Bob Barker (Rest in Peace) vs. Gale's Autism: Some Friendly Ribbing for My Niece Reina's Enbyfriend

 

Dacryphilia

CHORUS

You look cute when you’re crying

When you’re contemplating dying

When there’s no point in trying

When the world thinks you’re lying

Every plea for help sounds like sucking helium

In the pervert industry, it’s called dacryphilia

 

VERSE 1

The manliest men talking male suicides

Like they themselves got nothing dirty to hide

Vulnerability don’t jive well with the muscles

And the bushiest beards and the work culture hustle

Macho madness is the number one killer

Of lonely men who feel like background filler

All you have to do is reach out for help

Provided you have good insurance for health

 

CHORUS

You look cute when you’re crying

When you’re contemplating dying

When there’s no point in trying

When the world thinks you’re lying

Every plea for help sounds like sucking helium

In the pervert industry, it’s called dacryphilia

 

VERSE 2

The womanly women have permission to sob

Then get threatened and bullied by the right-wing mob

It was never about having a monopoly on tears

It was about who was better at weaponizing fears

Insecure men pull a gun or a knife

When the balance of power slides over to their wives

Or any woman with a little bit of independence

Male judges make sure the killer gets a light sentence

 

CHORUS

You look cute when you’re crying

When you’re contemplating dying

When there’s no point in trying

When the world thinks you’re lying

Every plea for help sounds like sucking helium

In the pervert industry, it’s called dacryphilia

 

VERSE 3

Do you envy the enby when they have the narrative?

Is it a blow to your ego? Are you a macho embarrassment?

Didn’t you learn in school that you had to share your toys?

Or did you dodge accountability like “boys will be boys”?

You throw all the punches and you call yourself the victim

When the ladies you decked have concussed double vision

When the other genders are too afraid to talk to the cops

Drag the world down so you can be the one on top

 

CHORUS

You look cute when you’re crying

When you’re contemplating dying

When there’s no point in trying

When the world thinks you’re lying

Every plea for help sounds like sucking helium

In the pervert industry, it’s called dacryphilia

Hughy Casey, Petty Argument Bystander from "Happy Fun Land"

 

Simone Biles: Gold Medal Magnet and Humble Pie Waitress

 

Why All the Cartoons?

Alright…I think I owe everyone here an explanation as to why there have been so many political cartoons uploaded to my blog all at once. No, I didn’t get hacked, they are my drawings and I stand by those messages. In fact, cartooning has been a hobby of mine whenever my schizophrenic brain was too tired and too burned out to write stories or write poems. I can draw a cartoon anytime I want, whereas I have to wait a million years, maybe longer, to have the energy for writing stories and poetry. So yeah, that’s why I have a bunch of cartoons in my blog now. There will be so many more to come since I’ve been doing it throughout most of 2025, but I figured you guys deserved an explanation. I’m pacing myself with the upload schedule because it’s fucking tedious and drains me of energy pretty quickly. Stay tuned!

Spit Out the Black Pill

“Woody! Unsweetened iced tea for Woody!” No response. “WOODY!”

Woody Silver snapped out of his gangsta rap induced trance long enough to pull his ear buds out and accept his drink. He did so with a nervous glance around the House of Roses and Chocolates (not a bad name for a coffee bar). He knew these people were gazing at him through figurative microscope lenses. If they adjusted the magnification, they could see his tiny ego shrivel up and die like a chopped off cock.

“What are you listening to?” asked the blond barista with the prettiest of grins.

“Uh…gangsta rap. You know, songs about shooting people in the face.”

The barista darted her eyes around as if she needed to know the nearest exit. “You like that kind of music?”

“Yeah. It’s good stuff. It’s not like I’m the one doing the shooting.”

“…Uh-huh…well, you go enjoy your violent music…Woody.”

This would have been a good time for Woody to put a sock in it and leave with at least a little bit of his shattered dignity intact. But he just HAD to make it worse and even more awkward than before. “Yeah, I get it. When someone commits murder, they blame rap music. When someone commits suicide, they blame heavy metal. Chris Benoit was probably a big fan of Rage Against the Machine.”

All eyes were on Woody now and they were large enough to crush his sense of self-worth ten times over. Whether it was the barista, the lesbian couple near the window, or the little girl and her mother not too far from him in line. After a while of allowing Woody’s anxiety to chill faster than his iced drink, the four-year-old princess said, “You fucked up.” Everyone gave a shocked laugh, though this was a pleasant kind of shock.

Woody didn’t find any of this pleasant. He robotically slumped to the nearest table with his drink, his iPhone, and his ear buds, hanging his head in shame. He wished he could be anywhere but that coffee bar. Even getting hit with a bolt of lightning and being sent to an early death seemed tamer than this incredibly public humiliation. Under his breath, he said, “If this ends up on You Tube, I’m going to be very upset…” Thankfully, nobody heard him and the target on his back didn’t grow a single centimeter.

But a metaphorical target he still had. His stomach turned and boiled and no amount of iced tea could calm his mild nausea. The whole world laughed at him and his defenses were gone. Then again, having shaggy blond hair and dirty clothing didn’t provide much in the way of defenses against scrutiny. But then he reached in his flannel jacket pocket and remembered he had a cure for all of this.

It was a small jar of black jelly beans he found on the internet. He couldn’t remember the name of the website or why these beans were advertised as medicinal. When desperation struck him like that much-wanted bolt of lightning, he didn’t ask a lot of questions. He unscrewed the lid and shoveled a handful of black jelly beans down his gullet, not even taking ample time to chew his food. Then again, choking wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened to him that day.

Instead, the rush of energy he got from this candy was the best thing. His hands stopped jittering. He could effortlessly pick up his sunken head. The cloudy weather outside gave way to sunshine through the windows. His iced tea tasted like magic in a cup. The women around him made his heart flutter in ways he hadn’t felt in a long time. Whatever he paid for these jelly beans was worth it. He could be broke tomorrow and die a happy man the next day, as evidenced by the blossoming smile on his face.

His newfound eye-brightening joy led him to believe he could conquer the day, one in which he previously had no schedule and no plan of any sort. He could finally talk to the barista and not be an awkward mess. He floated by the seat of his pants to the beautiful blond, who was now decked out in a light blue dress with flowers and jewels adorned everywhere. But before he could open his mouth and allow poetry to pour from his lips…

The barista twirled like a fairy princess and showed off the wedding ring on her white gloved hand. She sang in an angelic voice with the rhythm of a nee-ner-nee-ner tune, “I got married! And you can’t have me! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha, ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha, ha!” 

