oh, Misty…I wish things were that simple. Trust me, if I knew I could make things right with a wishy-washy apology, then I would have done it a long time ago. But unfortunately, not all stories have a Hollywood ending. If I tried to apologize to Julie and Adrienne…they’d just tell me to fuck off again.”

“You don’t have to do it right now, Mr. Simpson,” said Misty as she wiped away more tears from Tom’s face. “Give them some time. Don’t rush into things. Remember: slow and steady wins the race.”

Tom smiled and shook his head. “That’s a lot of wisdom coming from an eighteen year old. I’m decades ahead of you and even I couldn’t figure that out in time. That’s amazing to me. So what are you going to do now that you’re done with high school?”

“I’m going to be an artist!” said Misty with excitement in her voice and a gleam in her eye. She even pantomimed paintbrush strokes to solidify her dreams. “I’m going to draw lots of pretty pictures and be in an art gallery someday! You want to see one of my drawings?” After Tom nodded, she pulled a folded up drawing out of her breast pocket and showed it to him.

Tom’s eyes grew wide with impressiveness as he saw a highly-detailed drawing of roses and trees, colored with unique shades of purple, orange, and teal. There was even a fairy with butterfly wings waving hi in the background. “That’s amazing, Misty. You’ve definitely worked hard on this drawing.”

“Thanks!” said Misty before she pecked Tom on his cheek, causing him to blush slightly. “So what are you going to do now, Mr. Simpson?”

Tom shrugged his shoulders and said, “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out this whole time, Misty. In the meantime, I’ve been collecting unemployment checks and dipping into my savings. I can’t live this way anymore. Something has to change. I don’t want to be a teacher anymore. If I can’t get through to my own daughter, let alone Scott George, then I don’t deserve to teach history.”

“If you don’t like teaching, you should find something you love doing,” advised Misty. “Maybe you could draw lovely pictures like me. Or maybe you can play the piano. Or you could dance!”

“Once again, you wisdom shines through, young lady. My own students and my own family have been telling me something along those lines for years. I didn’t listen to them. Now I’ve got unemployment checks and a broken heart.”

Patting Tom’s shoulders, Misty said, “It’s never too late to start over again, Mr. Simpson. You don’t have to decide what you want to do right away. Take your time. It’ll come to you. Maybe you can find yourself a nice boyfriend.”

Tom chuckled in embarrassment and shook his head. “You’re funny, Misty. You really are.” Seeing that wonderful smile on her face, he asked, “You’re serious about that last part, aren’t you?”

Misty shrugged and said, “Sure, why not?” She stood up and waved at her mom and dad in the crowd. “I have to go now, Mr. Simpson. You think about what I’ve said today. I just have one more question before I go. Are you sure you don’t have a boyfriend?”

“Yes, Misty, I’m sure,” said Tom with a sad smile. Misty waved at him and trotted happily away towards her own parents. Tom ducked his head and said, “I can’t even afford to be a good husband and father.” His legs ached as he heaved himself up and plopped down in the driver’s seat of his car, turning the stereo back on.

Feeling a little more relaxed now, he closed his eyes and let his mind wander between Misty’s talking points and what his next move was going to be. Tom learned more about the world in that one conversation than his college degree gave him credit for. Being mentally disabled nor being gay was anything to be ashamed of. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Tom Simpson was free from psychological bondage. Free from anger at the world around him. Free from a job he never loved. Free from judgment for his past sins. His body was so relaxed at that moment that he almost fell asleep in the car. A mid-afternoon nap with a creative dream: what beautiful things.

Wrestling With My Mind

***WRESTLING WITH MY MIND***

One day of creative inactivity is unacceptable to me, let alone four. Creating blueprints for my next novel idea doesn’t count, because that shit was too easy. I’m so close to putting the finishing touches on Silent Warrior. Only four more chapters to go and my racecar ran out of gas. I know I originally said three more chapters, but I’ve decided to add another one to make sure all of my loose ends are tied up. You want to know what I’ve been doing during those four days of inactivity aside from creating blueprints? Wrestling with my mind. It wasn’t a schizophrenic attack, but rather a creative struggle within my soul.

Wrestling with your creativity can be good for coming up with story ideas, but when it takes the place of actual work, that’s not a good thing. I used to do this all the time when I was a teenager. I’d wrestle with my mind and never get around to writing something that would amount to a Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex fan fiction. Back then I wanted to do a self-insert fic where I was the subject of unrequited love for Makoto Kusanagi. I ran a bunch of different scenarios through my head and eventually popped something tangible out. Looking back now, it’s not very good, but at least some good came from the constant inner turmoil.

In the case of my most recent four days of nothingness, this running of the gauntlet was a long time coming. It began in mid-February when I researched an episode of Millennium called “A Room with No View” due to nostalgic curiosity. I’ve beaten this topic to death with a lead pipe, so to give you the Cliff’s Notes version of why that episode was upsetting to me, it was a unique version of the kidnapping trope, this time a beautiful woman kidnapping a handsome high school boy and giving him lovey-dovey treatment while in captivity. I saw the Wikipedia article for this episode and figured, I want to do a story like that too, though with my own spin on it. Thus a novel synopsis for “Beautiful Monster” was born. But blueprints aren’t anywhere near as valuable as an actual novel, so it’ll have to be shelved for now.

Less than a week later, I went to see Pop Evil at El Corazon, a nightclub in Seattle. The music was good and dancing to it was a lot of fun. Here’s what I didn’t tell you guys. While Black Map (one of the opening acts) was performing onstage, a cute stocky black chick tried dancing with me. She had her hand in mine. She had her hand on my shoulder. She was twirling around. For all intents and purposes, since I’m apparently so lovesick, I should be making moves on her too. But no. I was terrified. I just stood there frozen like Walt Disney while this chick was giving me sugar and love. It didn’t help matters that she shoved another woman with her elbow and got herself ejected from the building, but that’s beside the point.

I spent the next two days wrestling with the awkwardness and then the following Wednesday I saw Starset at the same venue without incident. But think about this for a minute: an episode of Millennium, an embarrassing moment at a concert, and a childhood of rejecting girls as a reaction to my father’s divorce troubles. Bad timing aside, don’t you think this makes for some emotionally raw creative fuel? You’re damn right it does. The creative fuel helped get me through ten more chapters of Silent Warrior, which is a story about an unconfident high schooler named Scott George getting into an unfamiliar romance with a younger woman. Pay attention to the theme of lacking confidence around women, because that’ll come into play multiple times during my creative journey.

Because of this creative fuel swirling in my brain, I became obsessed with certain songs in my music library. You all know about “Beautiful Monster” by Otherwise, but I also listened to a lot of “This Love” by Pantera. I also listened to a lot of heavy metal songs to bring me back down into bathos territory. And then I start watching Final Fantasy videos on You Tube and finding even more vicarious romances to set my mind on fire. Squall Leonhart and Cloud Strife are both emotionally distant characters who are colder than Walt Disney (man, I’m really laying that shit on thick!). When they went on dates with their respective love interests, I felt the terror building up in my stomach yet again.

And then the scenarios swirled in my head once more. I actually imagined Squall, Cloud, and Landon Bryce (Millennium) joining a group therapy session to get in touch with their feelings, y’all (as Dr. Phil would oftentimes say). And then I imagined myself in a college class introducing myself as someone who doesn’t open up easily. And then I imagined having a schizophrenic episode in the middle of a WWE ring with the girls of Absolution screaming for paramedics.

And while all of this nonstop nonsense is going on, I still have two novel ideas floating around in my head. One of them is Beautiful Monster as I’ve mentioned before. The other is Booger the Clown. Let’s compare and contrast the main characters of both stories. Windham Xavier is an elf paladin who gets kidnapped by a beautiful vampire named Shelly Atwood so that the two of them can have a black wedding together. Booger the Clown (real name Private Andrew Gale) is a depressed birthday performer who picks fights with orcs because he secretly wants to die. Both main characters are snarky. They’re both emotionally fucked up for life. They’re both being pursued by beautiful women. And whatever happy ending they achieve, they’re going to have to earn it through fire and fury.

