Code Miko vs. Milton from Wayne's World 2 (Rest in Peace, Chris Farley)

 

Shoot Your Shot

Shoot your shot, you’ve got nothing to lose

Except your self-esteem when she says, “I refuse”

Except a lawsuit where you never stood a chance

It's a permanent ban from a life of romance

 

I never took the time to show you how to do it

Flirting should come naturally, but you never knew it

Everything you know about the birds and the bees

Comes from online porn and erotic fantasies

 

I thought you would’ve learned from all your interactions

In your math classes while you’re learning subtraction

In your chemistry course about magnetic attraction

But you kept to yourself to protect your mental health

 

It’s not like you grew up with some Pulitzer winners

Who would ever invite you to a Met Gala dinner

They were bullies who punched down as a source of laughter

Why interact with people when it’s peace that you’re after?

 

You graduated college, but you don’t have any knowledge

On matters of the heart, because you don’t know where to start

You have to start somewhere, but you can’t find the bottom

Except in economic status and apartments so rotten

 

It used to be easy when the chemicals in their brains

Made the girls hot and horny, absolutely insane

It’s a little harder now that you don’t have social status

The ladies raced to the top and they were always the fastest

 

I bet you wish more people tried to understand

That it’s hard as hell to hold another woman’s hand

You could be movie star handsome and funny as fuck

But if she says no, then you’re shit out of luck

 

Now I understand why there’s a lock on your door

On the world wide web, you can’t be ignored

Press the play button and checkmark the loop

Nothing can stop you from shooting dude soup

 

You jokingly call it DIY lovemaking

When it comes to virginity, no volunteers are taking

You want something done right, you do it yourself

Hyper-independence comes from traumatized hell

The One

VERSE 1

“Surf the internet in incognito mode?

You’re on your way to hell, a lonely road

Pray to god and take your ginkgo biloba

Stop drinking every bottle of diet soda”

Your medical advice must be so nice

For those on a diet of crackers of rice

You care so much if I’m seduced and enticed

By the ladies on the screen who bring the spice

 

PRE-CHORUS

Since you’re so emotionally invested

Here’s a little challenge so unexpected

 

CHORUS 1

Find me! The one who cares

Find me! The one who stares

At me with pretty eyes

Makes my spirit rise, destroys your lies

Find me! The one who cares

Find me! The one who shares

Her bed with me tonight

It’s a trick question, just admit I’m right

 

VERSE 2

“Yo, bro! Just swallow these red pills

Watch some UFC, get those bloody thrills

Don’t simp for nobody, go get yourself laid

It doesn’t count if your lover gets paid”

I’ve never seen so many SWERFS in one whole place

Who never gave a woman her own O-face

That’s okay, I haven’t done that myself

So I’m jerking it raw for my mental health

 

PRE-CHORUS

Since you’re so emotionally invested

Here’s a little challenge so unexpected

 

CHORUS 1

Find me! The one who cares

Find me! The one who stares

At me with pretty eyes

Makes my spirit rise, destroys your lies

Find me! The one who cares

Find me! The one who shares

Her bed with me tonight

It’s a trick question, just admit I’m right

 

VERSE 3

“Your computer’s slowing down, are you watching corn?

There must be other ways to keep your dick warm

Go touch some grass and then go get some ass

Here’s your invoice for the day, credit or cash?”

Five hundred bucks? Who’s got that kind of money?

I could have spent it in The Land of Milk and Honey

Oh wait, you’re one of them Elon Musk tech bros

Is that why you’ve got brown stains on your nose?

 

CHORUS 2

Oh well! It feels like no one cares

Oh well! It feels like no one wears

Every little hat I’ve got

You couldn’t walk in my shoes, couldn’t take my spot

Oh well! It feels like no one cares

Oh well! It feels so unfair

And now I sound just like a guy

With a microphone and a podcast, why?

Gone

“Don’t fall in love with strangers on the internet

Even though their beauty is impossible to forget

There are real life girls who’d love to take you to bed”

It’s the world’s shortest line, because they’re all gone

 

“Don’t spend all your time watching You Tube clips

While you’re munching down on a bag of cheesy chips

There’s so much cinema, characters you want to ship”

There’s just one problem, the best of them are gone

 

“Stop laying in bed when there’s so much to create

Never mind that the discourse is covered in hate

You can counter it with love, why would you want to wait?”

I’ll tell you why: because the good ones are gone

 

“Mother Nature is the very best antidepressant

The cost is cheap for every working-class peasant

You can feed the squirrels, sing with the pheasants”

It’s too hot outside, because the ozone is gone

 

“Get yourself a car, show off your convertible

Get yourself a job, get paid to be serviceable

Buy all the shit you want, stack it high and vertical”

Where are all the good bosses? Oh wait, they’re gone

 

Just gone! Gone! Gone without a trace!

A shitshow of a world is what came in its place

I’ve never seen a broken spirit with a happy face

It’s camouflage for authenticity they want to erase

 

“Can’t we all just get along?” Fuck no, we can’t!

Not as long as we’re repeating the same racist chant

Not as long as the elite cuts us off at the knees

And brainwashes everyone with the greatest of ease

 

Gone! Gone! Gone without a trace!

March Was the Drizzling Shits

…Alright, look…I’m not going to bullshit you guys. The month of March in 2024 has been absolute dogshit for me. I’m grateful to get off of Risperidone, but there’s a price to pay for doing that. I thought I’d been over the worst of it when I stopped sweating profusely and when I wasn’t boiling hot all the time. But there’s another side effect that I’m still dealing with today that I don’t talk about very often. I don’t talk about it because it’s a creepy subject. Ever since I got off Risperidone, I’ve been incredibly horny 24/7. I’ve been living in my own head thinking about these elaborate sexual and romantic fantasies while being completely disconnected from the real world. Anytime I’ve had to step outside my own “heaven” as I call it, I’ve been cranky and irritable, even if I’m doing something that’ll benefit my family like doing laundry or going grocery shopping. I was shopping at Safeway one time and I was getting frustrated that I couldn’t go home to my room and…take care of business. But “taking care of business” only keeps the horniness at bay for a short period of time. And then I’m banging on “heaven’s gates” wanting to be let back in. This has been my entire March in 2024. Three poems and a stream-of-consciousness essay came out of it, sure, but not much else beyond that. I haven’t cracked open “Elantris” since early February. I haven’t written a chapter of Rainbow Ranch since January. I haven’t written a chapter of Beautiful Monster since last year. Last! Year! I haven’t drawn a picture since February. Everything is piling up while I’m trapped in my own fucking head. Take it from me: being horny all the time isn’t the kind of fun that most incels and alpha males would make it out to be. It sucks. It absolutely fucking sucks. How much longer do I have to wait for my brain to recalibrate? Patience is not one of my virtues, in case it wasn’t abundantly clear. So if you ask me what my plans are for the day, I’ve got none. My schedule is clear, but my head is not. I’m counting down the days when this bullshit will end. Thanks for listening to me for a while. Sorry if me talking about sex makes you feel uncomfortable.