Woody turned towards the lesbian couple, who were now in matching dark green dresses with forest insignias printed everywhere. Their black gloved hands showed off wedding rings of their own, sparkling like incel tears. “We got married! And you can’t have us!” The same nee-ner-nee-ner tune, the same enchanting high-pitched voices.

And then the mother joined in on the fun with her purple dress, golden crown, and heavenly diamond on her finger. “I got married! And you can’t have me!”

Woody clutched his ears and tightly closed his eyes, running out of the coffee bar and leaving his drink behind. He remembered the iPhone and ear buds, though. The violent rapper’s voice was the only one he wanted to hear…until he had a female guest vocalist who jovially sang, “I got married! And you can’t have me!”

“Oh, come on!” Woody sped down the sidewalk without giving a single solitary fuck who he weirded-out along the way. He was already as small and repugnant as bacteria. He was already lower than the worms crawling beneath the park’s grassy turf. But no matter how far he ran or how many times he actually opened his eyes for a change…

“I got married! And you can’t have me!” sang a white dress-wearing vixen in the sweetest voice.

“I got married! And you can’t have me!” sang Wonder Woman in the comic book shop window.

“I got married! And you can’t have me!” sang a woman in jean shorts and flip-flops, also in the loveliest high-pitched voice.

“Stop it! I get your point! I get it, I get it, I get it! I’m weird! I’m stupid! Enough is enough!” shouted Woody, though his words only echoed in his head, never once giving the public a shot at hearing his opinion of their love. “Stop it!” His voice grew deeper and more demonic. “No more!” His voice had a hint of ogre-like growling. “STOP!” Except they wouldn’t stop. These impossibly beautiful women from all around closed in on him, reminding him over and over again that they were not prizes to be won by loser men like him.

“Pick up the brick!” shouted an evil bass voice from behind. The clouds grew dark once more, giving way not to a halo of sunshine, but to the brightness of hellfire. The once lovely women in their dresses turned into pitch-black monsters with razor-sharp claws and mocking goblin voices. Woody looked around to see where the original evil voice came from, but couldn’t find the source except in his own head, booming like movie theater speakers.

“The world never loved you anyways. Your parents think you’re a disgrace. Your friends think you’re dragon shit. Society wants to kill you. Pick up the brick and make them all go away. Murder every last one of those undeserving femoids. Pick up the brick, haul back, and let her ho.”

Woody’s anxious sweat quadrupled into a clay-like substance, like his skin was peeling off and revealing a more sinister side to a world that could already see his weaknesses. He gritted his teeth so hard that his gums bled black. He listened to the one voice who understood him beneath the lovey-dovey mockery. He had a mission. It was his job to smash the world into pieces with that one brick. He smiled like a villain, though his clay sweat masked most of those features.

He learned down and picked up the brick, which would ordinarily weigh him down, but was so natural in his hand, like it was a gift-wrapped present from the forces of evil. He wanted to use it. He wanted to make the world suffer the way he did. All those times he was laughed at for simply existing. All those times he was rejected for being just mildly annoying. All those punches he took in the name of creep control.

But then as Woody strode up to his would-be victims, he passed his reflection in the comic book shop window. He saw what he looked like for the first time since this transformation…and empathized with those calling him a freak. His face was melting and folding over. His eyes were coal black. His nose was dripping like chocolate off his face. His body was bloated with monstrous red goo. His dirty blond hair resembled a den of snakes rather than a simple unkempt appearance.

“What are you waiting for?! Use the brick and end the world! KILL THEM ALL!”

But no matter how the voice vibrated in his brain, no matter how hard it made his nerves convulse, he couldn’t do it. He slowly put the brick down…because he hated what he had become. All this hatred turned him into something ugly and unrecognizable. Finally, society had a reason to hate him and his own self-hatred wasn’t manufactured either. His stomach burst and boiled. It exploded with bile and death sauce. Acid in his throat accumulated like the clay sweat. And then, he let go of his anger and all of his fabricated grudges…in the form of black throw-up on the sidewalk.

In one vomit spell, he cleansed his disgust for himself. Every horrible feeling within him stretched his insides out as the black goop flooded the concrete. And then…emptiness was all that remained. An empty stomach. An empty soul. But best of all, an empty mind free from the judgment of a booming voice and lighthearted fairy laughter. He sat on a part of the sidewalk that wasn’t drenched in puke and breathed in and out, as if the cool morning air soothed his throat.

Speaking of throats, a familiar voice cleared hers. Woody opened his dewy, red, puffy eyes to see that the barista was there holding the drink he left behind. No royal dresses. No punch-down comedy. No scorn. Just concern. “Forget something?” she asked. When Woody reached his hand up to grab his drink, she pulled away. “Give me those jelly beans.”

“The…the jelly beans? These ones?”

The barista nodded and Woody Silver did as he was told. She read the label and analytically curled her lips downward. “Black pills. Of course. Medicine for the involuntary celibate.”

“Those were black pills?!”

She nodded again before throwing the jar in a nearby rubbish bin like she was shooting a basketball. “Two points. I used to play basketball in high school. You could have figured that out if you hadn’t gone on about your…murder music, and let me talk for a change.” Woody hung his head in shame once again. “You just need practice, that’s all. Not with me, of course. I’m married.”

“That’s nice. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. No backlash? No insults? Nothing?”

“Nope.”

“Good. Those black pills are out of your system. Here. Drink this instead. I’ll help your stomach.”

“Thanks.” He grabbed the drink and had a few swallows. The coolness was so gentle on his throat that he wasn’t in a hurry to chug it all. He wanted the easiness to last as long as he could draw it out.

“Guess I’ll see you next time you come in. Word of advice, though: I’d retire that Chris Benoit joke if I were you. Send it to the old folks home in Florida.”

“Good idea.”

“Very good. I’m Elizabeth, by the way. But you can call me Liz.”

“Woody. Woody Silver. You already knew that, though. Nice to meet you.”

“Same. Enjoy your tea!” Liz waved goodbye and strolled away.

When she walked out of sight, Woody said under his breath, “Nice to meet you indeed…” He sipped his tea and relaxed against the wall, not caring what the world thought of his vulnerable state. In fact, they didn’t seem to have much of an opinion at all given how the pedestrians mostly ignored him.