Keep in mind that these ideas and dream scenarios are all invading my mind right when I’m ready to pull the trigger on Silent Warrior. Four chapters left. Four fucking chapters left, all of which I’ve played out in my mind many times before and therefore have a solid foundation for how I’m going to write them. Two chapters are going to be told through Tom Simpson’s point of view, one chapter is going to be told through Scott George’s POV, and the other one goes to Alan Young. You won’t get many spoilers beyond that, so cool your jets, as my mother once told me.

But let’s go back to this theme of being unconfident and afraid around beautiful women. This is a curse that has followed me for pretty much all of my life. Even when I was dating a Bremerton woman named Brianna, I could never bring myself out of the shadows for fear of offending the other person. I’ve been offended by women in the past and I don’t want to put anybody else through that. So in order to keep the peace between us, I give them a shield from my lovey-dovey behavior. Even if they don’t give me a shield, I give them a shield. Though the peace treaty is intact, our hearts are not. Careless overconfidence can lead to awkwardness. Nobody needs that. Shyness, on the other hand, is the greatest defense I’ll ever have.

But instead of rolling over and playing dead for a cold world, I use sexual inadequacy as creative fuel for my emotionally rawest stories. William Butler Yeats was once told by his crush that if they got together, he’d have nothing to write about. That doesn’t mean I don’t intend to date again when the opportunity presents itself. It just means I’m going to focus my broken heart on getting things done rather than being a perpetual angsty mope. Like I said, Silent Warrior is four chapters away from completion. I may write the twenty-fifth chapter today, depending on whether or not my brain wants to cooperate. I think it will. It’s cooperated with me long enough to get this blog entry out, so I think I’m good to go for Silent Warrior’s twenty-fifth chapter. I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you next time!

***NOVEL QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“I know it isn’t fair. I know how hard you try. But if you want love and affection in this world, you have to earn it by being a good person, not by throwing a fit.”

-Windham Xavier to Shelly Atwood-

Silent Warrior, Chapter 24

For the first time in what seemed like ages, Scott George felt as though he belonged somewhere. He couldn’t get this feeling at home, so he got it at school when he walked through the front door with students and teachers applauding his arrival. He knew he couldn’t thank them enough for what they had done, so he smiled a warm smile and waved back at them.

But he knew now was not the time for complacency. He never once lost sight of the fact that this was a high school, the testing grounds for the next level of education: college. Scott studied his ass off for the upcoming finals, putting extra effort into US history. He did more than just memorize dates, events, and wars; he delved into their respective contexts. How did structural racism begin? How does it continue into today’s society? Is democracy still alive? The answer to the last question was yes and Scott was living proof. Now he had to show that proof to the rest of the school by acing these final exams.

He sat in his usual desk in his history class and took in all the sights of this new regime. The desks were in almost pristine condition. The students radiated with calmness. The new teacher, Mr. Corbin, didn’t stare down at his pupils like was a giant munching on villagers. Scott’s only concern was with the jock bully who had taunted him in the past. The football stud didn’t look like much of a stud as he kept his head down and fingered what appeared to be a wound on his hand. Scott couldn’t help but feel for the poor guy, whatever happened to him. He even managed to remember the big guy’s name: Craig Dunham. Imagine that: giving somebody a name actually helps humanize that person.

“Good morning, class,” said Mr. Corbin, instantly gaining his pupils’ attentions. “It’s been a long road to get to this point and you’ve all done very well so far. That’s all I’ve ever wanted from any class I teach: universal success. I have no quotas to fill as far as negative marks go. You all have met me halfway and I’m eternally grateful. You’ve proven to me that democracy is far from dead despite what the previous teacher has hammered into you. Without a proper education in a calm work environment, we can’t have a true democracy. But we have just one more part of this long journey and that’s the final exam. There are fifty questions, all of which are multiple choice. You have one hour to complete the test, but you most likely won’t need all of it.”

As soon as Mr. Corbin passed out the scantron sheets and the students had their pencils ready, he said, “Good luck to each and every one of you. I hope you all find the success you’re looking for today and every day after that. Your exam begins…now!” The students went right to work in filling in those bubbles, Scott included.

For the weeks leading up to this exam, Scott felt a sense of peace and quiet surge through his body. He knew he didn’t owe it to just one factor, as there were many pieces of this unbreakable puzzle. Whether it was moving in with Adrienne, feeling welcome under Mr. Corbin’s tutelage, or the fact that he confronted his personal demons and won, Scott was able to focus on his test without burning himself out. Any worms and puppets that had previously invaded his mind had faded into black and white pictures and were pushed aside with relative ease. The EMDR techniques during therapy did their job and then some. But there was no time to reflect, because he only had one hour before the test was over.

What was the major reason for the civil war? Keeping the confederacy from seceding. Who assassinated President Lincoln? John Wilkes-Booth. What does being “sold up the river” mean? Being a slave who was traded by boat to an arguably harsher master. Who was the eventual Supreme Court justice who argued successfully against Plessey vs. Ferguson? Thurgood Marshall. What year was John Lennon assassinated? 1980. Soon enough, the questions and answers came together with enough ease that Scott finished his test before the rest of the class. For that, he took a deep breath and took his test to Mr. Corbin’s office, though the nerves about his grade caused his stomach to hurt and his heart to race.

“I knew it: you didn’t need the full hour after all. Very impressive, Mr. George,” said Mr. Corbin with a warm smile. When Scott didn’t return to his seat, he asked, “Did you have a question for me?”

“Uh, yeah, uh…” Scott cleared his throat to buy his nerves some extra time. “Would it be okay with you if you graded my test now?”

“I don’t see why not. Could you shut the door, please?” Scott did as he was told and allowed his arms to quiver at the sight of Mr. Corbin running his red pen through the test. The new teacher made a few Nike logo gestures with his mouth, but then nodded and gave a half smile. He capped his pen and told Scott, “Okay, that’s an eighty-nine percent. A solid B+.” Scott clutched his chest and breathed a heavy sigh of relief, his nerves turning into warm prickly feelings throughout his arms, shoulders, and scalp. Mr. Corbin said, “That B+ should be a significant boost to your overall grade since it weighs the most. You should be proud.”

“Trust me, Mr. Corbin, you have no idea how relieved I am,” said Scott in between heavy breaths.

“As long as I have you in my office, why don’t you take a seat and talk to me for a minute. Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble for anything. Just please, take a seat.” Scott once again did as he was told, hands folded neatly across his lap and his toes bouncing his leg up and down. Mr. Corbin removed his glasses and asked, “How are you feeling these days, Mr. George?”

“I guess I’m doing alright. It hasn’t been perfect, but…I’m doing okay for now.” Scott’s eyes darted from side to side as he strengthened his efforts to suppress his worm flashbacks. He had a sinking feeling that that’s where this conversation was going.

“That’s good to hear,” said Mr. Corbin with a nod. “It seems as though it’s been a while since you’ve last heard this line of questioning.”

Scott sadly smiled and said, “Am I that easy to read?”

“No question about it. But I do hope you’re not living your life with any regrets. Don’t use your experiences as an excuse to stay down. Use them as a weapon. You’re going to need that weapon after you graduate.” When Scott shrugged his shoulders in confusion, Mr. Corbin pulled a sheet of paper out of a file folder and said, “Sorry, I should probably explain. Principal Williams wanted me to give you this before you left my class for the day.”

Scott gazed at the paper in his hands with confusion and happiness in his expression. “It’s a job application…for being the school’s sensitivity counselor? Oh no, I couldn’t do this. I don’t even have a psychology degree. Shit, I’m not even out of school yet to get one of those things.”

“You don’t need one, Scott. You’re perfectly qualified to have this job. You know what it’s like to need somebody to talk to, somebody to share your feelings with. You’ve gained more experience in just this last semester than most people do in a lifetime. Like I said, use your experiences not as a stopping point, but as a new beginning. Granted, you won’t make a lot of money in your first year. This is school, after all, and teachers and staff members alike struggle with their money enough as it is. But if you need a way to support yourself and your girlfriend while you save up for college, this would be the route to go. What say you, Scott?”

