Bill Sessions: a "Winner" Who Didn't Use Drugs, But Probably Other Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

 

I Want My Hobbies Back

VERSE 1

Laying in bed staring into outer space

No life in my eyes, ‘cause the life went to waste

Lips are too heavy to lift for a smile

Haven’t left the bed for a long-ass while

Arm is too weak to give the cat pettings

Only reason to get up is to avoid bedwetting

This would be a hell of a time for a hobby

But my brain is soup, primordial and sloppy

 

VERSE 2

Every song I listen to has an extra singer

One blasting the lyrics, one pointing the fingers

Call me every slur that’s ever been used

By every abuser who was once abused

Every story I write has an extra villain

That genocides my joy, laughs at the killing

Every videogame that I’ve tried to beat

Hit the Game Over screen looped on repeat

 

CHORUS

I want my hobbies back

I feel like I’m on crack

An LSD flashback

A poisoned bottle of Jack

I never touched the drugs

My brain don’t give a fuck

I’m high as hell anyway

Pretty much every day

 

VERSE 3

My dopamine supply is always running dry

Yet I couldn’t get a tear to drop from my eyes

Porn addiction is my only prescription

To medicate myself in this world called hell

Refraction periods are overrated

When a million orgasms leave you sedated

Couldn’t get real sex with my personality

It drained away with my social battery

 

CHORUS X2

I want my hobbies back

I feel like I’m on crack

An LSD flashback

A poisoned bottle of Jack

I never touched the drugs

My brain don’t give a fuck

I’m high as hell anyway

Pretty much every day

 

OUTRO

You couldn’t call it highway robbery

Too fucked up to drive, mental sodomy

All my potential stolen without a reason

Food for thought rotted before it was eaten

I was too threatening to the new world order

Because how dare my heart break for kids dead at the border?!

How dare my soul hurt for children raped by priests?!

How dare I ask for fairness and justice for the weak?!

Tuomas Holopainen from Nightwish

 

Limerence

“…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Romantic Dinner For One

I look around in this cruise ship restaurant
See things I can’t have, but desperately want
Missed opportunities gone with the wind
Sloth has always been my favorite sin

A newlywed couple celebrating their love
Wife dressed like an angel from the heavens above
Husband feeding her strawberries and cream
Won her over by treating her like a queen

A college graduate partying with his friends
Looking at life through a rainbow-colored lens
He’ll make money most will never ever see
More competitive fuel for his Face Book screen

A child dreaming big as she eats chicken nuggets
Untainted by reality, she appreciates and loves it
Drawing pictures of dinosaurs and dragons
I’m over here trying to fight off the maggots

A sportsball team celebrating their victory
Their names immortalized in gritty history
Eat like heavyweights, move like flyweights
Calories to burn from steaks and white cakes

A pale young man has just beaten his addiction
He could inspire others in a book of nonfiction
Was it heroin, beer, social media, or food?
I could use some ice cream to go with my mood

Whoever said the internet breeds bitter jealousy
Never had to dance to their own tragic melodies
In a room full of strangers who live like kings
Romantic dinner for one, the song that I sing

Don’t need sympathy, just some understanding
I reached for the stars, but had a crash landing
They say there’s no time limit for life to begin
I’m still waiting for the day I can finally win

Scotty's Got a Gun

VERSE 1
All the talent in the world couldn’t save his sorry ass
When his sanity and dreams shattered like church glass
Beautiful colors scattered across the wooden floor
Heart of gold tainted and rotten to its frozen core
All the needles and bottles couldn’t erase his pain
All the nights of incest drove him bat shit insane
Calling it love doesn’t change the simple fact
That Scotty’s revolver is about to click-clack

CHORUS
Scotty’s got a gun! X4

VERSE 2
There’re only two choices for the rapist in his bed
Shoot a bullet in her chest or a bullet in her head
Give her one last chance to confess her mortal sins
But she says a prayer like God will actually let her in

CHORUS
Scotty’s got a gun! X4

VERSE 3
No one ever believed a word of Scotty’s story
Except for the parts that were intentionally gory
Matricide is the buzzword that makes the paper
To give that bold headline some extra spicy flavor
A villain to a world that never gave a goddamn
If it didn’t happen young, it would’ve happened as a man
There’s no such thing as a happily ever after
When the whole universe needs some laughter

EXTENDED CHORUS
Scotty’s got one left in the chamber
Scotty’s got some residual anger
Scotty’s got some scorpion venom
Which one of you fuckers wants to go to heaven?!
Scotty’s got a gun! X4

California and Colorado

VERSE 1

You’ve got traces of blood in your alcohol stream

Your biggest heroin dose put you in a dark dream

All your trust fund money went up your nose

Sucking up the cocaine like a vacuum cleaner hose

Wake up the next morning not knowing where you are

Shake the cobwebs to find out you’re in a cop car

Solitary confinement or the general population

No chance of parole or a suspended probation

CHORUS

Going to California and Colorado?