Pointless Thoughts

Stuck in the mud with these pointless thoughts

Dreaming about murder and never getting caught

Descending into madness with every bully’s word

Every kiss begins with K, how fucking absurd

Rumination is the word of this never-ending day

Getting revenge on the voices, but it’s me who pays

I could argue until my jaw is clamped down tight

Sore facial muscles with every phantom bite

A headache that won’t go away with some Advil

A demonic revelation even after I take sad pills

Kiss the girls and only make yourself cry

Take the punches and make some wishes to die

Take the insults without asking reasons why

Take the abuse until your insides are fried

Pointless thoughts, what the fuck are you doing?

Eating me alive, what the fuck are you chewing?

One mind against a meat suit full of organs

Betrayal from within, should I drink some Captain Morgan?

Is a bottle full of poison the answer to it all?

The answer is never, so I continue to brawl

If it takes forever to keep my brain in line

Then I’m putting on the gloves, your ass is mine!

Twelve Days

VERSE 1

I could’ve been a rock star who sold out arenas

I could’ve been a bigger wrestler than Rock and John Cena

I could’ve been the president of the United States

I could’ve been the one to erase all the hate

Betrayal from within kept me from reaching those heights

Too many wars with my mind, lost those fights

Too many times where anxiety took over

Now this journey seems to go nowhere

CHORUS

One day of victory and twelve days of rest

But everyone keeps telling me it’s all for the best

Everyday I rot away

Dystopia is here to stay

VERSE 2

Paper lanterns with the dimmest lights of them all

Guide my way down the never-ending hall

Forgive me if I seem to stumble and fall

Or bang my fucked up head against the wall

If this trajectory sounds way too familiar

It’s because being directionless is such a killer

So many dreams of my peers are snuffed out

Now I’m the latest whose future is in doubt

CHORUS

One day of victory and twelve days of rest

But everyone keeps telling me it’s all for the best

Everyday I rot away

Dystopia is here to stay

BRIDGE

I could’ve been the hero of everyone’s story

I could’ve spread my wings, could’ve been soaring

I could’ve been the next god the world needed

But none of it’s possible when I feel defeated

CHORUS X2

One day of victory and twelve days of rest

But everyone keeps telling me it’s all for the best

Everyday I rot away

Dystopia is here to stay

Fun Guy

VERSE 1

I dance like I’m in a pool that someone dropped a toaster in

I can’t do keg stands or I’ll throw up in the garbage bin

I can’t do the things that will make you confess your sins

To the preacher man when your Sunday morning begins

I haven’t smiled a day since the Reagan administration

I haven’t made love since computer masturbation

The only songs that play for me would bring tears to others’ eyes

And wouldn’t you know it, it’s been so long since I’ve cried

CHORUS 1

I can’t be a fun guy

When serotonin runs dry

Can’t be a party animal

When I sink like a cannonball

Can’t be a fun guy

Can’t be a fun guy

Fun guy, fun guy

Fun guy, fun guy

VERSE 2

You say you’re leaving my side because I bring you down so much

You say I’m on the edge of giving myself the finishing touch

You say you need a guy who has a million in change and isn’t so strange

You say you need a guy who doesn’t come off as sad and deranged

I say don’t let the door hit you on the ass when you leave

A half-hour friendship was a lifetime filled with being deceived

I wish you well and let me tell you one thing right before you go

My depression and rejection are less than one percent of what you know

CHORUS 1

I can’t be a fun guy

When serotonin runs dry

Can’t be a party animal

When I sink like a cannonball

Can’t be a fun guy

Can’t be a fun guy

Fun guy, fun guy

Fun guy, fun guy

BRIDGE X2

I didn’t choose the darkness

The darkness chose me

I could have been a fun guy

If not for fucked up brain chemistry

CHORUS 2

I can’t be a fun guy

When serotonin runs dry

Can’t be a party animal

When I sink like a cannonball

It ain’t fun for me either

When someone else is the leader

Grabbing me by the throat

Use my blood to write a special note

Can’t be a fun guy

Can’t be a fun guy

Fun guy, fun guy

Fun guy! Fun guy!

IDK

We’re not damsels in distress. We’re not Mary-Sues and Gary-Stus. We’re not femme fatales. Whether we see each other this way or not, everybody in this lifetime is a three-dimensional character. One of the many things that make a character three-dimensional is a goal or an ambition, more than one, in fact. Why do you think we’re so prepared at job interviews whenever the boss man asks us where we see ourselves in ten years? It should be a piece of cake for me to know where I want to go with my writing career. I’m living in this body, so I know where all the brain neurons lead to. Therefore…my ultimate goal for my writing career is…uh…actually, it’s…(sigh)…

IDK, which either means I Don’t Know or I Decay, depending on how often you listen to Gemini Syndrome. As a burned out, low-energy sad sap, IDK is something I say quite often when confronted with questions ranging from the most difficult to bare-bones simplicity. “What are your plans for the day?” IDK. “Where’s your brother?” IDK. “How come you don’t know?” IDK. “What do you want to do with your writing career?” IDK. That last one is how we got to this essay. There are many reasons for wanting a writing career and all of them are valid. But the trick is finding which one suits you the best. I used to think I had a grip on it all, but then expectations vs. reality gave me the world’s hardest kick in the nuts. What once were good reasons for me don’t seem logical in today’s life, especially when factoring in mental health and financial resources.

So…what’s one common reason why people start a writing career? Fortune and fame? Sure, why not. If Stephen King can build an empire of cash, surely I could too. If JK Rowling can build a throne of bones that came from transgender people…wait a minute, bad example, never mind. Surely my skills could skyrocket me into the stratosphere and have me floating in space like Major Tom from a David Bowie song. Right? Well, I hate to burst your space man bubble helmet, but the authors who do go on to become legends are in a tiny minority. Everybody’s heard of Stephen King, but hardly anybody I talk to has heard of Brett Battles, a thriller author whose work inspired me to become a born-again bookworm. Brett Battles can crank out bangers, so why isn’t he Scrooge McDucking a pool of gold coins? Because meritocracy is a myth, that’s why.

But even if I could achieve worldwide fame where everybody knows my name like a Cheers character, not all of those people are going to love me or what I do. In fact, there are going to be a lot of trolls lurking in the shadows waiting to plant suicidal seeds in my head which eventually sprout into full-on schizophrenic hallucinations. There could be thousands of five-star reviews for one of my books, but if one hideous creep tells me I should get sodomized in prison, then my brain will self-destruct and spiral into ashes. Take that one bastard’s words and multiply them across billions of people. My head could explode just from the stress alone and so could my heart. Sensory overload isn’t good for an autistic brain with multiple mental illnesses. They call it meat with electricity inside for a reason, though it’s closer to soggy bacon or tapioca pudding.