“I…I don’t know what to say…”

Mr. Corbin joked, “Your enthusiasm is underwhelming, Scott. If I was drowning and somebody threw me a handful of life preservers, I’d have a bigger smile on my face than you.” The student and teacher shared a laugh together at the blatantly stolen Dr. Phil line.

“It’s funny that you quoted Dr. Phil just now because…I kind of feel like him by filling out this application.”

“You are almost like him, except far less bullshit.” Scott hiked his eyebrows at Mr. Corbin, who smiled casually and said, “Bet you didn’t hear that word a lot from Mr. Simpson. But just to stay on the safe side, let’s keep it between you and me.”

“It’s a deal,” said Scott as the two of them shook hands. “You wouldn’t happen to have a pen on you right now, would you?”

“You can write with the one I used to grade your test. I’m sure Miss Williams won’t mind a little red ink. She used to have my job, so she used it quite liberally. Here you go,” said Mr. Corbin as he handed Scott the pen. The newly healed high school senior filled out the application with a careful writing speed while the teacher interlaced his fingers behind his own head and relaxed for a while. “Take your time, Scott. There’s no rush. Slow and steady wins the race.” Even more lines that Scott had never heard Mr. Simpson say in his lifetime.

Ripping the Piss

VERSE 1

Take a beautiful song, turn it into a joke

Every loving lyric burned into smoke

The message is gone, now only bathos

The singer is dead, now only pathos

Satire has been placed in the wrong hands

Out of the control of your favorite bands

Come on, everybody, let’s point and laugh

Only later will we worry about the aftermath

CHORUS

Oh-oh-oh! Ripping the piss!

Your ignorance is far from bliss!

Oh-oh-oh! Ripping the piss!

Turn it up! Turn it up, bitch!

VERSE 2

Take a beautiful love, turn it into porn

Make them wish they were never born

Into a world where nothing is sacred

Into a world for adults who are jaded

Sex and violence, all one in the same

You’re the biggest jackass in the game

Your so-called comedy is fucking lame

Your writing staff has no fucking brains

EXTENDED CHORUS

Oh-oh-oh! Ripping the piss!

Your ignorance is far from bliss!

Oh-oh-oh! Ripping the piss!

Turn it up! Turn it up, bitch!

Oh-oh-oh! Ripping the piss!

Motherfucking swing and a miss!

Oh-oh-oh! Ripping the piss!

I hope it’s worth all the shit!

VERSE 3

Take a beautiful woman, reduce her to tears

Take a handsome man, drown him in beers

Take a sweet little baby, laugh at his fears

Take a broken teenager, whom nobody hears

Take an elderly grandma, steal her checks

Take a dying grandpa, lethally inject

Nobody’s laughing except for you, buddy

Enjoy their trips to a grave so muddy

FINAL BRIDGE

Ripping the piss! Ripping the piss!

Covered in shit! Covered in shit!

Look what you did! Look what you did!

Taking our sorrows and ripping the piss!

Silent Warrior, Chapter 23

“Mother…please forgive me…I just had to get out all my pain and suffering…remember I will always love you…I’m your…son….”

“That’s very sweet of you, Mr. George, but I’m not your mother,” said a nameless jail guard as his words jolted Scott awake.

The battered prisoner’s body ached and pulsated while his eyes stung as they adjusted to the florescent lights of an infirmary. He had patches and bandages all over his wounds and even had some cotton pressed against his gums, though his speech was clear enough to decipher. As soon as Scott’s eyes adjusted to the light, he stared up at the prison guard trying to get a good read of him. The bright lights gave him an angelic aura, but Scott knew this was far from heaven.

The guard reached up and pulled the wire out of the only camera in the room, thus making their interactions completely private. Scott’s body jittered at the thought of what might happen to him next. But when he gave a wide-eyed look at the guard, the latter said, “Doctor-patient privacy.” Scott’s confusion and anxiety grew even more rampant when the guard knocked on the door and said, “You can come in now, Dr. Archer.”

“Wait a minute, who’s Dr. Archer?” asked Scott in weak tone.

“Your girlfriend’s therapist,” answered the guard, who allowed a slender black lady in business attire to enter the room with a clipboard, a pen, and a sympathetic smile for her patient. “I’ll leave the two of you alone for a while.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the therapist. Once the guard vacated the room, she engaged Scott with a gentle handshake and a warm attitude. “My name is Dr. Simone Archer. Your girlfriend sent me here to see how you’re doing.”

“It’s amazing anybody cares about me at all,” said Scott with a saggy frown.

Simone took a seat on the edge of Scott’s bed and began taking notes on her clipboard. “Adrienne cares a lot about you, Mr. George. This isn’t just some one-time fling for her. She’s committed to your happiness. She hopes you feel the same way about her. Do you, Scott?”

Scott closed his heavy eyelids and sighed, “I’ve never loved anybody that much in my life. Too bad it’s illegal.”

“Just because something is illegal, doesn’t mean it’s wrong, The reverse is true as well. The laws that are built on commonsense are the ones that mean the most to nonconformists such as yourself. But not everybody has the commonsense you do and that’s why you’re here, not because you did anything morally corrupt.”

Scott’s eyes slowly opened into pseudo-wideness when he said, “I’ve been waiting far too long for somebody to say that to me.”

“Adrienne told me of your struggles with your history teacher. And before you ask, she has granted me permission to divulge this information to you. Otherwise, I wouldn’t do it. Just like I won’t divulge anything you say to me in this session without your own permission. What happens in this room stays in this room. It was my idea for the guard to unplug the camera.”

Deep sighs and waves of relaxation washed over Scott’s exhausted and burdensome body. “As long as this conversation is private and I’m talking to someone who doesn’t think I have my head in my ass…there’s something I’ve wanted to get off my chest. I’ve told Adrienne about it, but not many other people.”

With clipboard and pen ready to go, Simone said, “I’m listening. Go ahead whenever you’re ready.”

Another deep relaxing sigh later, Scott said, “As you can tell from how fucking skinny I am…I’ve been having problems eating lately. It’s like…every time I take a bite of something, it’s covered in these slimy little worms. I know they’re not really there, but I can’t get my mind to shut the fuck up about it.” Tears welled up in his eyes and Simone gently patted his ankle. “I miss eating the good shit. I used to love eating steaks, cheeseburgers, pizza, Oreos…now all I can eat are worms and more worms. Everything around me is just a worm den.”

“And why do you suppose this is?”

Scott shrugged and said, “That’s what’s been giving me nightmares lately: I don’t know why. It’s like…every time I close my eyes, there she is again. This puppet teacher named Aloysius Striker. And then when I go to court, I find out she’s a living, breathing human being. She’s my bully’s step-mother. I don’t know what the hell any of this has to do with my worms. But every time the worms crawl around, her hideous face is always there to mock me.”

Simone allowed her new patient to shed a few silent tears before she patted his ankle again and said, “I want to try something with you, Scott. You seem to be in a relaxed state of mind, but I think you can go deeper than that. I want you to close your eyes for a moment. Breathe gently in and out. I want you to get to the root of these issues. The answer is locked up somewhere in there. You just have to be the one who unlocks it.”

“But…but…what if I find something that fucks me up?”

“Whatever you find locked up in there, it will no doubt be painful. You’re showing classic signs of PTSD. And as a coping mechanism, those who suffer from PTSD push their worst memories to a neutral corner of their brains. That may work in the short term, but now you’re at a point where it’s eating you up inside. I know you’re scared, Scott. But if you don’t’ confront your demons now, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

Scott gave a sad flat tire noise and said, “However long that is.”

“Have you given up already, Scott? Even if you have, don’t you at least owe it to yourself to find the answers you’re looking for?”

Taking more deep breaths, Scott closed his eyes and said, “Okay, I’ll play ball with you. Let’s do this.”

Holding Scott’s hand in a soothing grip, Simone spoke to him in an ethereal new age voice in hopes of triggering a hypnotic effect. “Think back to your earliest memory of Mrs. Striker. When did this happen? Who is she to tell you what to think about? Why does her presence mean so much to you?”