Temptation

PART ONE: TEMPTATION IN HEAVEN

In my head, there is only heaven

The angels here are stuff of legends

Manic Pixie Dream Girls don’t exist

Except in a euphoric state of bliss

 

Lovely teachers in dresses and sandals

More than my chemicals could ever handle

They catch me staring and only smile back

Give them some wine and help them relax

 

Whoever said You Tube isn’t eHarmony

Never met the angels that are charming me

Closing distance with hugs and kisses

A future with all of them as my missus

 

When wrestling women get done in the ring

They turn up the sweetness and make my heart sing

They’re more than the skimpy gear that they wear

They’re reasons to stroke their soft silky hair

 

It doesn’t matter if I’m weird or lack money

They call me cupcake and call me honey

I get to be a star and then kiss the sky

Kiss magical women and make them cry

 

TELEVISION DIALOGUE

“Heaven? Hmph! Whatever made you think you were in heaven, Mr. Valentine? This IS the other place!”

 

PART TWO: THE AWAKENING

I spent too long in my own fantasies

The real world has so much they’re asking me

Family and friends haven’t seen me in weeks

My clothes are piling up, my body reeks

 

I got work to do and a legacy to build

I’m still creative and I’ll die on that hill

These novel characters are stuck in limbo

While I spent my days with imagined sex symbols

 

Read a book and your ignorance will die

But I can’t find the energy, can’t find the time

Drifting in and out of consciousness

Another reason to be lacking confidence

 

Build Legos like I did when I was a kid

I’m still a kid, but just a little bit mid

My hall of fame is showing its shame

When my broken promises are all the same

 

Do chores around the house, make it clean

Your domestic mistakes should be heard and not seen

Scrub the dishes and take out the garbage

For god’s sake, it should smell like a botanical garden

 

Talk to your people, talk to your pets

One chance in this life is all you get

Tell them you love them no matter what

Save them from your pain that deeply cuts

 

PART THREE: BACK TO HELL

I’m exiled from heaven, but I can’t go back to hell

The demons were the reason I was so unwell

Fighting and fucking, two sides of a coin

Stroking the tip before a kick in the groin

 

I fought so many battles with the forces of hell

That they’re often too traumatic, I shouldn’t tell

Screams, rage, death, blood

Spending so many nights face down in the mud

 

I’m just too tired to keep swinging my axe

I wish there was some sort of therapy tax

I wish there was somebody that I could ask

To kill the demons for me, but don’t let it last

 

I was born in the fire and I’ll never retire

It was never a reason for me to be a crier

Suck it up, suck it in, get back in the cage

Until I hit senior citizen age

 

If I live that long, my brain will turn to shit

And my hospital gown will be a perfect fit

Go under the knife for the rest of my life

As the memories fade of an imaginary wife

Final Fantasy

VERSE 1

Magical woman says, “I did a line of cocaine

It numbs all the pain in my outer space brain”

Magical woman says, “They hate my penis

They either shout shit at me or pay me to see it”

Magical woman says, “I haven’t showered in weeks

Every shirt I’ve worn is covered in blood streaks”

Magical woman says, “You have very pretty eyes

Is it okay if I look into them for the rest of the night?”

 

PRE-CHORUS 1

“Hold my hand, touch my face

Please take me away from this dark place

Hold me tight, touch my hair

Please help me, I’m scared”

 

CHORUS 1

Who am I kidding? It’s a final fantasy

In the real world, magic women run away from me

It’s a place in my head, got no choice but to stay

Waste my time on limerence, throwing my life away

 

VERSE 2

Lonely bohemian says, “I stole things that aren’t mine

Everyone online made me pay for my crime”

Lonely bohemian says, “I don’t want to be alone

But I’m the only one who was asked to atone”

Lonely bohemian says, “Let me live another day

In case you’re wondering, no, I’m not okay”

Lonely bohemian says, “Can I stay with you tonight?

You’re the only one right now who’s keeping me alive”

 

PRE-CHORUS 2

“Kiss my lips, rub my back

Please protect me from all these attacks

Hold my hand, lay with me

Please don’t let me bleed”

 

CHORUS 2

Snap out of it, son, it’s a final fantasy

Brain ghosts shouldn’t even be asking me

To do emotional labor, save you from the haters

Of all the candies you chose, I’m not your first flavor

 

BRIDGE

I got so much to do, so much to live for

But magical thinking keeps me wanting more

It’s a cycle of addiction no different from crack

Lock myself in my room, don’t know when I’ll be back

 

VERSE 3

Magical woman meets lonely bohemian

Two twin flames, two lovely human beings

Do what you must in your hotel room

Get out of my head and do it fucking soon

Get married, have babies, buy a whole house

Watch a lot of Netflix on your leather couch

My work here is done, now I watch for number one

Ain’t no mystery in this land, it’s all in my hands

Sin City 2: A Dame to Kill For

BOOK TITLE: Sin City 2: A Dame to Kill For

AUTHOR: Frank Miller

YEAR: 1993

GENRE: Graphic Novel

SUBGENRE: Neo-Noir

GRADE: A

 

We’ve seen the femme fatale trope play out across multiple stories, most notably in neo-Noir. When Frank Miller takes hold of the reigns for Sin City 2, it doesn’t feel stale. Ava, the femme fatale in question, comes off like a powerful character who could manipulate her way into any authoritative position. Every man she comes in contact with is wrapped around her finger, not just because of her physical appearance, but also her psychological prowess. Even if you think the femme fatale trope is problematic or overdone, there’s still something to be said for how manipulative humans can be, if not sexually, then in another way that plays into their targets’ sympathies. Femme fatales may be a male gaze character archetype, but narcissists and gaslighters are very real in our world and that’s how Ava comes off in this book. The protagonist of this story, a down-on-his-luck P.I. named Dwight McCarthy, has a history with her and knows her ins and outs. He’s still susceptible to her whims every now and then. That’s what he wrestles with throughout the story and that alone is a struggle worth reading about.