And of course, that much fame surely has to come with billions of dollars, right? I should be able to buy Twitter with that much money and tell Elon Musk to eat a dick that looks like a space rocket. But when I think about it, do I really need that much money? Is it not enough just for me to live comfortably and occasionally travel so that I can see my online friends up close and in person? Do I really need five thousand yachts and eight hundred rocket ships that look like dildos? Do I really need a limousine when a normal car driven by one of my family members would do just fine? Do I really need to attend parties full of hookers and blow, double entendre definitely intended? What about the homeless population who are struggling to stay alive? Shouldn’t they be getting low-cost housing? Shouldn’t people in general eat three meals a day and not have to worry about whether they’ll be there or not? I don’t need to be a billionaire. Nobody does. I need for the world to be happy and healthy. I need for children to have their needs met without worrying about dying. Not really a controversial stance, is it?

Okay, so fame and fortune aren’t realistic expectations for me as an author. Maybe I should focus on the love of the craft or having a positive influence on my audience. But in order for those things to happen, I have to have a bigger audience than I do now, which means opening myself up to swarms of trolls who overrun me like little zerglings from Starcraft. But if I stay in the shadows, then my work will reach nobody at all and I’ll never know if I’m having a positive influence on my audience. Yes, I could create my art and not share it at all. I could do it all just for me. But what’s the point? What kind of permanence will it have if nobody knows about it but me? Where’s my digital footprint? Where’s my immortality? I don’t want to take my writing to the grave with me, because I don’t see the point in writing it in the first place if it doesn’t immortalize me in some way. I want it to be for something. I want to make a difference in this world. Otherwise, why am I here in the first place? No, zerglings, this isn’t an invite for you to swarm me with death threats and pictures of my house.

Are there any reasons left? Did I cover them all? There could be more, but I don’t have access to them right now. I could take a quick trip to Google and find more, but we’d be here forever and a day and I don’t have that much time in my schedule. But even if the answers were readily available to me, I’d still give my typical IDK answer, which either means I Don’t Know or I Decay, depending on how badly my mind is rotting on any given day. I don’t know what I want to do with my writing career. There are pros and cons to every available reason. There is no one size fits all plan for me. But does this mean I want to give up and do something else for the rest of my life? Hell no. I want to continue. I want to keep shouting into the void with my literary skills. Even if the entire internet hates my guts because of a cave painting I created in 7 Million BC, fuck it, I’ll continue my career anyways.

But is it okay for me to have an aimless direction? Is it okay for me to be completely rudderless and constantly in zombie mode looking for the next brain to munch on? Is it okay to prioritize my mental health over fame and fortune? Is it okay to ignore the marketing part of my job knowing that the abyss will never respond to me in a meaningful way? Where do I go from here? I could just finish writing my current novel, but even once it’s over, then what? Do I write another hoping that one will rejuvenate my career? Do I write another poetry collection? Another short story collection? Do I just keep writing and writing in hopes that something will change? Do I even want things to change? Will I be happier when things change or will I stagnate some more? Say it with me now: IDK. Does it mean I Don’t Know or I Decay? Yes. Abso-fucking-lutely yes.

The Whole World Is Watching

The whole world is watching whenever you’re botching

A million TV’s tune in

Whenever you shower, their dicks become towers

Tissues flushed into the sewage

Whenever you slide and you land on your hide

They laugh just like a demon

Whenever you stutter and melt into butter

The power dynamic is uneven

When you ask her out and you’re crippled by doubt

The comedy starts to punch down

When your ass gets fired for being too tired

You become their favorite punk clown

When you leave the bar and then you crash your car

The comedy turns into tragedy

When you rot in jail from your epic fail

It’s time to end the pageantry

When you take your last breath and teeter on death

The shock pads wake you up

When they set you free for the world to see

They grab their popcorn and soda cup

When you leave them hanging, their big heads are banging

Against a fucking brick wall

When you’re born for laughs and government graphs

You don’t have permission to bawl

When you’re born this way, at the end of the day

It was God who made the mistake

When death’s a solution in this institution

It’s your only shot at a coffee break

The whole world is watching whenever you’re dodging

The spotlight in the sky

The whole world hates you, they always debate you

Brain tells you to say goodbye

I Hate My Brain

CHORUS 1

I hate my brain, I hate my soul

I gave the ghosts too much control

I hate my heart, I hate my mind

Yet I carry on like everything’s fine

VERSE 1

The skies were blue, now they’re vomit green

The oceans were cool, now they’re boiling me

My pixies and gnomes turned to demon spiders

My love goddess has Bundy’s babe inside her

PRE-CHORUS 1

What happened to me?

Death pornography

Oh no!

The only cinema that I see

CHORUS 2

I hate my soul, I hate my brain

I fall asleep just to numb the pain

I hate my mind, I hate my heart

Too many beats will blow it apart

VERSE 2

My cats were soft, now their fur is barbed wire

My dogs loved life, now they’re graveyard tired

All of my favorite songs sound about the same

All of my heroes wallow in sewage and shame

PRE-CHORUS 2

What happened to me?

Warped psychology

Oh no!

Mourning loss of creativity

CHORUS 3

I hate my shell of my former self

All I love burns in schizophrenic hell

I hate the future, I hate the now

I broke my promise not to bow

BRIDGE

Don’t keep stringing me along

Don’t say nothing’s ever wrong

Don’t keep giving me false hope

Don’t make this torture slow

CHORUS 4

I hate my demons, the shit they say

Telling me to die and just fade away

I hate my monsters, they’re beautiful

Stockholm kisses and fucks are suitable

FINAL LINE

Don’t keep stringing me along

Intimate Psychotherapy

***INTIMATE PSYCHOTHERAPY***

I’d like to be able to stand on a mountaintop with my electrified staff raised high and yell, “I AM HOPE!” to all of my dearly beloveds. But in order for that to be taken seriously, I’d have to have some kind of god complex. Because I’m a writer who makes mistakes often and isn’t afraid to talk about them, I can’t afford to have a god complex. Part of the reason why I continue to fuck up from time to time (aside from being human) is because all of the romantic tropes from my favorite movies, books, and TV shows don’t work to my advantage the way that I thought they would. Manic Pixie Dream Girls? Gone. Changing other people through romance? Out. Damsels in Distress? Only if the trope is subverted somehow, which I guess could be said for any tired old trope.