Scott’s mind swirled with colors while his body sank deeper into his hospital bed. His arms went limp as did his legs. He could breathe deeply while ignoring the agony in his nearly broken torso. Any stress point in his body, he breathed into and dissolved the tension. No judgment. No condescension. Just Scott and his mind, one-on-one.

As he traveled through his imagination, he could feel himself getting smaller. His babyish voice echoed throughout the halls of what appeared to be another hospital room. He tensed up slightly when the worms flooded his imagination, but he brushed them away like mere annoyances since they blocked the path to his answers. And then he felt a motherly pair of hands cradling him and soothing his baby screams. A woman gently sang to him, “Good morning to you. Good morning to you. Good morning, dear Scotty. Good morning to you!”

Scott sat up in his bed and triggered the pain in his stomach, his heart and brain beating at a blistering speed. Adrenaline poured through his system as tears flooded from his eyes. When Simone asked him what he saw, he caught his breath long enough to say, “Aloysius is my mother!...That fucking bitch is my mother!” Scott plopped backwards in his bed and allowed the tears to burst over his face. “That’s not possible. How could my dad marry a woman like that? Damn you, Dad!”

Simone pulled a handkerchief from her suit pocket and wiped the wetness from her patient’s face. But alas, not even the best janitors in the world had that kind of cleaning power. The tears kept coming and so did the snot. Simone held the rag to his nose and allowed him to blow his nose until his sinuses were dry. She tossed the rag in the garbage can, but the tears kept coming.

“Listen to me, Scott. Your past doesn’t define you. I know that sounds cliché, but quite frankly it doesn’t get said enough. This woman obviously had a tremendous effect on your psyche. But she’s neither here nor there. She has no control over your life anymore. She made the decision to leave you and mother your nemesis. That’s all on her. As far as you go, Scott, you must now use this story as a launching pad for your future, not as a barricade. Be the change you want in this world.”

Wiping his tears away with the back of his hand, Scott wept, “Future? What future? I’m in prison, for god’s sake! There’s no such thing as a future in prison!”

Taking Scott’s hand in hers yet again, Simone looked deep into his dewy eyes and confessed, “I wanted to wait to tell you this until you’ve calmed down a bit. But I can see you need to know it now. It’s the only thing that can convince you to stay strong and push for a better day. You see, Scott…your principal Miss Williams set up a Go Fund Me page to get you out of jail…she met her goal. Your bail’s been paid. It’s all a matter of waiting for the paperwork to go through. Scott…you’re free!”

That news should have brought a permanent smile to Scott’s face, but instead more tears poured from his bright red pupils. “I don’t deserve this….I didn’t do anything to earn this…this is some Deus Ex Machina shit right here!”

“You’re wrong, Scott,” said Simone. “While it’s true you’ve made a few enemies during your high school years, you’ve also inspired many. The parents of Perkins High paid close attention to what happened to you. They were shocked not at your actions, but at your results. They looked at you and asked themselves…What if that was my child in the defendant’s chair? This is your story now, Scott. While you didn’t come up with the money yourself, you win this war by virtue of your survival. The world needs to hear what you have to say. They need your individuality. They need your strength. They need your empathy. That’s why you’re free from prison. And yes, you do deserve your freedom and so much more.”

After a while of letting his new therapist’s words hang in the air, Scott hugged her tightly without caring how awkward it would seem. He soaked the shoulder of her business suit in tears, but Simone didn’t mind at all. In fact, she returned the hug and allowed him this moment of newfound happiness. Scott knew he still had a long road ahead of him in terms of recovery, but this was a huge first step. “Thank you, Dr. Archer. Thank you!” he said softly.

“Please, call me Simone. You have my permission. This isn’t school, my friend. This is just you and me.” As soon as the embrace ended, she said, “Speaking of school, you have finals to prepare for, including a US history test, though Mr. Simpson has been replaced by someone else. Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

Wiping away the last of his ocular fluids, Scott nodded and said, “I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life!”

Fan Fiction Group Therapy

***FAN FICTION GROUP THERAPY***

I know this blog entry will sound ironic considering my last one was about how I don’t want to take time to decompress after a negative event. But just because I don’t want to, doesn’t mean others can’t benefit from it. I don’t project my insecurities on other people. I will say, however, that I’ve never been part of a group therapy session before, but I imagine it’s a lot like an AA meeting or a prayer clique. Since this is my group therapy session we’re talking about, there will obviously be some differences. For refreshments, there won’t be juice and cookies. Juice and cookies? What is this, kindergarten? How about some of the good stuff for a change? Hot wings! Pizza! Cheeseburgers! No, they’re not healthy for you, but then again, neither is a sugar-frosted cookie with a billion calories in one serving. The juice also probably contains high fructose corn syrup, which is worse than sugar in many ways.

Why am I writing a blog about group therapy? Because in all my time of taking in fictional stories, I’ve seen a lot of characters who clearly need it. They’re fucked up, they’re tearful, and for some of them it may be too late, but that doesn’t mean we can’t try. So here it is, ladies and gentlemen: my fan fiction group therapy roster. We’ll all get together and talk about our feelings while dining on something other than sugar and corn syrup.

***MILLENIUM: LANDON BRYCE***

I’ve beaten this topic to death in a previous blog entry where I incorporate Otherwise’s music into the canon. But that doesn’t make Landon Bryce’s induction into this group any less important. Look at him, he’s a wreck! He was held hostage by a lovey-dovey demon named Lucy Butler and brainwashed into believing that he was mediocre instead of brilliant. He could have gone places. He could have skyrocketed past the glass ceiling. Unfortunately, we never got to see future episodes of Millennium where Landon gets to rise above his kidnapping scenario. More than likely, if he believes the bullshit he was fed while he was being cuddled and kissed by Lucy Butler, then he’ll have a hard time holding down a job because he doesn’t believe in himself. He’ll also want to remain single because every woman he goes out with looks like Lucy in the end. Eat the cheeseburger, Landon. Eat it! It’s soul food!

***FINAL FANTASY VIII: SQUALL LEONHART***

If you’ve played this videogame before, you might admire Squall’s ability to give absolutely zero fucks about the people around him. No emotional attachments, no love interests, no friendships, just Squall Leonhart and a Linkin Park CD, though Linkin Park’s first album wouldn’t come out until a few years after Final Fantasy VIII. But really, can you blame Squall? He grew up in an orphanage and was left behind by the one person he thought he could trust: his older sister. He doesn’t want to get his heart broken again, so he tells the world to fuck off. Is anybody really that independent? Human beings are social animals by nature, so all of this wall-building has to make Squall lonely and depressed deep inside. He can fantasize about isolation all he wants, but even he wouldn’t be able to survive such an environment. Have a slice of pizza, Squall, and think about your future.

***FINAL FANTASY VII: CLOUD STRIFE***

He couldn’t save Aerith, he couldn’t save himself, and he still has no fucking clue what “Dilly Dally Shilly Shally” means. Not even the love of Tifa Lockhart can snap him out of his depressive funk. In fact, the two might be having marital issues that they can’t work out on their own, so perhaps group therapy will be Cloud’s saving grace. He’s got a lot to talk about whether it’s his past battles, his love triangle, or being washed up in a river full of toxic waste. And when he holds a chicken wing in his hand and tries to take a bite, the other group members will notice how aggressively his hand is shaking. It could be PTSD. It could be depression. Or it could be a case of not having anymore fucks to give.

***PINK FLOYD THE WALL: PINK FLOYD***

I’m talking strictly about the adult character in the movie, not the actual band members, although Roger Waters in particular could use some group therapy. But it’s true, the adult version of Pink just needs someone to talk to about his lost father or his abusive teacher or his cheating wife or his smothering mother. But instead, he builds a wall around himself and lets nobody in, not unlike Squall Leonhart. Within the confines of this wall, he goes bat shit insane and smashes his hotel room to pieces. How do you convince a guy with this much insanity to join a group therapy session? It’s not easy, but I hear the Sparkling Ices taste quite lovely, especially the out-of-stock green apple flavor.