 

If you’re familiar with the gritty underworld of neo-Noir storytelling, then you’ll find everything you’re looking for in this graphic novel. I’ve already mentioned the femme fatale elements, but there’s also smooth-flowing dialogue, morally gray criminals, and fight scenes that raise the stakes through the ceiling. At first, I thought Dwight was just shrugging off his pain after getting beaten so many times in the first half of the story. Even after crashing through a window and falling onto the pavement, he walks away like it’s nothing. He had me for a minute there. But how long could he keep up his macho posturing? How long could he just suck it up and carry on before all this violence nearly does him in? You’ll get your answer in due time after reading enough of this book. I was worried that this was going to be like a WWE storyline where Triple H gets trapped in a car and dropped fifteen feet, only to come out on TV the next night with only “contusions”. Nope! It’s much worse for Dwight. There are a few times where you as a reader will doubt if he’ll be alive by the end of the story. I’m not spoiling a thing for you. If this sounds intriguing, then buy the book and read it yourself.

 

Because this is a graphic novel, all I needed was an hour and twenty minutes to read it from cover to cover. But even with this breakneck speed, it didn’t feel like I was missing out on important details or emotional moments. It was fast, but not excessively fast. It was just right for the kind of story that needed to be told. Dwight tangles with his own emotions and that plays brilliantly into the action sequences that follow his thought processes. When he takes a beating, you feel his beating. When his pain comes from within, you want to sympathize with him even though he has his rotten moments too. I questioned whether I should continue rooting for him after he shoved Ava to the ground during one of their rendezvouses. I urge you to keep reading and not give up on him so easily. With a quick reading speed, you’ll get your answers in the time you want them. Your guilt as a reader can only last so long before you see the truth about Ava.

 

Frank Miller has an edge to him and that shows in pretty much everything he writes. This brand of edginess won’t drive away his audience. In fact, it’ll be a selling point. It’s the neo-Noir grittiness that will keep you coming back for more. It can’t be a hardboiled story without a little edge every now and then. Regardless of how you feel about Frank Miller as a person, there’s no denying that he penned one heck of a story in Sin City 2. Do I want to read the first installment just out of morbid curiosity? Sure, why not? This book gets five stars out of five. No glaring flaws that I can find aside from Dwight refusing to acknowledge his extreme pain.

Succubus Creek

Battered mashed potatoes on a stick couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than plebian carnival food…which was why Wendel Pompeo munched on it while scrolling through his phone at the Carnival De Garrison. Not a single text from his date. Not an LOL. Not an LMAO. Not even a winking emoji. Lifelessness flashed across the smart phone screen. Wendel sighed. “What’s the fucking point?”

Despite not knowing what the “fucking point” was, he continued eyeballing his phone and snacking on fatty carnival food. He was smack bang in the middle of merry-go-rounds, rollercoasters, dart games, and the occasional freaky sideshow…and all he cared about was the blue light burning a hole in his own baby blues. As far as he was concerned, an actual flame could consume him and he wouldn’t give a damn either way. Maybe such a fitting death would finally warm up his icy heart. Maybe it would give him warmth that not even his ugly Christmas sweater could. But nope. More scrolling. More scrolling. More scrolling. And then…

“Step right up!” The sudden belting voice smacked Wendel across the eardrums and pulled him out of his self-loathing stupor. The voice belonged to a raven-haired lady in a top hat, one-piece bathing suit, and fishnets, using her cane to indicate a small creek going through a dark tent. “Step right up and sail down Succubus Creek! Take a load off! Relax!” She smiled and winked at Wendel. “Live a little!”

He gulped and looked down at his brown leather shoes. “Eh, why not? Can’t be any worse than being stood up.” He reached in his jean pockets and pulled out a five dollar bill from his wallet.

The lady pointed her cane at Wendel and said in a flirty voice, “I like you, but not enough to give you a discount. That’ll be TEN dollars, boy.”

“But…your sign says five dollars per person. I’m the only one here.”

“Do you honestly believe you’ll be all alone in that boat? It’s called Succubus Creek for a reason. If nobody was there, it’d be called Sad Single Guy with Shitty Brown Hair Creek.”

Wendel fluffed his own hair, rolled his eyes, and sighed. “I guess you got a point there.” He fished a second five dollar bill out of his wallet and put his total fare in the lady’s top hat after she held it out for collection. As sure as the December air made him feel colder than a dead body, he was guaranteed a seat in his own boat. The lady handed him some wooden paddles, blew him a kiss, and sent him on his way down the chilling creek.

And there he transitioned from the darkness of a star-filled night to the emptiness of a pitch-black tent that seemed to expand for miles. After a few strokes of his paddles, Wendel was covered in ghostly shadows, left to his own devices…his own wandering thoughts…his own isolation…He really was all alone in this world, as if the constant doom-scrolling before the ride wasn’t enough of an indication.

And then…a creepy orange light glowed from beneath the waters. Wendel’s heart started pumping as the light expanded to reveal the head of a demonic woman, singular ponytail, devil’s horns, brown scales, and all. Even creepier than the orange light was the amber haze radiating from her eyes as they stared bullets into Wendel’s quivering soul. He desperately darted his own eyes around looking for an escape, but it was just him and the frigid waters, no sign of the carnie who sent him down this cursed creek.

The demonic woman crawled inside the boat and sat across from Wendel, her legs crossed together and her blade-fanged smile sending more chilly weather across his skin. And then she morphed into someone who had Wendel’s heart racing for a much different reason: a familiar pretty face from his past. “Hi there, cuddle bear. Remember me?”

How could he not? The long brunette hair and college emblems were unmistakable. “Katie?”

“Yep! It’s me. You picked a lovely place for our next date, didn’t you. Oh wait…this isn’t a date, is it? I figured as much. You know why? You dumped me, that’s why!” That last burst of anger almost made Wendel jump backwards into the creek. “Here’s a question I’ve always wanted to ask, and not for a friend, either. Why did you dump me, anyways? Hmm? Was I too much for you? Did I come over too many times? Did you not like me calling you all the time?” She heightened Wendel’s heartbeat as she leaned closer with evil eyes. “Was I just another one of your…conquests?! Is that what you do with women?! Do you just fuck them and leave them?!” No answer, only icy sweats. “Answer me, asshole!”