But we’re not talking about those today, no, no, no, no. Today we’re talking about something even more controversial: Intimate Psychotherapy. You might know this better as the “sex cures everything” trope. Are you feeling depressed? Have some sex. Are you feeling anxious? Conquer your shyness and then have some great sex. Victim of sexual assault? Never fear, because the good sex will make you forget you’ve ever had bad sex. Well…to quote Theory of a Deadman, “All those flavors of the rainbow, too bad that shit don’t work, though.” I can’t confirm this due to my own virginity, but great sex releases an assload of endorphins in your brain. Masturbation does that too, something I have a little more direct experience with. But does this rush of endorphins cure everything? Hell no, not even a little bit. If you’re a victim of sexual assault, the “great” sex won’t erase your shitty experience. It’ll trigger you to where you can’t function anymore.

So where did I first hear about Intimate Psychotherapy? I do have a clear answer, but I don’t want anybody to misinterpret it as the sole reason why. Keep in mind that I don’t know the meaning of the term moderation. Every piece of creative fuel I absorb, I take to the extreme without questioning it. Not questioning creative fuel was my first mistake, especially since that fuel came from a movie called The Sessions. In this movie, a sex surrogate played by Helen Hunt is hired by a physically disabled poet to help build his romantic confidence via sex. Sex surrogacy is a legitimate practice, but when interpreting it as creative fuel, it shouldn’t be blown out of proportion. Yes, exposure therapy has benefits. Yes, being exposed to great sex can help awkward people overcome their fears. But is it a one-size-fits-all solution to everything? No!

If I, a socially-awkward schizophrenic, flew out to Reno, Nevada tomorrow morning (Corona Virus be damned) and visited a legal brothel to lose my virginity, I wouldn’t also lose my mental illness. It’s not like I could bust a nut and then suddenly flush my meds down the toilet. Remember, masturbation has the same benefits as far as endorphins go. If masturbation doesn’t cure mental illnesses, great sex won’t either. I’m sure there are prostitutes out there who have crippling depression. I’m sure there are strippers who have severe PTSD. I’m not saying every sex worker hates their own job, but what about the ones that do? You think they’re finding healing in what they do? What about victims of child trafficking? Now, we’ve gone too far down the rabbit hole, but hopefully everything is clear to you by now.

The Intimate Psychotherapy trope in its most extreme forms could be disproved over and over again and there would still be instances of books and movies carrying on the misinformation. I will admit that it makes for a tempting story, albeit a misleading one. Sex can be enjoyable. Masturbation can also be enjoyable. The prospect of sex on its own can be very alluring to any consumer of media. Yes, I know Intimate Psychotherapy doesn’t work in the real world. Yes, I know how offensive it comes across in fiction. But what if there was a way we could subvert a trope or otherwise make it fresh? Don’t say, “This doesn’t work.” Ask, “How can we fix this?”

What if you’re writing a fantasy story and the white mage of the party a.k.a. the healer used sex as part of the magic? What if there’s an alien race in a sci-fi story that has medicinal properties in their semen? What if prostitution was seen as a vital part of the healthcare industry and the prices of which were jacked up to phenomenal proportions? You know, just like in the healthcare system we have today? What if sex was used as a truth serum? What if condoms were laced with healing salve? The possibilities are as endless as your imagination. The trope can work as long as you don’t blow it out of proportion and as long as you put your own spin on it. By itself, it’s offensive as hell. But under the watch of a truly creative soul? Wow…

Isn’t that how we should be looking at old tropes to begin with? Don’t get rid of them altogether, just put your unique touch on them. Manic Pixie Dream Girls could be femme fatales in a heartbeat. Or there could be an opposite of a femme fatale, where the seducer brings the mark to greatness and healing instead of danger and death. What about Damsels in Distress? We’ve seen that trope hundreds of times, but what if the kidnapper was a female and the victim was a male? Or what if the damsel was a dead body with a restless soul? The key word in creative writing is creative. If you recycle the same shit over and over again, your audience is going to notice. But if you freshen things up with that old creative fuel, they’ll notice it even more and might even love you for it. If they love you enough, they can cure your Impostor Syndrome with Intimate Psychotherapy! Just kidding! Or am I? Hmm…

I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

Prior to writing this blog entry, I wrote chapter ten of Beautiful Monster and I didn’t have nearly as many problems doing so as I did chapter nine. The writing process went fairly smoothly. Maybe not so much in the beginning, but it didn’t take long at all to find my grove again. And by the end of the chapter, a slave-trader’s head was blown to bits and her brains were scattered all over a wooden stage. This message was brought to you by the Smoke Wagon XT, the same gun that was used to murder the slave-trader. Why does it have an XT at the end? Who knows? Who cares? Orphaned acronyms are a thing. But where does that leave chapter eleven? Well, after all the hoo-ha in Devon Bay dies down, Windham and Tarja finally get a room together. Shut up, that doesn’t mean what you think it means. Although sex is indeed a theme in this chapter, there’s nothing romantic or hot about it. It’s disturbing as fuck. It’s the reason why the story is called Beautiful Monster. Ugh…

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Sometimes I feel I’ve got to run away. I’ve got to get away from the pain that you drive into the heart of me. The love we share seems to go nowhere. And I’ve lost my light, for I toss and turn, I can’t sleep at night. Now I know I’ve got to run away. I’ve got to get away. You don’t really want anymore from me. To make things right, you need someone to hold you tight. And you think love is to pray. Well, I’m sorry, I don’t pray that way. Once I ran to you. Now I’ll run from you. This tainted love you’ve given. I give you all a boy could give you. Take my tears and that’s not nearly all. Tainted love. Oh, tainted love. Don’t touch me, please. I cannot stand the way you tease. I love you, though you hurt me so. Now I’m going to pack my things and go. Tainted love. Touch me, baby, tainted love.”

-Soft Cell singing “Tainted Love”-

"So Much I Want to Tell You" by Anna Akana

BOOK TITLE: So Much I Want to Tell You: Letters to My Little Sister

AUTHOR: Anna Akana

YEAR: 2017

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Memoir and Advice

GRADE: Pass

Whenever a You Tuber releases a book, they can’t seem to shake off the stigma that it’ll automatically be met with low expectations. Sometimes that paranoia is justified as we’ve seen with Gabbie Hanna’s poetry book and Lilly Singh’s autobiography. Anna Akana, on the other hand, has shattered that stigma with this piece of nonfiction. Yeah, there are times in this book where I wish she was more descriptive. Sometimes I wish this read like a professional novel and not like an outright telling. But you know what? If the content is good enough, mediocre writing styles don’t always matter. Anna Akana is wise beyond her years when it comes to giving advice based on her life experiences. Whether the topic is racism, sexism, bad relationships, mental illnesses, or whatever, she always delivers in a way that’s relatable and easy to digest. She doesn’t come off as condescending, but rather as an equal to the reader, which is part of what makes the advice relatable. You will feel like you’ve gained a lot from reading this short, but sweet memoir.