***STREET FIGHTER ALPHA 3: CODY TRAVERS***

Everything seemed to be going Cody’s way, especially in his original videogame Final Fight where he rescued his girlfriend Jessica and freed Metro City from the Mad Gear gang’s clutches. But then Cody was locked up in prison and transformed into a monster of a human being by the harsh system. He escaped twice as muscled and half as emotional. He doesn’t want his old girlfriend back. He doesn’t even want to rekindle his friendships with Guy and Haggar. All he wants in this world is the thrill of combat and then he’ll kindly step back behind the jail bars. If he does join group therapy, it’ll most likely be the judge’s order, though it’s hard to say no when a plate of steamed spinach is waiting for you.

***OBSELIDIA: GEORGE***

I’ve also talked about George in another blog entry, but to bring you up to speed, he starts out in the movie thinking love is obsolete since it’s just chemicals in the brain fucking with you. He worked in a library and a female customer flirted with him only to be turned down for that specific reason. And then George meets his philosophical equal in Sophie and the anti-love myth is dispelled forever…at least until Sophie is revealed to already have a boyfriend by the movie’s end. Poor George. Poor, poor George. Have a seat next to Cody and enjoy a chicken wing. The chicken wing doesn’t mind that your heart is shattered into a million pieces. In fact, the worse condition your heart is in, the better it is for the chicken companies!

***THE PERKS OF BEING A WALLFLOWER: CHARLIE***

All this high schooler wanted was a circle of friends he could share is life with. He gets everything he wants and more when he meets step-siblings Patrick and Sam. Charlie falls head-over-heels for the lovely lady Sam, but is careful to keep his distance because he doesn’t want to ruin their friendship. He almost gets kicked out of the group permanently and that alone would have warranted group therapy. But then he regains the keys to the kingdom and is dragged out of the shadows by Sam. The two begin to have sex, but then Charlie has repressed flashbacks of being molested by his aunt and is rushed to a hospital. By the time he recovers, Sam and Patrick are off to college and Charlie still has more high school to complete. He’s both “happy and sad at the same time”. Pull up a chair, Charlie. It’s going to be along road.

***CONCLUSION***

There will be tears. There will be shakes. There will be pain. But most importantly, there will be recovery. That’s what I want for all of these fictional characters. But I refuse to end our sessions with the famous speech about “the wisdom to know the difference”. They already know what they can and can’t change and what they can and can’t accept. If they want a bright future, they have to fight for it. If you fight for your dreams, your dreams will fight for you, as said by Daniel Bryan on an episode of Smackdown when he was medically cleared for in-ring competition again. Part of this fight for the future includes unleashing a shit ton of pent-up rage. So after every meeting, we’ll stand up and let the growling sounds of Max Cavalera’s voice wash over us as he sings “Blood Fire War Hate” by Soulfly. Say it with me! “Blood! Fire! War! Hate! Blood! Fire! War! Hate!” Feels good, doesn’t it? Hell, some of these characters might end up joining a metal band, so they might as well get used to saying it. I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you next time!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Someday, somehow, I’m gonna make it alright, but not right now. I know you’re wondering when. You’re the only one who knows that.”

-Nickelback singing “Someday”-

Moving On

***MOVING ON***

In all this time of doing blog entries about my distant past, you’re probably wondering why nothing serious comes up. The easy answer would be because talking about such horrible things makes my schizophrenia significantly worse, and that is god’s honest truth. But there’s more to it than just having a numbed out brain. The more important reason is because anytime something bad happens to me, all I want to do is move on with my life. I don’t want to take time to process it or talk it out, because that’s precious time lost that I could have spent doing creative work.

Time didn’t wait for me back then and it won’t wait for me now. High school didn’t slow down because I was in the early stages of schizophrenia. College didn’t wait for me to glue my broken heart back together. My writing career isn’t going to be put on hold because my brain doesn’t want to shut the fuck up. I don’t believe in taking mini-vacations just so I can mentally recover from something that should have been processed within seconds. Minor bad shit doesn’t feel like much to other people, but to a schizophrenic and autistic person like me, it feels like a hailstorm of bullets. I guess that makes me a special little snowflake, but I didn’t have a choice in the matter nor do I have it now.

Don’t get me wrong, nothing bad happened as of late; I’m merely speaking in general terms. Moving on with life without delay is something I cherish even if my mind or other people don’t agree. I don’t believe in slowing down for anything and that’s where I get my strong work ethic from. If my fingers are shooting out blood like a water pistol, I write anyways. If I don’t have hands at all, I’ll still find a way to write. If my brain wants to show me Clockwork Orange flashbacks of something that happened a few weeks ago, I’ll find a way to write. If I’m suffering from sleep apnea, I’ll give myself a quick head massage and slap myself in the face until I’m wide awake.

This is why I take lazy days so personally, because it’s a squandered opportunity to do something with my life, despite the fact that I had no say in the matter. If the lazy day is somebody else’s fault, then that’s extra hatred for that person, because that person stole precious creative time from me. That’s why I chose to beat the shit out of my bullies when I was in high school, to take back what I rightfully own.

But why am I so concerned about losing precious creative time considering I’m only 32 years old and have my whole life ahead of me? Because creativity is what gives me the most pleasure in this world. I look at a chapter of Silent Warrior or a fully published copy of Occupy Wrestling and I can proudly say to myself, “I made this!” The more time I spend away from my creative vices, the angrier I become.

For future reference, if something bad happens to me and I seem irritable, don’t ask me to talk about it and don’t overprotect me. Taking all of the time needed to process the emotions is time wasted. If I allow myself to take breaks from creative life to recover from psychological bullshit, then who’s to say that I won’t take them every single time? One break piles on top of the other and then it spirals out of control to where it’s been ages since my last creative project. For me personally, I see this as complacency and I can’t allow that to happen. If I tell you I want to move on from something, I want to move on as quickly as possible. If some guy says, “Idiot” to me under my breath, I don’t want to take more than a few seconds to process it. That’s the way brains should work. They should be tough and durable. But mine isn’t. It can be if I rush through processing it.

Thanks for reading this and understanding why I don’t talk about bad shit. The bad shit I do talk about is so far in the past that it doesn’t matter anymore. Either that, or I’m talking about it in a purely satirical and humorous way. My blog post a few weeks ago about The Thunder Eagles? That’s a funny memory to me, because I’m laughing at what a sore loser I used to be. Beating the shit out of other players because I lost? Come on, that’s self-depreciative comic gold! The heavier stuff will never make it onto my blog, because when people see that, they can’t stop talking to me about it, which results in overprotection, which results in spending too much time processing something and not enough time on creative work. I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you next time!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Hey, you. Out there in the cold, getting lonely, getting old, can you feel me? Hey, you. Standing in the aisle with itchy feet and fading smiles, can you feel me? Hey, you. Don’t help them to bury the light. Don’t give in without a fight. Hey, you. Out there all alone, sitting naked by the phone, would you touch me? Hey, you. With your ear against the wall, waiting for someone to call out, will you touch me? Hey, you. Will you help me to carry the stone? Open your heart. I’m coming home. But it was only fantasy. The wall was too high, as you can see. No matter how he tried, he could not break free. And the worms ate into his brain. Hey, you. Out there on the road, always doing what you’re told, can you help me? Hey, you. Out there beyond the wall, breaking bubbles in the hall, can you help me? Hey, you. Don’t tell me there’s no hope at all. Together we stand, divided we fall.”

-Pink Floyd singing “Hey You”-

Silent Warrior, Chapter 22

“I wanna go home…take off this uniform and leave the show…but I’m waiting in this cell because I have to know…have I been guilty all this time?”

Scott George’s trembling rendition of “Stop” by Pink Floyd was met with a sarcastic golf clap from the shadows of his jail cell. A familiar voice said, “Good one, buddy. You really do have the prettiest little voice. The last time I heard singing that good, you were bawling like a big baby over your daddy’s grave.” With shadows now covering only half of his face like a neo-noir villain, Alan Young’s hideously transformed visage sent chills up Scott’s spine. Tattoos on his arms, a short Mohawk, and scars on his face marked Alan’s metamorphosis from childhood brat to demonic tormentor.