He spat in the creek next to him. “I have dreams of my own, you know! I can’t schedule my whole life around you, okay? That’s why I went to college in the first place. That’s why we all go to college. I went there to get A’s and B’s. What were YOU doing this whole time? Why are you even wearing those clothes in the first place?”

Katie languidly rubbed her thumb and forefinger over the fabric of her college sweater. “You don’t like these clothes on me?” she asked in a subdued voice. “Fine, I’ll take them off.” When she did, she revealed another girl underneath: a blond in a cheerleading outfit. “Do you like this version of me better?” Wendel’s eyes bulged with fear as this new transformation smiled at him. She laid on her stomach and swung her feet in the air. “I never did thank you for helping me with my homework and helping my mom carry groceries when she was laid up. That was really sweet of you.” Uncomfortable silence. “And then you fell off the face of the earth…AGAIN!”

Wendel furrowed his brows. “Charlie…you’re sixteen years old! It was never going to work out! EVER!”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “But…but…you weren’t in any real trouble! The age of consent is…”

“I don’t care what the age of consent is! It’s fucking gross! Get out of my boat!” Wendel whacked her into the creek with his paddle and tried to catch his breath after that dramatic exchange. His breath became shorter no matter how many times he huffed and puffed. The darkness and isolation of this creek was suffocating him like a pillow over his face.

“You’re not going to get rid of me that easily,” said the titular succubus as she crawled back into the boat with a new transformation, this time of a brown-skinned lady in a ripped Metallica T-shirt and knee-high leather boots. Wendel clutched his throat as he continued to fight for oxygen. “That dance floor was all ours. I could have taken you home with me. But you just kept staring at me…and staring at me…like I was some kind of freak. Are you really that shy? Were you really that scared of dancing with me?” She grabbed hold of Wendel’s hand only for him to jerk it away.

“Don’t touch me, Bailey. Don’t. Touch. Me.” Her face grew solemn as he emphasized those words with a pointed finger. “I don’t know what kind of drugs you did the night of the concert, but I didn’t want you dragging me down with you. Like I just got done telling Katie, I have dreams of my own! And they don’t involve…”

The succubus morphed again, this time into a silver-haired cougar. “Don’t involve what? Actual commitment?” She morphed into a southern redhead. “Actual love?” She morphed into a black lady in dreadlocks. “Actually giving a fuck about who you’re with?” The demon changed shape multiple times in succession while demanding answers from Wendel, who was curled up at his end of the boat in the fetal position. Would he risk jumping into shivery waters just to get away from this creature? Was hypothermia really preferable to confronting his own romantic failures? Yes. It was.

But before he could dive in, the succubus grabbed the waist of his jeans and yanked him back in. “You don’t want to do that, Wendel.” She said in a multi-layered, monstrous voice. “It’s cold out there. It’s lonely. Besides, you have someone waiting for you at the end of the creek.”

“I don’t need anyone to wait for me! All they want are free meals and alimony for life! How am I supposed to afford all of that?! I have dreams, damn it! I want to make movies! I want to be rich! I want to be…”

“You can be anything you want to be, Wendel! But don’t do it at the expense of those who care about you! Stop leading them on and tell them how you feel!” Wendel finally relaxed in somberness and the succubus let go of his jeans. “Why did you sail down my creek tonight? To get away from your responsibilities to these women? If you’re shy around them or are not interested, you need to tell them! If all you want is sex, you need to let them know beforehand! You can’t keep getting away with shit like this!”

He brought his knees to his face and tucked his face between them, hiding in shame yet again. “I’m sorry…It’s just that…if I tell them…I might…”

“You might what? Lose them?” No answer. None was needed. “You can’t have it both ways, Wendel. Pick one or the other. Do you want to fall in love or not?” Still no answer. It was still unneeded. “Listen to me. Give me your heart and all is forgiven.” He picked his head up and gave a confused look. “Give it to me, Wendel. You’ve used your heart for abandonment and selfishness. Now I want you to use it for love. If you love them, say so. If not, then letting them down is the best love you can give them.”

As the succubus glared at him for an answer, Wendel sat there and pondered these points. He could swim away to the end of the creek and dodge his responsibilities once more. He would be safe. He would be happy. And his dreams would continue. But…just because his heart was broken, didn’t mean the women in his life had to have broken hearts too. He reached inside his chest and gently removed his heart, which he played hot potato with due to how cold and frosty it really was.

The succubus rescued the heart from his hands and inspected it. “That certainly explains a lot. I’ll put it over there with all the others.” She dipped into the creek and stored the frozen heart in a heated treasure chest, where the ice melted and warmth spread across Wendel’s body. He could smile again. It had been so long since he’d done it. His face muscles thanked him for the moment of bliss.

The succubus swam back to the boat and reappeared as another woman from Wendel’s life: a green-haired nerd in a hoodie and thick-rimmed glasses. This time Wendel didn’t shake in his skivvies. He stared at her life seriousness in his eyes, like he actually had an answer for this puzzle.

“Sorry I didn’t text you back. I should have told you…” Tears welled up in her eyes. “I had to put my dog down today and I just…I couldn’t…”

Wendel wrapped his warm hands around his current girlfriend’s arms, touching her with the softest grasp and the purest intentions. “Kayla…do you need a shoulder to cry on?”

“No! I want chicken nuggets!”

He smiled at her and held her head against his chest while she cried in his wool sweater. “I could use some chicken nuggets too. To tell you the truth, it beats the shit out of this carnival food.”

Simping for a Succubus

VERSE 1

It gets lonely in the middle of nowhere

My future plans include, “I don’t care”

Wouldn’t know where to start looking

For adult fun time that’s worth booking

I have dreams about being taken away

Though I wouldn’t know where to stay

Where, oh, where is the Promised Land?

Succubus lady, take me by the hand

CHORUS

Simping for a succubus

She’s the only one I trust

To be tender, to be sweet

Then discard me on the street

VERSE 2

I know it’s wrong, but what else is there?

It’s Valentine’s Day, love is in the air

Smells a lot like a perfume miasma

To mask the stench of a decaying Santa

Candies and chocolates to make me fat

Fall flat on my face, be a perfect doormat

You can call it depression or desperation

It’s better than a lifetime of masturbation

CHORUS

Simping for a succubus

She’s the only one I trust

To be tender, to be sweet

Then discard me on the street

VERSE 3

Doctor man, what is wrong with me?

Psychoanalyze every little fucking thing

Attachment issues because of autism?