Out of all of the stories Anna tells in this book, the ones that hit me the hardest were her experiences with romances gone horribly awry. Like her, I too once believed in the idea of a fairytale relationship with fireworks and beauty all throughout, not an imperfection in sight. Real relationships are built on the idea of accepting flaws and being good for each other in spite of them. Some of Anna’s past relationships didn’t meet these criteria. One of her romances was with a serial cheater whom she thought she could “heal” because of his past traumas. He had a brother who committed suicide, she had a sister who committed suicide (the basis of her book), so why not bond over that? Turns out he was a toxic person anyways and had to be dumped. You know who else was toxic? An emotionally abusive screamer named Cameron. He yelled for no reason, cut her off from her friends and family, criticized her, and played the victim whenever he was called out for his ill behavior. Anna actually had to be told this was emotional abuse before she made the hard decision to dump Cameron. Reading these portions of the book tore at my heartstrings. Nobody wants to see Anna get hurt. Nobody wants her to feel unhappy because of someone she trusted. When she cries, you’ll probably cry as well. When she rises above the abuse and toxicity, you’ll feel inspired to do the same.

Even though the toxic romances hit me the hardest, I didn’t relate to them nearly as much as I did her experiences with mental illness. I’m autistic and schizophrenic, so the passages about easy burnout are all too familiar to me. I take medication for my problems and Anna did too even though she had to be thoroughly convinced to do so. She knows about the stigma of taking medication. She’s heard the comments about mental illness being “fake” and medication being for “weak-minded” people. But once she started taking her pills, she could manage her life efficiently and with a clear head. Granted, her medication didn’t completely solve her depressive and anxious problems; the pills just made those illnesses more manageable. She knows there’s no cure for such ongoing issues. But if life could just be a little easier, it could go a long way in getting things done and being an all around healthy person. Anna is a perfect spokeswoman for breaking the stigma of mental illnesses and I’m glad to have her as an ally. We don’t know each other on a personal level, but I already feel a connection because of the vulnerability she’s shown in this book and in her You Tube videos.

Anna Akana rises above her racist gatekeepers. She tackles her creative projects with a combination of passion and efficiency. She takes pride in her wealth of experiences and openly shares them with her loyal audience. She does all of this with warmth and humor, not arrogance and coldness. Is it any wonder why she has so many subscribers on You Tube? People want to gravitate towards her. They want to be sympathetic and empathetic to her life struggles. They want to be around her every chance they get and tell her how much her advice as changed their lives. Whoever scoffs at the idea of You Tubers putting out good books needs to have their eyes dragged across these pages until they learn something valuable. This book certainly has a lot to offer in that department and it’s why she gets a passing grade from me. If Anna’s suicidal sister were alive today, she’d be proud to have such a beautiful piece of writing dedicated to her. Rest in peace, Kristina Akana. We love you.

We Need to Talk

Sorry to bother you, but we need to talk

Grab your coat and let’s go for a walk

You’re not in trouble, of that I’m sure

I swear my intentions are good and pure

But something you did upset me so

It’ll be a while before you finally know

Let the quiet tension build within you

Run the gamut of drama old and new

Anxiety weighs heavily on your soul

Head is swimming, blood runs cold

You already forgot you’re not in trouble

Let your stomach acids boil and bubble

Remember that thing you did days ago?

Remember what you said with angry flow?

It hurts when you do that, don’t do it again

I actually reconsidered us being best friends

I’ll put it behind me, no question about it

But even you are beginning to doubt it

You’re red in the face, damp in the eyes

The next word from your mouth is a cry

You hold it in, let your eyeballs ache

Let your mind circle, your heart break

We had a good talk, though you never spoke

You desperately wanted this to be a joke

You won’t accept a hug from my arms

You won’t accept my sweetest charms

When we get back home, you stew alone

Glued to your computer or smart phone

Anything to get away from the awkwardness

And the guilt and shame on top of this

Until next time when you do it again

Solitude and blankets, your only friends

Make no mistake, we needed this talk

But when I’m gone, you’ll change the lock

I Don't Need an Out

***I DON’T NEED AN OUT***

While it is true that there’s no age limit for success in the world of writing, some days it can feel like you’re running out of time. Maybe it’s been a while since your last session. Maybe real life got in the way of what you love the most. Maybe the burnout bug bit you a little too hard on the ass. Whatever the case may be, the longer you delay your project, the more pressure you feel to get it done. You don’t necessarily want an out. You’re trying desperately to find an in. And yet, procrastination takes over anyways. You’ve been locked out of heaven and you’re desperately banging on the gates to get back in. I’ve been there. You’ve been there. Anybody who’s ever picked up a pen or pounded on a keyboard has been there.

It wasn’t always this way, but I’m definitely a procrastinator whether I want to admit it or not. From third grade all the way to eighth, it used to be that I’d do my homework right when I got home from school and not a moment later. I turned in my assignments on time and got the good grades I wanted (mostly). And then starting in my freshman year of high school when the bullying was at its worst, I waited until nightfall to start my homework assignments. I purposefully delayed my work because I was afraid the PTSD would interrupt me and cause me to fuck up. While I eventually overcame the bullying and mental trauma, the habit of delaying my schoolwork stayed with me until I graduated from college in 2009. It could have been the onset of schizophrenia that kept the habit alive, but it follows me well into the prime of my writing career.

Whether I consciously or subconsciously do it, I keep looking for an out from my creative duties. I don’t want to look for an out. I don’t need to. I’d love to storm the gates of heaven and climb over the top. But some days, I can’t tell if I’m legitimately too exhausted to work or if I’m looking for an out. Maybe the reason I keep looking for an out is because I’m afraid of being interrupted by what the fuck goes on inside my head. While it’s a terrible idea to write while mentally slogged, I agree, it has gotten in the way of progress and as a result I feel awful about doing nothing for the rest of the day. Yes, lots of good writers procrastinate and proudly so, but this is a habit I don’t want. I’d love to quell my anxieties before knowing for sure if I’m tired, but it hasn’t happened yet and here we are.