Unwilling to let this bruiser shake him any further, Scott descended into bathos by angrily joking, “What the hell were YOU doing at a graveyard anyways? I was grieving my dead father. What about you? You can’t get laid any other way, so you’re going to give necrophilia a try?”

“Oh, you’re hilarious, Scott. You’re just fucking marvelous. It’s especially ironic considering how you got yourself in this jail cell to begin with. Though I do admit, you couldn’t have found a better piece of ass than Adrienne fucking Simpson, I’ll tell you that right now.”

Scott bolted out of his bunk bed and shouted, “Don’t you ever talk that way about her again, you fat piece of shit!”

“Or what? You’re going to strangle me and get me kicked out of prison like you did on that bus ride? Come on, dude, you’ve got way too much to lose and you know it. You throw one punch at me and it’s off to the hole for you. Me? I don’t give a fuck where I go from here. The only thing I’ve got left to lose is my own sanity and even that’s questionable.”

Folding his arms and giving his cellmate the gorgon death stare, Scott asked, “What do you want from me, Alan? You want to keep making my life a living hell? What for? Why me? Why not somebody else? Answer me, damn it!”

Alan stood up quickly and barked, “You want to know why?! I’ll tell you why. I don’t do it because of your skinny ass body. I don’t do it because I can. I don’t even want your survivor’s benefits from your dear old daddy kicking the bucket. The reason I gave you hell all those years is because of who you are.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t, because you’re too blind to see it. Your massive ego won’t let you. Well, I’m here to tell you that you’re a phony. You like to rage against the machine and all that bullshit. Guess what? I’ve always wanted to rage against the machine too. Growing up with Aloysius tends to do that to a man. All this talk about communities and worms and puppets and shit…if I ever do get thrown in the hole, that’s probably what I’m going to think about the most.”

Scott’s expression softened and his arms went limp at this revelation. But he would still hold his ground against the much larger and much more aggressive cellmate.

Alan wagged his finger at Scott and ranted, “Yeah, that’s right. The old Freudian excuse. I can play that card until the end of time. I abuse other people because I too was a victim of disgusting shit. That would be the convenient answer. But that’s not it. Aloysius is just one piece of the puzzle. It’s the whole world that fucks with my mind the most. And you, you’re the biggest hypocrite of them all. You claim to be about individuality and personal freedom, yet here you are sucking up to the teachers so that you can get the best grades. Don’t you see, Scott? You’re doing what they’re telling you to do. They’ve got you by the balls, buddy! Me? I don’t want a pointless career. I want to watch the world burn. Being in jail waiting for my sentence gave me time to think about it and that’s what I want most out of life.”

Scott half-grinned and shook his head before saying, “So that’s it, huh? Because life didn’t turn out the way you wanted, you want to watch the system around you collapse. Well, guess what, lard ass! My life wasn’t exactly a bed of roses either! I too have nightmares that keep me from getting the sleep I deserve! I haven’t eaten a decent meal in god knows how long! And yes, I’m in jail because the world wants me to be here! But I don’t want to watch the world burn! You know why? Because without a world to live in, there’d be no place for people like Adrienne to grow up. I know not everybody in the world is a Mr. Simpson clone. I don’t paint everybody with the same brush like you do. There are good people in this world and they’re the people I’m fighting for! I don’t care how long I have to stay in this cell, because I won’t let jail break me!”

Alan blitzed towards Scott, grabbed his shirt, and slammed him against the wall. “Bullshit!” the bully shouted. “You’re not going to beat the system that easily! Everybody who comes through here turns into the ugliest fucking monster imaginable! You’re no different from the rest of the losers in this jail! You’re going to break one way or another and if I have to be the one who breaks you, goddamn it, I will!”

“Go for it, Alan! Make a move! You’ll be taking those words to solitary confinement! It’s just like you said to me a few minutes ago! That shit works both ways, my friend! You want to take a swing at me?! Go ahead!”

Alan smiled sadistically and bore his yellow demonic fangs while clutching Scott’s shirt tighter than before. “If that’s what you want, then ask and ye shall receive!” Alan dropped his victim with a right hook to the gut, causing him to cough and wheeze violently. Scott even spit up a few droplets of blood. Alan grabbed his hair and said, “You see that? That’s what happens when you don’t eat your meat, let alone your pudding. Yeah, I can quote Pink Floyd too, buddy. Look around you: nobody’s coming to save you because nobody cares. I bet watching the world burn sounds pretty fucking good right now, doesn’t it?”

The next attack in Alan’s arsenal was a knee to the chest, bouncing Scott against the metal bunk bed and causing even more heavy, blood-laced breathing. “Pathetic. That’s all you are, Scott.” Alan turned around and sat down on his bed while watching his victim collected what was left of himself.

Scott sat against his bunk and heaved some more, his lungs and heart working overtime to make sure he didn’t drop dead right then and there. And then he mustered up enough oxygen to get these words out in a clear voice: “Is that all you got?”

Alan’s hamburger face morphed into monstrous rage when he stood back up and shouted, “No, it’s not all I got, you dumb shit!” He pulled a shank from under his pillow and glared down at his prey with venom and fire in his bulging eyes. “You just don’t know when to break, do you? That’s alright. You don’t ever have to worry about breaking ever again. As your daddy will tell you…dead men tell no tales!”

The bully jerked Scott up by his neck and held the blade to his throat, drawing a tiny droplet of sweet red juice. “You see that, Scotty boy? That’s what jail is really like. You haven’t been here that long and you’re already knocking on hell’s gates. Say hello to your dear old daddy for me!”

Scott’s rage glowed a brighter shade of red than the goop pouring out of his mouth, nose, and throat. A night in solitary confinement would have been a welcome time to rest his bones if it meant he could live another day. He forgot all about the possibility of losing his sanity in a dark room. Did he really have it to begin with?

Scott swung his leg backwards and made Alan a permanent cast member of the Nutcracker Suite, causing him to drop the blade and leaving him open for a sharp elbow to the nose. Alan’s already demonic face looked like it went through a wood chipper after that blood-curdling blow. Both combatants lay limp on the floor floating in and out of consciousness while the sounds of boots pounding the cement floor flooded their ears.

Scott could hear the cacophony of swear words and authoritative threats as both he and Alan were being dragged out of their cell, though in different directions. He could distinctly hear one of the guards threaten, “You’re in a lot of trouble, little boy!” Although, he couldn’t discern who it was being said to. Either way, Scott knew he was up shit creek without a paddle, judging from how roughly he was being dragged away from the scene of the fight.

Was it this easy to break in prison? Was there anybody out there truly strong enough to withstand such a torturous grind? Scott couldn’t think of one person that fit the bill. Even superheroes would go crazy in this shitty place if they didn’t get brutally murdered. Getting out on a sweetheart deal didn’t mean shit either. The prisoners were dead inside by the time they tasted freedom, thus ensuring this place’s status as a graveyard rather than a real housing facility. At least when death or insanity washed over Scott, he would be reunited with his father, which wasn’t much of a silver lining considering he would also lose Adrienne forever. Scott took a temporary vacation from the ultra madness when his vision faded to black.

Terrible Person

CHORUS 1

If you excuse torture and abuse

If you condone picking at their bones

If human happiness makes you irksome

Congratulations, you’re a terrible person!

VERSE 1

Call it tough love, call it what you will

You still make the public collectively ill

Beatings, insults, hatred, and more

Rated NC-17 for violence and gore

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

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

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

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

CHORUS 2

If you enjoy the times when you destroy

If you take their brains and drive them insane

If you take part in making teens feel worthless

Congratulations, you’re a terrible person!

VERSE 2

You have no authority to enforce conformity

You have no balls to face the wrath of the majority

You have no business calling yourself an orderly

You have no right to smile ever so cordially

You have the right to watch your empires burn

You have the right to watch your victims unlearn

You have the right to fork over the Benjamins

‘Cause there’s no denying the courtroom evidence

BRIDGE

Isolation is mutilation!