Too much width in my social schism?

Too much trauma? Too much Taco Bell?

You can’t even tell? Got more pills to sell?

Being well-adjusted to a fucked up world

Can’t compare the love of a succubus girl

EXTENDED CHORUS

Simping for a succubus

She’s the only one I trust

To be tender, to be sweet

Then discard me on the street

Simping for a succubus

Though she’ll turn me into dust

Just like ashes, just like cocaine

Up the nose into another’s brain

Sex

CHORUS

Everything’s about sex except sex itself

Sex is about power and really nothing else

If it looks like a penis or like a vagina

Can’t wait to get something inside ya

VERSE 1

Look at that knight and his surfboard sword

Look at the way he cuts down the orc horde

Not even their axes could put a dent in his armor

It’s made of gold and spikes, for starters

But everything about him reminds you of a dick

And his only end goal is to obviously get chicks

His sword is so long and fat around the edges

So are the spikes in his suit, gold is piss, you get it?

CHORUS

Everything’s about sex except sex itself

Sex is about power and really nothing else

If it looks like a penis or like a vagina

Can’t wait to get something inside ya

VERSE 2

Look at the damsel stuck in the dragon’s tower

Rescue her and she’ll give you money and power

One slash of the dragon’s neck and he’s gone

Head rolling down the hill into the bubbly swamp

Damsel thanks you with a passionate kiss

Whether you want it or not, no refusing this

How can you be platonic when she’s clearly a prize?

The male gaze comes with the horniest eyes

CHORUS

Everything’s about sex except sex itself

Sex is about power and really nothing else

If it looks like a penis or like a vagina

Can’t wait to get something inside ya

BRIDGE

Testosterone is the reason for all of your decisions

Sperm invades your brain like a vaginal incision

If you get an A+ in all of your classes

It’s because you fantasize about tits and asses

Never mind that you studied and prepared for life

Because it all means nothing without a sexy wife

Everyone in town walks around with an erection

Always looking for ways to get an extension

VERSE 3

It’s insulting to every gender that there is

To leave the world around you covered in jizz

Think of all that greatness we could achieve

If we had self-esteem we could truly believe

CHORUS

Everything’s about sex except sex itself

Sex is about power and really nothing else

If it looks like a penis or like a vagina

Can’t wait to get something inside ya

Blade Master

 Butchered genitals, agony in general

Slash those cocks like a samurai sentinel

They call you Blade Master, I call you torturer

Target little children, never be a warrior

You say it’s just a snip as you steal the tip

But it feels like fire, but it feels like a rip

Do it all in the name of stopping masturbation

Do it all in the name of god’s favorite creations

But if I could hide behind a mystical deity

I could impale you with a spear against the ceiling

I could shove a chainsaw right up your ass

Give you a torture test that you’ll never pass

I could blame it all on who I pray to at night

I could call it freedom or my inalienable right

Doesn’t feel good when I’m the one with the blade

Chopping off your schlong, no more babies to be made

In case you want make a point about abortion

Don’t even try, because we know it’s extortion

A clump of cells ain’t got shit on a living child

Stop dicing dicks and adding to your growing pile

Blade Master, Blade Master, rest in little pieces

Know you can’t do fuck-all about sexual releases

Got no resume to take with you to heaven

Take the elevator down to the land of bad intentions

Tell the demons about the parents’ medical decision

Give them a lecture on what you call circumcisions

Other People

VERSE 1

Your bank account is birth control

Can’t make up for it with heart and soul

Love doesn’t put food on the table

And so ends the romantic fable

CHORUS

You can’t have love, it belongs to other people

No, not you, you could never be their equal

No, no, no, no, no

I said so

VERSE 2

If you complain, they call you an incel

The preacher man damns you to hell

Throw in the towel, you’re now MGTOW

You set fire to the whole damn town

EXTENDED CHORUS 1

You can’t have love, it belongs to other people

No, not you, you could never be their equal

No, no, no, no, no

I said so

You can’t move on, that’s only for other people

No, not you, you must always stay evil

No, no, no, no, no

I said so

BRIDGE

They’re unwritten rules, I don’t make them up

The one who did drinks from a golden cup

Blindly believe and shut your damn mouth

Smile and fake it, don’t bitch and pout

EXTENDED CHORUS 2

You can’t have fame, it belongs to other people

You’re to blame and there’ll never be a sequel

No, no, no, no, no

I said so

You can’t live life, that’s only for other people

Grab the knife, ‘cause you know your fate is sealed

Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh

The death blow

We Love You, Alejandro Cherrystone

 Every last page of his love letter collection

Breathed new life into his bloody erection

“We love you, Alejandro Cherrystone!

We can do it in your cell or on the phone

We know you’ve skinned your victims raw

We know you broke a prostitute’s jaw

We know you mutilated neighborhood pets

It doesn’t make us lust for you any less”

Every last page of the dirtiest magazines

Is filled with beauty nobody’s ever seen

Long black locks and androgynous lips

Tight black Speedo clinging to his hips

A six-pack that he worked hard to sculpt

Smooth legs that could start his own sex cult

It’s easy to forget his towering body count

Even when formaldehyde assaults your snout

Every last page of the stenographer’s notes

Crushes every baby girl’s romantic hopes

A heart like his could never be warm

Neither could his corpses left out in the storm

A life behind bars is what he so deserves

Not to be sexed up by the youngest of pervs

Not to be a wet dream for teenage queens

There’d be no debate if he looked like a fiend

Every last page of his death certificate

Makes claims of innocence insignificant

Stabbed to death with a rusty shank

While making a deposit in the sperm bank

Shower water washed away his blood

And the mess left by his supermodel butt

Never mind leaving flowers on his grave

Unless it’s necrophilia which you crave

Every last page of his docudrama script

Now smolders in a pyromantic abyss

No glory for killers, no cinematic thrillers

But compensation for his victims’ tear-spillers

They don’t have to forgive for Jesus’ sake

If Alejandro was alive, he’d continue to take

Never giving back to the world he bloodied

Except for hybristophilia to his favorite honeys

Rest in piss and we’ll see you in hell

This is the only story we should tell

Until the next killer casts a horny spell

Until the next cult forms, oh fucking well

Rest in Power, Gay Reynolds

 His driver’s license said Gabriel, he went by Gay

He’d do anything and anyone to get his fat payday

He had the 70’s moustache and a tray full of ash

Viagra and cocaine tucked inside his private stash

Eight hours of on-camera sex was what he had

A waterfall climax until his pecker looked so sad

For god knows how much money, the gig wasn’t bad

No longer will he miss a payment on his bachelor pad

Couldn’t find this kind of cheddar jockeying a cash box

Couldn’t find all these greenbacks curing smallpox

Would end up on the streets if he went to school to teach

Couldn’t cut it as a field hand picking every last peach

But the biggest price he paid when he got himself laid

Was some protests on his lawn and some online shade

More DM’s in his inbox than he could possibly delete

Asking for a free fuck, on their marriages they cheat

Every judgmental eye stares some daggers in his soul

They know about every hole, terrorism is their goal

A Molotov bomb thrown through his front window

Before they even get a chance to try to fucking know

What his struggles really are, explosives in his car

Blowing every little piece of him fifty feet apart

Why all of the hate for a guy trying to get by?