When I get right down to it, there’s really nothing to be afraid of other than being afraid of shit. When I edit a long-term project, there’s nothing to fear because my beta readers and editors are friendly people who give wise critiques. When I write a short story or novel chapter, there’s nothing to fear because I’m getting in my practice and keeping my skills sharp, first draft or not. When I’m writing a review, again, not much to be afraid of because I’ve already rehearsed all of my talking points in my head and I’m ready to go well in advance. I don’t want to use the tired old phrase “it’s all in my head”, but there really is no reason for all of this fear. If I fuck up badly, so what? That’s the beauty of writing: you don’t have to get it right the first time, unlike a brain surgeon or a police officer.

Back in 2017, Texas rock band Nothing More released an album called “The Stories We Tell Ourselves” and it has many dialogue tracks in between their original songs. One of those dialogue tracks is from philosopher Alan Watts and he describes how the only way to master fear is to allow yourself to be afraid. When you’re constantly fighting fear, you’re only setting up a vicious cycle of being afraid of fear and being afraid of being afraid of fear. When you relax your defenses, you realize you’ve got nothing to defend and there’s no reason to fight in the first place.

I practiced Alan Watts’s mantra many times on the nights before I attended a rock concert. There was always the lingering fear of something bad happening at the show or transportation to and from the show being stressful as hell. I allowed myself to be afraid. I let the anxiety wash over me and it worked. I mastered my own fear. Can this method be applied to my writing? If I try hard enough, I suppose. The next time I feel anxious about being critiqued or whatnot, I’m just going to let it happen. Let the fear do its thing and then sort out the logic later. Will I stop procrastinating? Maybe not, but at least acknowledging my own fear will feel better for me in the long run than undeserved guilt.

I’m not saying that Alan Watts’s mantra or my own life experiences will work for everybody else. There is no one-size-fits-all solution when it comes to psychology because everybody is different and everybody has their own set of obstacles. My obstacles are schizophrenia, burnout, and the anxiety that comes with both of those things. Being aware of your own mind and your own circumstances will come a long way, though. Once you know what the problem is, you can relax long enough to find a solution that works for you and you alone.

Try it. If it doesn’t work, try something else. Stay curious and keep looking for answers. Don’t look so hard for answers that you add to your anxieties. We can do this. We can overcome procrastination together. Or if procrastination is what you naturally do and it doesn’t interrupt your work schedule, it may not be a problem to begin with. Like I said, no one-size-fits-all solution. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

After twenty days of wrestling with procrastination and self-doubt, chapters seven and eight have been revised. Chapter nine will have to be rewritten entirely to accommodate for Tarja Rikkinen’s suggested character changes. Instead of being a Mary-Sue who talks like a therapist and fights like a goddess, she’ll crack jokes at inappropriate times as a way to mask her own trauma and then feel internally guilty afterwards. Also, there’s got to be some reason why Shelly Atwood’s voice keeps appearing in her mind, right? After all, those two characters look similar to each other. Hmm….

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

As much as I love Final Fantasy VII, they fucked up badly when they named one of Cloud Strife’s swords the Hard Edge. It’s a weapon that can be stolen from one of Shinra’s soldiers. But instead of saying that, my brother’s girlfriend at the time named Angela told me to, “Make them give you a Hard Edge”. I was only fifteen years old at the time, but I laughed like someone a fraction of my age when she said that. Those jokes just write themselves.

"Cry Standing Up" by Valarie Savage Kinney

BOOK TITLE: Cry Standing Up

AUTHOR: Valarie Savage Kinney

YEAR: 2019

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Grief Memoir

GRADE: Extra Credit

Losing family members so soon is never easy to deal with, whether it’s the actual deaths or the anxiety and depression that come with it. In this grief memoir, you will feel every emotion Valarie Savage Kinney feels and more often than not it will hurt worse than a gunshot to the heart. So many times people have told her “get over it” or “not dwell on the past”. Ridding oneself of mental illnesses isn’t as simple as everyone makes it out to be. It’s a beast that eats the victim alive from the inside. The author does a phenomenal job of describing the horrific effects of her mental illnesses, so much so that she’s easy to relate to. Mental illness is a universal problem that needs addressing. Don’t run from your demons. Don’t destroy yourself in an effort to numb the pain. Face these hideous monsters head on. Cry standing up.

The descriptions Valarie uses to describe her psychological attacks are incredibly vivid, whether it’s anxiety making her heart thump at a million miles an hour or depression making her want to stay in bed all day and do absolutely nothing. Sometimes she cries for no reason at all. Sometimes her body feels as though she’s pinned underneath a vehicle. Sometimes she has nightmares that are so bloody and terrifying that they completely undermine her own violent tendencies when writing scenes from her fantasy novels. Mental illness hurts in every way. It always will. It’s what you do about that pain that determines your quality of life. Staying positive all the time is virtually impossible, but taking comfort in the little victories in life can make a world of difference. That’s what her memoir means to me and should mean to everyone who reads it.

One of the many things about this book that hit me the hardest was Valarie’s inability to understand plots of novels she reads or television shows she watches. As a sufferer of mental illness myself, I’ve had this happen to me on many occasions. It’s frustrating, especially to someone whose main occupation revolves around being creative and coming up with their own stories. You want so much to be able to get your comprehension abilities back, but like country singer Luke Bryan said in an interview, you won’t be 100% anymore, so hopefully you’ll at least get to 75%. In the end, losing pieces of yourself is nothing to be ashamed of. It took a long time for Valarie to learn this, but it’s a lesson she can safely pass onto her readers whether they’re struggling or are about to struggle.

Another piece of wisdom I enjoyed from this book is giving yourself permission to rest. It doesn’t mean bypassing your responsibilities completely. It just means taking these breaks when you can. Enjoy the silence. Enjoy the little moments in life. If you have to take a nap, go for it. If all you want to do is sit and stare, by all means, go for it. Even if you work a nine-to-five job and have other duties on top of that, you can only stretch yourself so thin before you completely burst at the seams. You don’t owe anybody an explanation or an apology for wanting some downtime. Relax every once and a while. Be good to yourself. When you get back on your feet again, your body and mind will thank you for the moments of respite.

Deaths of loved ones were a common occurrence throughout this memoir. It didn’t seem like the universe was going to give Valarie a break in between deaths, panic attacks, and moments of extreme sadness and exhaustion. If you don’t relate to loss already, you will as life goes on. Nothing lasts forever. Death is another part of life. It’s sad that we have to prepare ourselves for when that day finally comes, but Valarie’s experiences will serve as a reminder that sunny days will come again. If you must cry, cry standing up. The dark valleys you have will be worth it if you know there’s a valley of light waiting for you at the end of it all. An extra credit grade goes to this emotional and raw piece of nonfiction.