Your pipe dreams are not what they seem

Flying to the moon and the red planet?

Controlled substances tell you what you believe

Going to Washington and Canada?

You tell the lies and trust those who deceive

How about Seaside and Long Beach?

Get your ass clean and get a permanent reprieve

VERSE 2

Whoever’s in your ear is the one you should fear

Whether it’s a cult master with no charismatic peers

A drunken fool who thinks his magic is cool

A babbling idiot with diseases on his tool

ABRIDGED CHORUS

Going to California and Colorado?

Your pipe dreams are not what they seem

Flying to the moon and the red planet?

Controlled substances tell you what you believe

BRIDGE

All your potential went up in a cloud of smoke

All your arguments come off as a big fucking joke

All your meaningless words come out as word salad

Your story’s ending was marked with a judge’s mallet

VERSE 3

Was it worth the thrills and the temporary chills?

Was it worth the stacks of debt collection bills?

Was it worth the pain you put your family through?

Don’t say for a minute that you never really knew!

CHORUS

Going to California and Colorado?

Your pipe dreams are not what they seem

Flying to the moon and the red planet?

Controlled substances tell you what you believe

Going to Washington and Canada?

You tell the lies and trust those who deceive

How about Seaside and Long Beach?

Get your ass clean and get a permanent reprieve

Alcohol of Fame

VERSE 1

How could you do this to yourself?

How could you endanger your health?

How could you put them through hell?

Is it too late to ask for fucking help?

CHORUS 1

Alcohol of fame

Your career’s going up in flames

Alcohol of fame

You’ve only got yourself to blame

VERSE 2

Snort a little cocaine, shoot some heroin

Chugging Oxycontin and good old Vicodin

Popping Viagra while committing mortal sins

The pressure brings you to your dirty shins

CHORUS 2

Alcohol of fame

Your excuses are so damn lame

Alcohol of fame

You make zombies look so tame

VERSE 3

Everything of yours is going down the tubes

You’re fucking yourself with bloody lube

You’re smashing up your own hotel room

Wake the fuck up or meet your own doom

CHORUS 3

Alcohol of fame

Your pathetic stories sound the same

Alcohol of fame

Watch it all go down the drain

Yeah!

Alcohol of fame

Psycho visions swirling in your brain

Alcohol of fame

Watch you dying in the coldest rain

FINAL VERSE

It’s never too late to turn back the clock

And drag your sorry ass back to the top

Admitting you’re wrong is the first step

Lying to yourself is the bridge to death

You can be clean and start over again

Or you can be the author of your life’s end

Make a decision, don’t think too hard

The road to recovery is no holds barred

Billy Rogue

I’ve been watching the wrestling tag team of The French Pirates in my head for quite sometime. It appears as if they’re living…two lives. One of the lives is Jonathan Thief. He broke away from the tag team and became a successful multi-time world champion and future Hall of Famer. He has a social security number (not really). He pays taxes (to his home country of France). He even takes out his landlady’s garbage.

The other life is Billy Rogue. He couldn’t find the same success his tag team partner did and fell into obscurity. He is also guilty of virtually every drug crime the US has a law for. One of these lives has a future. The other does not. Billy Rogue is the one who doesn’t have much of a future.

The French Pirates draw a lot of comparisons to the real life WWE tag team from the early 90’s, The Rockers. Jonathan Thief found the same amount of success Shawn Michaels did. Billy Rogue couldn’t, a la Marty Jennetty. Having said that, what do you give a man who has no future? A bottle of poison? A loaded gun? A grudge-match storyline against his old tag team partner? No, no, and yes.

But more importantly, you give Billy Rogue drugs. Lots and lots of drugs. You make him so depressed with his lack of success (that rhymes) his only option is to use every kind of illegal drug imaginable. Pot is becoming legal in a lot of states and it has no harmful side effects, so that doesn’t count. I’m talking about the hard stuff. The extreme stuff. The tubes of glue. The balloons of cocaine. The bigger balloons of heroin. And then wash it all down with a nice big bottle of vodka.

Sending Mr. Rogue to rehab would seem like the right way for a wrestling company to spend its money. If he followed the right steps, he could make a full recovery much like former WWE superstar Joey Mercury did and become an inspiration to those wanting to be sober. But how do you sell such a gigantic bill of goods to someone who still harbors jealousy toward his former tag team partner? If he gets sober, can he stay that way? Even if he does get sober, will he not find another destructive outlet for his raw feelings?