Couldn’t win against capitalism even if he tried

No love from the police, not a desist or a cease

Not even a bodyguard with a wild pay increase

The world learned to hate, so they sealed his fate

Could’ve been a porno legend, could’ve been great

Everybody mocks what they don’t understand

Rest in Power, Gay Reynolds, in the Promised Land

Never did he know that he left behind a daughter

Mother was a fellow actress also led to slaughter

A kid in foster care never stood a chance there

I wouldn’t blame her if she was constantly scared

Calling out for her parents but the bullies answer

Wishing her to have a malignant form of cancer

Who is anybody to point and laugh and judge?

Roles were reversed? Life would be just as tough

Mourning the Loss of Beauty

 My name is Garrison and I don’t think of myself as an attractive person. I held off on saying that for as long as I could. It’s not that I don’t think men’s beauty standards are an important idea to dissect and analyze, no, no, no. I was more afraid of potential responses I could get for saying such a thing in public. Some might be kind and say that I don’t look THAT bad. Some might accuse me of being shallow. Some might be realistic and say that every type of beauty fades away eventually. Some might be well-intentioned and say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder…which doesn’t sound promising if the beholders refuse to acknowledge me in any way.

But there’s one response I’ve always feared throughout my entire life. I don’t know the official name for this trope, but I call it the Disaster Porn Excuse. It’s where you talk about your problems with someone and that same ignoramus reminds you that others have it worse. Of course other people have it worse! What is this, the Sadness Olympics? Do I only get a bronze medal for believing myself to be physically ugly? The Disaster Porn Excuse goes something like this: “You know, Chud…there’s a Corona Virus pandemic going on…there’s police brutality all over the country…wildfires and other natural disasters are happening at an alarming rate…and you’re bitching and whining about your lack of good looks? Hyuk, hyuk, hyuk! Get a life!”

Not believing in my own physical beauty (or lack thereof) isn’t anywhere near as devastating as a Corona Virus pandemic. I get it. But that’s not what my brain said to me the other day. Just because someone has it worse, doesn’t invalidate your own problems. Does there have to be an earthquake and a volcanic eruption happening at the same time in Port Orchard for me to have a say in my own personal difficulties? It’s not right to compare and contrast problems. And yes, even having said all of this, not being physically attractive still sounds like small potatoes. It does sound shallow and whiny…until it’s not.

My senior year of high school was pretty much the only time in my life where I was confident in my sex appeal. I had a hairstyle that was parted down the middle and curled at the tips. I wore sunglasses even indoors. I wore a leather jacket that I had no business owning given my family’s income. I had a beard that made me look older than my teenaged years. I had and still have hazel eyes that could be stared into for hours. Judging from all the smiles, giggles, and flirting I got from other girls at my school, I think a few of them caught feelings for me. They didn’t come out and say they were in love with me, but I got hugs from a few of them, they petted my shoulders, one girl drummed on my back with her hands…and you know what? As shallow as it seems now, getting this kind of attention is addictive. It’s validating. It makes me feel like anything other than an outcast. After a freshman year where I was almost bullied into suicide, not feeling like an outcast was pretty fucking amazing.

That is until the voices in my head started getting louder and louder. The voices threatened to kick my legs and break them. They threatened to kick me in the ass and make me shit myself. They threatened to make me their bitch, this being the worst of my schizophrenic insults due to my strong sense of individuality at the time. The voices got so bad that for the second time in my life, I threatened to kill myself. Thank god I was able to get the medication I needed and start the long hard road to recovery. That should have been the end of my misery…until it wasn’t. The thing about schizophrenia medication is that it numbs your emotions and makes you gain weight. Remember the smoking hot sex god that I was all throughout my senior year of high school? He was replaced by a three-hundred pound zombie who couldn’t cut it in a college sociology class or even technical writing. Technical fucking writing! But if I didn’t take the medication, I’d either be dead or in a nuthouse, so being a three hundred pound invalid was the lesser of two evils. It’s a classic case of death or chi-chi.

Losing my beauty was going to happen eventually as it does with every person on the planet. I just would have liked to keep it for longer than my teenaged years. College is supposed to be a time when the real magic happens, when partying, sex, and love are the cornerstones of good education. I had my fair share of crushes, but I never acted on them. Not once. I didn’t believe I had the right to. Why? Because my good looks were stolen from me. I didn’t get my face bashed in with a baseball bat and needed reconstructive surgery. My looks were stolen from me by an invisible force that happened at random. It was complete and utter bad luck that the public ignored me and went out of their way to sidestep me. I had very few friends in college and I owe all of that…to bad fucking luck. Remember how addictive being sexually fawned over was? I was still addicted, but had some serious fucking withdrawal.

It wasn’t until after I graduated from college that I started my own personal education with You Tube videos and internet research. You know that feeling when people treat you differently because you may or may not look good to them? There’s a name for that: the beauty bias. It’s something we all have whether we want to admit it or not. When an employer has to choose between a pool of candidates, he’ll go for the sexiest one. When people decide what friends they’re going to connect with, they’ll choose the sexy ones. Even in celebrity culture, the sexier musicians, actors, and influencers are the ones who get the most opportunities. 

Would Nightwish have become a successful heavy metal band if Tarja Turunen had a bulge in her neck the size of a basketball? Would Evanescence be a worldwide phenomenon if Amy Lee’s face was disfigured by a wood chipper? Would In This Moment have been a smash hit if Maria Brink sharted herself onstage at every show? I hate saying this, but the answer to all of these questions is no. That’s not my answer. That’s the public’s answer. It’s sick, it’s wrong, it’s unfair, but it’s reality. While nobody would come out and tell me I was too ugly to fit in, I knew deep inside that’s what they were thinking.