Impostor Syndrome

***IMPOSTOR SYNDROME VS. ARROGANCE***

Last year when Hollow Hills put together the Still Standing anti-bullying anthology, Aurora Styles wrote a blog entry joking about how that book should be known as “The Curse of the Self-Loathing Authors”, or something to that effect. It was true. There was something about writing that book that made the authors, myself included, feel unsatisfied, like they have Impostor Syndrome. While it’s nice to be humble throughout your writing journeys, you have to believe in yourself at least a little bit in order to get shit done.

I must confess that I’ve struggled with Impostor Syndrome since I began writing and editing Emilio & Marigold for this year’s Hollow Hills anthology. I held such a negative opinion of my own writing that I actually started having anxious thoughts about potentially being fired from Hollow Hills. Of course, it would take more than writing a mediocre story for that to happen, but anxiety is anxiety and it doesn’t give any quarter. I’m not looking for sympathy nor am I fishing for compliments. I’ve dealt with the beast of Impostor Syndrome before and I can deal with it again. Beside, the anxious thoughts about a potential firing went away after twenty-four hours. That’s it.

It seems as though I’ve spent a good while trying to find a balance between Impostor Syndrome (extreme self-doubt) and arrogance (unjustified self-esteem). The middle passage is somewhere out there. I’ve got to find it. Just like I’ve got to find the middle passage between Mary-Sue characters and those whose flaws make them the most hated characters in my story. If you throw a pin into a gigantic pool of water, that’s where the middle passage is. Some authors have found it, others have not and their writing suffers because of it. Oh, there goes my Impostor Syndrome again!

In case you’ve ever felt like you were alone in this, know that you’re not. I don’t want to say that Impostor Syndrome is a necessary part of the creative process, because it’s not. Sure, you need to recognize your own flaws as an author and work on strengthening them. Sure, you need to take criticism gracefully and use it to build a strong foundation. But when your Impostor Syndrome is all-consuming, it can have some detrimental effects. I’m not saying I have the cure for what ails you, because I don’t. All I know is that some days you’ll feel like you can take on the world and other days you’ll feel like dog shit. Can you do anything about this? Can you have more high days than low ones? Hmm…

Not to let my Impostor Syndrome kick in again, but I really didn’t plan this blog entry through very well. I’ve got one page worth of text and I’m guessing it’s about five hundred words long, which is a thousand less than a novel chapter or short story usually is. Don’t worry, I don’t have my compliment fishing rod and tackle box out and I’m not a gold medalist in the Oppression Olympics. I’m just working through some things right now, that’s all.

You know what would work great for my Impostor Syndrome? Being able to rest my head on someone’s lap while they stroke my hair. It sounds perverted on the surface and that’s probably why my short story Schizophrenic Playboy wasn’t a smash hit anywhere that I posted it. But you know what? It doesn’t have to be perverted. It can be completely platonic. Gender wouldn’t even matter to me. Just resting my head on someone’s lap would feel nice right about now. I’ve been watching a lot of Cuddle Sanctuary videos lately, so that might be where I’m getting this from.

Do any of you struggle with Impostor Syndrome? I bet I’ll get a shit ton of yeses to this question, but I figured I’d ask anyways. What are some of your coping techniques? Do you just push through the days and hope that you’ve got more good days than bad ones? I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

In between edits of Emilio & Marigold, I’ve been quietly writing new chapters of Beautiful Monster and the next one will be number twenty-three. In this chapter, Windham, Llewellyn, and Tarja are taking shelter in a cave on the beach and they’re trying to figure out a plan to reclaim the Xavier Village from the Shadow Asylum mercenaries and Atwood Queendom soldiers. Three warriors versus an entire army? How is that even possible?!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Rape me. Rape me, my friend. Rape me. Rape me again. I’m not the only one. Hate me. Do it and do it again. Waste me. Rape me, my friend. I’m not the only one. My favorite inside source. I’ll kiss your open sores. I appreciate your concern. You’re going to stink and burn.”

-Nirvana singing “Rape Me”-

***POST-SCRIPT***

I feel that Nirvana’s anti-rape song will become a rallying cry for Windham Xavier throughout Beautiful Monster’s final five chapters. I’m strangely okay with that. It’s certainly more appropriate than “I’ll Be Over You” by Toto, which is what I’ve proposed for the first draft. The first draft…Millennium for emo kids…(shivers). Goddamn Impostor Syndrome!

Suicide Note

Taking away our most brilliant minds

A suicide note is all you’ll ever find

More questions asked than answers given

Not one mere solution among the living

Not one necromantic spell for the night

Not one more song, not one more light

Only sadness and rage, rinse and repeat

Images of dead bodies’ dangling feet

Permanent reminder of a hangman’s rope

Only a bottle of pills to help you cope

Nothing we do can bring them back

True magic is what this world lacks

We lock each other in the tiniest cages

But it won’t tack on any extra ages

None of the tears we drop in pain

Can keep it from being all in vain

Go through the motions for another day

One more light? Who gives a shit anyway?

March Madness

From sunshine to rainfall, a change in the weather

From high to low, we never see it get any better

They call it March Madness for a good reason

This is the time of year for a suicide season

One minute we could be in the highest spirits

Another we beg for mercy and no one hears it

This is the very definition of being alone

Tears pouring down on our faces of stone

Memories from seemingly a long time ago

Come rampaging back, you fight toe to toe

We could convince ourselves over and over

That we’re in control and we are the owners

But it’s always been just a temporary fix

This isn’t Star Wars, these aren’t Jedi tricks

We aren’t superheroes, we don’t gain strength

We barely survive for a shorter time length

Whoever said that our struggles aren’t real

Just doesn’t have any empathy left to feel

It’s as real as a gunshot wound to the chest

Or a blast to the head where there is no vest

It’s as real as wearing a noose as a necktie

It’s as real as watching someone finally die

Don’t laugh us off, let’s all come together

Survive another change in teardrop weather

We are an army, more than you can imagine

We are an army and together we’ll manage

If all you did was survive yet another day

Reward yourself in some wonderful way

A chocolate chip cookie, a tray of hot wings

A Netflix movie that makes you feel things

You’re not alone and none of us really are

It’s time for us all to come out of the dark