Let’s say it’s possible. Let’s say for the sake of argument Billy Rogue quits drugs and alcohol altogether and becomes a better person for it. His criminal record is spotless and he’s actually able to hold down a job. What kind of life is there for him on the other side of recovery? He didn’t have much of a life before he turned to drugs, what makes you think he’ll have one after? You think he’s going to be content with sitting in an office building or getting his computer science degree? Or maybe he can completely dork out and sell popcorn for the same wrestling promotion he was a part of.

This is a struggle that is all too familiar in drug fiction and nonfiction. It can be said about any kind of addiction, really. You don’t have to constantly shoot heroin in your arm in order to relate to addiction. There are porn addicts, adrenaline addicts, self-harm addicts, and then there’s that one addiction I personally can relate to: food addiction. Billy Rogue is to drugs what I am to food.

I’ve been addicted to food ever since going on my first round of schizophrenia medication. I used to be a skinny little twig in high school. In today’s world, my belly is large, my clothes barely fit, and my energy is gone. Food was the one thing I could turn to that gave me just a little bit of satisfaction in a world where mental illness kept me from having fun. One Reese’s Cup was more intense for me than any song written by Rammstein or Pink Floyd. Because I was so attracted to that constant high, my weight spiraled out of control and now I’m left with the daunting task of having to lose all the weight and keep it off permanently.

Addiction is the only thing Billy Rogue and I have in common. Though I live through my own characters, I don’t want to be the guy who lives through someone who openly admits to having no future. I refuse to accept dystopia. If I have a big belly and a weird appearance for the rest of my life, it wouldn’t matter to me as long as I still had a future worth working toward. That future starts with editing the crap out of Brawl Mart and sending it to a reputable publisher instead of doing the heavy lifting myself with Smash Words. I don’t know how far away that time in my life will be, but it is there. I will make my own dreams come true one way or another. I’m an adult. It’s my right to make my dreams come true.

　

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“I’m torn to pieces. I’m broken down. I still see your face when you’re not around. I sit here in misery wondering if I’ll ever be half the man you wanted me to be.”

-Pop Evil singing “Torn to Pieces”-

"A Million Little Pieces" by James Frey

If you were to take a good look at James Frey’s body, you’d assume that he exercises a lot. According to his loudest critics, the only exercises he does are stretching the truth and jumping to conclusions. Imagine that: a former drug addict exaggerates details of his memoir. Who would’ve thunk it? Truth is, I could care less if “A Million Little Pieces” is a true story or not, because it’s still a beautifully depressing book with a quick writing style.

If you really want to use the “fake” argument against me, then I’m going to tell you the same thing I tell people who say that professional wrestling is fake. I’m going to say, “Hey, Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings are fake and I don’t hear you bitching about them. I don’t hear you complaining about The Flintstones not being a documentary.”

Whether this particular book is fact or fiction is irrelevant, because if you enjoy reading heartbreaking memoirs that are also triumphant, you’ll love “A Million Little Pieces”. It doesn’t even read like a typical memoir with linear progression. It actually reads like a novel with a beginning, middle, and end. It also has likable and three-dimensional characters. The writing style is present tense and takes a lot of liberties with the exclusion of quotation marks and other forms of punctuation, but that’s what makes it an exciting read in the first place.

If I have to keep on driving home the point that this is a dark and depressing memoir, then consider this paragraph to be the final nail in that coffin. James Frey starts the story with him waking up on an airplane with a broken nose and missing teeth, both of which were aggravated from his lifelong addictions to alcohol and drugs. He’s being taken to a clinic in Minnesota to be treated for these addictions, because if he uses again, he will die, no ifs ands or buts.

Life in a drug rehab center isn’t a whole lot of fun in case you couldn’t tell. There are people in constant pain from detoxing, there are people vomiting, there are people acting hostile and crazy, none of these things unlike what James Frey used to be before the story’s end. How does one combat all of these things for six weeks and come out smelling like roses? Mr. Frey doesn’t want to do it through God or a higher power of any kind. If you want to see how he triumphs through all the darkness and depression, you’ll have to read this book.

If you’re still complaining about how James Frey is a “phony” and a “fraud”, then you just go ahead and do all the drugs you want until you become an addict. We’ll see if your story is any different from Mr. Frey’s.

　

***TELEVISION DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

DEEKS: Let’s go for a beer.

GRANGER: To drink or to post on Face Book?

-NCIS: Los Angeles-