So what do we do to curb this bias? Honestly, I don’t have the one true answer to that. Sure, we could share Body Positivity memes all day long. We could call out shallowness in magazines and TV shows. We could be more inclusive even if we’re not feeling it at first. But these are all surface-level solutions that can only work if everybody gets involved, which they won’t. That’s why I never watch You Tube videos from fitness influencers: they’re the biggest offenders when it comes to making fat and ugly people feel like shit. Many of those exercises are impossible for an obese person to do on a consistent basis. Food addiction is very real. But hey, it’s all our fault, right? We’ve got nobody to blame but ourselves according to these fitness influencers. We don’t lift enough weights. We don’t run far enough. We don’t eat enough rabbit food. But most importantly, we don’t inject enough steroids into our bloodstreams. You know what? Maybe I’d rather be fat and lazy than look like Hulk Hogan and The Ultimate Warrior. Come to think of it, if you do these super-intense exercises, you too can look like The Ultimate Warrior…in 2015…a year after he passed away from heart failure.

Since other people won’t fight our battles against poor self-esteem for us, we have to find ways to do it ourselves. We can surround ourselves with people who believe in Body Positivity. We can self-talk ourselves into feeling at least marginally good. During the days where we do feel good, we could hold onto that feeling for as long as we humanly can. Or if you’re schizophrenic like me, you can use your imagination to your advantage. When I came up with the idea for this essay, my mind was in the shitter. I didn’t want to get out of bed. I wanted to curse myself until I believed in my own bodily mediocrity. But I did something the other day to make myself sing a different tune. Will the feeling last forever? Probably not, but I take my little victories where I can get them.

I imagined a scenario where one of my online crushes confronted me in a hairdresser’s salon after I’ve spent the entire time doubting my own beauty. She said to me, “Your attractiveness doesn’t come from your soft hair…or your lovely eyes. That’s not where you draw your strength from. You draw your strength from your quietness. You’re an enigma in public. You have an air of mystery about you. You keep women at a distance because you’re considerate of them. And the more mysterious you are, the more they want to learn about you. And the more they can unlock from you…the more likely you are to trust them. Attraction has nothing to do with physical appearances. It’s about feeling comfortable and calm around whoever you’re with. If a woman can get you to be yourself around her without any filters…that’s when you know you’ve succeeded.”

Is any of this true? Maybe, maybe not, I couldn’t tell you firsthand. But does it make me feel good for the time being? You’re damn right it does. Being crushed on in high school made me feel good at the time. Now I have to find other ways to feel good. And when I find them, I want to hold onto my happiness for as long as I can. Finding temporary happiness may not always be attractive to the world around me. Then again, it doesn’t have to be. At the end of the day, the only one who gets to decide my worth is me. The sooner this is hammered into my brain, the better off I’ll be. Maybe happiness isn’t six-pack abs and a leather jacket. Maybe happiness is a bottle of Diet Coke and two pepperoni pizza Hot Pockets. I can do this…I have to do this…

If I can get one more jab in to solidify my TKO victory over poor self-esteem, Bill Maher has no business calling fat people ugly when he himself looks like a creature that crawled out of a mausoleum because a necromancer told him it was a good idea. He would know what a necromancer is if he didn’t thumb his nose at genre fiction. But even with his willful ignorance towards my generation, he knows deep down that he should be the one mourning his loss of beauty, not me. Oops! I guess the beauty bias is alive and well! Uh-oh!

Brainwashed By Television

Swordfights are fun! Fairytale romances are fun! Fairytale romances that happen as a result of swordfighting are fun! Buy this cheeseburger! Buy this appliance! What a splendid pie! Pizza pizza pie! Every minute, every second, buy, buy, buy, buy, buy! You feel hungry yet? If so, what are you hungrier for: a Disney princess or an extra large pepperoni pizza? Having a hard time deciding? Don’t worry, because the television will decide that for you. I can’t speak for the entire population, but I must confess that I’ve been brainwashed by television. It’s not just the juicy bacon double cheeseburgers on screen that capture my imagination. It’s not some random guy saying, “Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop ‘em in your mouth!” when referring to popcorn shrimp. It’s the ultra spicy women. It’s the romantic storylines those women are a part of that make me want it for myself.

The other day, my brother and I were driving home from Wendy’s (as a result of being brainwashed by their commercials). He mentions to me that he has a friend who doesn’t want to be in a relationship with women anymore because it keeps him from doing all the things he wants to do with his life. Disney movies like Aladdin and Snow White will show you the magical side of romance. They’ll show you the heartstrings being pulled, the stars in the lovers’ eyes, the irresistible physical beauty, and the all-important happily ever after. I explained to my brother that the reason I was interested having a relationship for myself is because I was brainwashed by television into believing that. One romantic relationship onscreen is questionable on its own. But when you get hit with that kind of message over and over again for a long period of time, you start to believe it. First it’s Aladdin and Jasmine bonding over their economic statuses. Then it’s Marty Deeks and Kensi Blye from NCIS: Los Angeles bonding over their traumas (because love totally cures everything, right?). I’m not ragging on people who genuinely enjoy romantic storylines. I’m just relating my experiences, that’s all.

You know what those Disney movies don’t tell you about relationships? They’re work. They’re a LOT of work. Basically, you’re responsible for another human being. If you have children together, you’ll be responsible for a LOT of human beings. You have to make compromises and sacrifices in order to keep your partner happy. Your partner has to do the same. Sometimes these sacrifices means scaling back on dreams you’ve previously had, whether it’s world travel, a music career, an acting career, or whatever. Some people can juggle a relationship with their ambitions. Some people can’t and they remain miserable. Where would I fall under those categories? That’s the thing: I wouldn’t know because I’ve only been in two relationships my whole life. One of them was an online romance and the other was casual dating. I’ve never felt like my freedom was limited or even tested in the slightest, but only because it hasn’t had that chance. It’s weird, because I turned down dates left and right in middle school because I thought my individuality was going to be threatened. Would it have been? I don’t know.