Condemnation is devastation!

Victimization is desecration!

Retaliation is our salvation!

VERSE 3

Say goodbye to the white padded walls

Say goodbye to the screams in the halls

Say goodbye to your dystopian future

Say goodbye, you’re a fucking loser

CHORUS 3

If your methods count as weapons

If your beatings count as feedings

If your message becomes worthless

Congratulations, you’re a terrible person!

Congratulations, you’re a piece of shit!

Congratulations, you’re a perfect fit!

For a prison camp not unlike your own!

Congratulations, you’re fucking boned!

Silent Warrior, Chapter 21

As a handsome middle-aged gentleman in a brown ponytail stood by her side, Linda Williams took center stage of the gymnasium with a microphone in hand. She noticed the sullen expressions on her students’ faces as they filed into the bleachers one by one. Linda caught a glimpse of Adrienne Simpson sitting in the far upper corner by herself. The Principal’s heart ached for her and all of this new trauma she had to deal with. That was not to undermine the sadness of the other students filling the seats, all of which had slumped over postures and saggy frowns.

Right at the time everybody was seated where they needed to be, Linda tapped the microphone a few times and tested it for feedback. She gazed around at the audience before her with a combination of sympathy and strength in her face. She needed to be strong when others felt they had the strength sapped right out of them. Linda took a few breaths to steel her nerves and brought the microphone up to her lips to begin her oratory.

“Before I get started with this emergency school assembly, I want to get two talking points off my chest. First, I’d like to thank each and every one of you for coming today, students and teachers alike. I wish this was all under different circumstances, but it is what it is. And secondly,” Linda patted the ponytail-wearing gentleman on the shoulder and said, “This is Paul Corbin. He will be your new US history teacher as he’s taking over for the departed Tom Simpson. He’ll take good care of you and hopefully you’ll find him to your liking.”

Linda gazed down at her loafers to allow for a beat of silence. Reengaging the audience, she said, “I’m sure some of you heard by now what happened with Tom Simpson and why he’s not here today. For those of you who need to be brought up to speed, let’s just say he won’t be working here anymore. He made a bad decision and it cost him his job. I know that argument sounds familiar to those of you who were close to one Scott George. I know how quickly rumors can travel.”

Pacing back and forth with slowness in her step, Linda cleared her throat and said, “We can debate all day long about the morality of what Scott George did. Then again, we can also do the same thing for Mr. Simpson. And for Alan Young, another student whose name you might recognize. Varying opinions aside, I have a confession to make as it pertains to my tenure here at Perkins High.”

“I haven’t been a perfect Principal. I’ve made a few enemies here and there. But the one thing I can never forgive myself for…is allowing my own students to be victimized. I’ve been blind to the mistreatment going on around here. I thought it was just another day at the office. And then I saw a You Tube video of Scott George sobbing at his father’s grave while the so-called filmmaker Alan Young laughed in the background. That never should have been the ultimate breaking point and for that I’m sorry.”

Pointing her arm at the new teacher, she said, “As you can see from Mr. Corbin’s presence, there are going to be some changes around here. These changes are going to shake the very foundation of this once esteemed high school. No more abuses of power. No more hostile work environments. No more mediocre school lunches. Everything is going to change around here from top to bottom, left to right. Mind you, these changes aren’t going to happen overnight. Reforming a broken school takes time and effort. While I realize that patience isn’t always a virtue among everyone here today, it is needed if we’re to make these changes in a civilized and methodical way.

“To put it as delicately as possible, Scott George hit some bumps in the road during his educational experiences here. I’ve no doubt that many of you feel the same way. The only difference is, his story came to my attention first. And his story is the reason why these radical changes are happening in the first place. As long as they’re happening, I’d love know your stories as well. You know why? Because unlike what Tom Simpson had been preaching this whole time, democracy isn’t dead. Your voices matter now more than ever. You have the right to be heard and there’s not a teacher walking this earth that can take that away from you.

“Which brings me to my final talking point of the day. If you’ve been following the local news, you’d know that Scott is currently sitting in jail awaiting his final sentencing. The crime he committed had no victims, yet he currently has a five thousand dollar bail looming over his head. He doesn’t have a lot of time left before that bail will be revoked and his prison sentence will officially begin.

“Therefore, I am announcing to you all this morning that I’ve set up a Go Fund Me page to pay for his bail. The link to the page will be posted on the bulletin board outside of my office. I don’t expect any one person to fork over the full amount. In fact, I don’t want any of you to think that the new changes to this school will be contingent on how much money is donated to the cause. This isn’t extortion. This is purely optional. One dollar would be fine. A quarter. A nickel. Every little bit will help.

“If you’re wondering why you should care about a kid who was rebellious at his worst and tearful at his best, then know that I would do the same for any one of you if you were placed in a similar situation. No student deserves to be taken advantage of. No student deserves to be silenced. Every student has the right to an education should he or she decide to pursue it. I feel that way about Scott George, a kid with so much promise and so much of an upside that it breaks my heart to see him lose it all over an asinine loophole in the law he allegedly broke.

“I’m not asking you all for help. I’m pleading with you. I’m all but on my hands and knees. I’m asking for this school to be united, not torn apart by bullying or abuse of any kind. If there’s one thing Scott George will teach you all, it’s that empathy and love will go a lot further than empty disciplinary tactics and mindless conformity. He wants you all to be free thinkers. He wants you all to take advantage of the opportunities you have. He wants to see these changes to our school just as much as you all need them. I’ll close this assembly with one final plea: can you find it in your hearts to give Mr. George another chance?”

The expressions on the students’ faces spoke volumes: angry eyebrows, defeated frowns, and tense stares. One by one they left the gymnasium without waiting for Miss Williams to give permission to exit. They never said one word, presumably because for so long they had been fed the “democracy is dead” shtick like it was the worst tasting medicine imaginable, worse than any worm-infested food Scott George would eat in his new home. The only student who didn’t get up and leave was Adrienne Simpson, who pulled her knees up and tucked her head in her lap, feeling dejected and forlorn.

As soon as the bleachers were empty sans Adrienne, Paul Corbin placed a gentle hand on Linda Williams’s shoulder and said, “You did your best to convince them.”

“Did I really, Paul? Is this just another chapter of broken promises and ignorant leadership?” asked Linda in a sullen tone.

“Nobody’s perfect, Linda. Not you, not me, not Scott George himself. But that’s what makes us human. We grow, we adapt, and we learn things. Isn’t that what school is all about?”

“It’s too late for us now,” said Linda. “These changes should have been made long before Scott was taken into custody. I could have prevented all of this from happening. But instead, I sat by and did nothing. I was naïve to think everything was okay. Does anybody really tell you that everything is wrong in their world? For god’s sake, I should have never hired Tom in the first place.”

Linda’s stonewall strength had crumbled all around her and she couldn’t help but shed a few silent tears. How could she remain strong after all that’s happened? She believed it was all her fault and that she had no right to cry about it in the first place. But the tears kept coming, albeit in a silent sob that still caught the attention of Paul Corbin. The new history teacher gave the Principal a hug light enough to avoid awkwardness, but strong enough to know that he was by her side.

“Excuse me, Miss Williams?” said Adrienne, who was now standing within close range and Linda hadn’t even realized it until she picked her tear-soaked face up. The little freshman held out a twenty dollar bill and said, “I want to contribute this to Scott’s bail. It’s not much, but I hope it’s a step in the right direction. I’ve been saving it for a rainy day.”

A smile spread across Linda’s face despite the flowing tears. She accepted the twenty dollar bill and said, “Oh, Miss Simpson, bless your little heart. I know Scott means a lot to you. He means a lot to me too. Speaking of rainy days…” The last sadly joking sentence was punctuated by pointing at her own teary face, hence the raindrops.

“I’ve been doing that a lot lately too, Miss Williams. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re still one of the strongest women I know, next to my mom.”

Linda sighed, “I guess we all have to be strong now, don’t we? I just hope Scott feels the same way. Of course, it’s hard to be strong when you’re all alone behind those barred walls.”

Most Disgusting Promotional Tactics of 2017

***MOST DISGUSTING PROMOTIONAL TACTICS OF 2017***

I said I was going to write one of these blog entries and by god I plan on delivering. It took a while, but the Wrestling Observer Newsletter awards are finally released to the public. Before I get to the part where I combine my love for pro-wrestling with my love for shocking the shit out of people, I must make a few observations. Firstly, poor Bray Wyatt. Poor, poor Bray Wyatt. Worst Gimmick, Worst Feud of the Year (vs. Randy Orton), and Worst Match of the Year (also vs. Randy Orton). And secondly, I can see the irony in a wrestling machine like Daniel Bryan winning an award for Best Non-Wrestler. Yes, he’s been retired since 2016, but still, that’s kind of ironic. Now that those tidbits are out of the way, it’s time for some shock and awe…and maybe just a modicum of writing advice. A modicum may be all that you need tonight. As usual with these yearly journal entries, I’m going to start with the winner of the actual award and work my way down the list. There we eleven candidates this year: one winner, nine runner-ups, and one honorable mention. Pick your jaw up off the floor!

***WINNER (OR LOSER, DEPENDING ON HOW YOU LOOK AT IT)***

LIST ITEM: WWE promoting Jimmy Snuka as a hero in death.

THOUGHTS: What can be said about Jimmy Snuka? He was a legend. He was a high flyer. He was a Hall of Famer. You know what else he was? A suspect in the manslaughter of his former girlfriend Nancy Argentino. Of course, he was never convicted of the crime because he was declared legally incompetent to stand trial. Uh-huh. Sure he was. And what does WWE do after Snuka dies of pancreatic cancer? They play a video package of him looking like a million bucks inside the ring. The audience booed the shit out of this display and rightfully so. Jimmy Snuka didn’t remember murdering his girlfriend…but Pepperidge Farm remembers!

***SECOND PLACE***

LIST ITEM: Jinder Mahal’s racist tirade against Shinsuke Nakamura.

THOUGHTS: If you’re living in the year 2017 or beyond, it’s probably not a good idea to compare a Japanese wrestler to Mr. Miyagi while doing fake karate moves in the ring. It’s also not a good idea to say the Japanese wrestler doesn’t “rook right”. And please, oh please, don’t say Mr. Nakamura looks like Pikachu having a seizure. Is it any wonder the audience chanted “That’s too far!” over and over again during these promos? Don’t we already get enough racism from our current president and the rise of the alt-right? Next thing you know, Jinder Mahal’s going to come out in a Pepe the Frog mask.

***THIRD PLACE***

LIST ITEM: WWE using the Ultimate Warrior’s legacy to promote Susan G. Komen’s breast cancer cause.

THOUGHTS: It’s bad enough The Ultimate Warrior was once known for telling an Arab college student to “Get a towel!” It’s bad enough he said, “Queering doesn’t make the world work!” It’s bad enough he said he was happy that wrestling manager Bobby Heenan had cancer. Now you’re going to take this social pariah and put his face on breast cancer awareness campaigns? That’s like putting a climate change denier in charge of the EPA or a dumb shit in charge of the Board of Education. Oh wait…

***FOURTH PLACE***

LIST ITEM: Pushing Jinder Mahal has WWE Champion in order to please the Indian market.

THOUGHTS: Poor Jinder can’t catch a break, can he? He’s already the recipient of Most Overrated Wrestler in 2017 and he’s second place for Most Disgusting Promotional Tactic. Now he gets fourth place on the list as well. Let’s be honest: he wasn’t a very good champion. His matches sucked, his character development was non-existent, his monologues were derailed by a blown-out voice, and the only way he could get legitimate heel heat was by being a racist asshole. Imagine if Family Guy pushed Herbert the Pervert as their top protagonist. Actually, they could very well do that one day. Bad example!

***FIFTH PLACE***

LIST ITEM: Rizin MMA booking Gabi Garcia in fights against older and smaller women.

THOUGHTS: I think we can all agree that super muscular women shouldn’t be beating up on grandmas. Unless you want your promoted character to be seen as a super villain, it’s probably not a good idea to book him or her this way. I once joked with my brother James and his friend Blake that The Simpsons would be disturbing if Homer choked other characters besides Bart, namely Maggie (a baby), Marge (his wife), Santa’s Little Helper (the dog), or Abe (his father). Well, do you see where I’m going with this?

***SIXTH PLACE***

LIST ITEM: Kevin Owens head-butting Vince McMahon.

THOUGHTS: I’m actually okay with this one since Kevin Owens is supposed to be a jerk-ass heel and this is how he earns the audience’s hatred. I know, I know, Vince is an old man and shouldn’t be taking stiff head butts, but it was his own idea, so if he’s okay with it, I’m okay with it.

***SEVENTH PLACE***

LIST ITEM: Sexy Star staying employed in wrestling even after intentionally breaking Rosemary’s arm.

THOUGHTS: The only way pro-wrestling works is if the contenders in the ring trust each other with their bodies. Yes, it’s supposed to look and feel as painful as possible, which is why it’s even more important to be careful in there. Well, Sexy Star wasn’t careful at all. In fact, she tore the shit out of Rosemary’s arm and blamed the victim for it. How nice. How fucking nice. There seems to be a lot of victim blaming these days, though for much worse crimes against humanity.

***EIGHTH PLACE***

LIST ITEM: WWE encouraging bullying in the workplace while simultaneously pushing an anti-bullying campaign.

THOUGHTS: I already did a journal entry last year about Mauro Ranallo and his struggles with being harassed by JBL. But yeah, this is a company-wide problem that affects everybody employed. In 2011, WWE actually won the Most Disgusting Promotional Tactic award for pulling this shit with overweight and Bell’s Palsy-suffering announcer Jim Ross. I thought Mauro’s dilemma would be the winner in this case as well.

***NINTH PLACE***

LIST ITEM: Conor McGregor’s racist comments against Floyd Mayweather, Jr.

THOUGHTS: Telling a black boxer to “dance, boy” and calling his family members “dancing monkeys”? Not cool. Not cool at all. It also doesn’t help that Conor once said that he’s “black from the waist down”. If Jinder Mahal can’t get away with pulling this shit against Shinsuke Nakamura, then Conor McGregor (regardless of his popularity) has to be held to the same standard. It did make for a lucrative feud between Conor and Floyd, but that’s beside the point.

***LAST PLACE***

LIST ITEM: Promotion of Antonio “Bigfoot” Silva vs. Rico Verhoeven.

THOUGHTS: If you thought booking Gabi Garcia against grandmas was cruel and unusual, get a load of this. Rico Verhoeven had earned his moniker of King of Kickboxing. He has a great record with wins over big names and has stayed fresh as a daisy in recent years. Bigfoot Silva? Not so much. He’s only won one match in the past few years and his many defeats were mostly by KO. And now Bigfoot wants to try his hand at kickboxing? It’s no surprise that he lost miserably against Rico, so all of this hype and promotion was for nothing. Oh well.

***HONORABLE MENTION***

LIST ITEM: Bayley: This Is Your Life.

THOUGHTS: It takes a special kind of dork-a-puss to screw up a lovable character this much. As a WWE wrestler who helped pioneer the Women’s Revolution with her wild popularity and strong work ethic, Bayley seemed to be headed for big things. And then…the creative writing team, in all of the infinite wisdom, broadcast a segment called Bayley: This Is Your Life, where her opponent for a pay-per-view, Alexa Bliss, painted her as having a helicopter father who was there during her first kiss and during kindergarten class. But don’t worry, because Bayley will soon get her revenge, right? Wrong! She looked like a clown in this feud and the fans booed the shit out of her for it. Poor girl. Poor, poor girl. She deserved so much better than this.

***CONCLUSION***

Boy, that was a fucking feel-good read, wasn’t it? You’re not shocked or depressed at all, are you? That reminds me, be sure to buy a copy of my book American Darkness on Amazon and other online retailers! Oh, that was ill-timed. Feel free to shiver if you’d like. Hehe! I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you next time!