So where did we get this idea that romance is the be-all-end-all of life goals? Obviously, we’ve been pounded over the head with this idea from when we were small up until adulthood. But let’s examine this further, shall we? It’s what authors do best. Think about your favorite piece of media, whether it’s a movie, TV show, videogame, book, or otherwise. Ever notice that anytime an attractive woman is featured in those stories, most of the time she’s shoehorned into a relationship with a male character? Take Super Street Fighter II, for example. There are only two female characters in that whole game: a kung fu practitioner named Chun Li and a British Intelligence officer named Cammy White. Both characters are physically attractive and the programmers made extra sure to put them in revealing outfits, Chun Li in a bottomless Chinese dress and Cammy in a thong leotard. When Chun Li is the one who kills M. Bison (the main boss), she goes on to become a “single girl” (at least that’s one of her endings). When Cammy defeats Bison, he reveals to her that they “used to be in love”. The only male characters who are given the romantic treatment are Vega (who’s a narcissistic Spanish ninja) and Ken (a karate master who marries his fiancé Eliza). Vega and Ken aren’t nearly as sexualized as Cammy and Chun Li are, and the latter two are the only females in the game. Draw your own conclusions.

But it’s not just videogames. It’s any kind of media you can think of. The original Star Wars movies feature Princess Leia in a golden bikini. Also, she has a romantic storyline with Han Solo. Coincidence? Sure, why not? WWE is notorious for doing romantic storylines with their attractive female roster. As I’m writing this, there’s sexual tension between Buddy Murphy and Aalyah Mysterio (Rey’s daughter). Why did they decide this? Who knows? What about NCIS? Ziva David is an Israeli assassin who joins the team. She’s also an attractive female who’s got a slow burn going on with a male cohort, Tony DiNozzo. Why is this happening? Why is this spread across virtually all media? Why do some of these characters have to be shoehorned together? Sometimes the chemistry is there and it makes for a good storyline. But not all the time. Sometimes you’ve got Kickboxer: Vengeance. Sometimes you’ve got Fifty Shades of Grey. Sometimes you’ve got…(gulp)…365 Days, where the lead female is being held hostage by the lead male and is given that amount of time to fall in love with him. Romanticizing Stockholm Syndrome! Yum! Ugh…

I get that romance is a part of life. I get that it makes for good media. I get that people have ambitions to be a wife or a husband, a mother or a father. I’m not knocking anybody who believes in these dreams. To each their own. But for me personally, the reason I want a romance for myself is because I’ve been brainwashed by TV. If I think about it, there’s no reason why my personality will mesh well with a Cammy White or a Ziva David. There’s no reason why any You Tuber would want to travel X number of miles just to hook up with me. I say these things not to whine or complain. I say them because realistically, it’s true. Or to paraphrase a line from George Costanza, “Three hundred pound men with no job, no car, and who live with their parents don’t approach strange women.” I hate even saying that, because I can always point to characters like Otis from the WWE and Aladdin from the Disney movies as examples of men who break barriers to get the beautiful girl. It can happen. But not always. It’s not a surefire outcome. I’ve been beaten over the head with romance so many times in my life that I once believed that there’s someone for everyone. Who’s out there for me? Is she American? Is she Icelandic? Is she Russian? And if I do find this person, how long will she last with me before I annoy the piss out of her? There’s no such thing as job security when it comes to the role of a boyfriend or girlfriend.

But I can still dream. As a matter of fact, I do dream. All the time. I have a very active imagination whenever I’m given alone time. You know what I do with that imagination? I fantasize about resting my head on a woman’s lap while she plays with my hair and says sweet things to me. Who is this woman? It could be a You Tube crush. It could be a celebrity crush. It could be a musical crush. Why do I think about doing this with any of my crushes? Because they did it on an episode of Millennium called “A Room with No View”, though that could hardly be called romantic. Lucy Butler, a demonic seductress, holds one of her captives’ head in her lap and she cuddles with him while giving him kisses and talking sweetly to him. That’s right. I based a romantic fantasy off of a television show about serial killers. If that’s not brainwashing my television, I don’t know what the fuck is. If you’ve seen that episode and are suffering from Stockholm Syndrome yourself, you know why.

I guess the moral of the story is to do your research on what you want before you commit to it. That can apply to romance, but it can also apply to other aspects in life whether it’s a travel destination, a job, a hobby, or a concert to name a few. Only you can decide what’s right and what’s wrong for yourself. Only you can make decisions with your life going forward. If you want a relationship, that’s great. If not, that’s great too. What do I want? I’ll figure it out as soon as I undo my brainwashing by television.

"Gary the Four-Eyed Fairy and Other Stories" by Frank Mundo

BOOK TITLE: Gary the Four-Eyed Fairy and Other Stories
AUTHOR: Frank Mundo
YEAR: 2011
GENRE: Fictional Short Stories
SUBGENRE: Contemporary
GRADE: Mixed

Let’s talk for a minute about the writing style of this book. It is easy to digest, which means reading sessions will generally last longer for audience members who tire too quickly. However, there are times when the style is a little TOO easy to digest. If we’re talking actual digestion, I was hoping for the middle ground between tough dry meat and a breath strip. Unfortunately, I got the breath strip end of the spectrum. There are times where he tells instead of shows (especially in the opening story). There are fight scenes and other dramatic moments that go by too soon. Some of the language sounds like it’s objectifying women. And then we have the repetition. In case you didn’t know it, the little girl in the first story smells like bologna. Don’t believe me? The author will tell you a gazillion times. This could be a literary technique I’m not privy to, but Frank Mundo does this throughout the entire book and it’s more noticeable than Gary’s bruises in one of the later stories. Because of these elements in the writing style, stories that were supposed to be emotionally impactful came across dryly.

Awkward writing style aside, that doesn’t mean I couldn’t pick out favorites when it comes to entries in this collection. The second story, Remorse, has two different narratives going on at the same time and they’re both tragic in the way they end. One narrative is about a college student falsely accused of rape and the other is about a sickly grandmother who wants JT (the main character) to kill her and put her out of her misery. Remorse was painful to read about and I mean that in the good way. I consider it one of the best stories in this entire collection. But it’s not without its glaring problems, namely the way Frank Mundo handles the subject of rape accusations and the intricacies of consent. In his mind, if someone gets drunk on beer and has sex afterwards, all bets are off and there is no case. Not the most sensitive way to handle such a topic. While false rape accusations do happen (albeit rarely), it does make me wonder how Frank Mundo views women and it worries me. He even refers to the accuser by a particular below the belt body part. The story still hit me where it hurts given how both narrative threads ended, but still, it can also rub people the wrong way in a negative light.

A Friend in Need, on the other hand, was appropriately handled. It’s a story about a college kid trying to write a letter to the parents of his deceased roommate. What’s the catch? The deceased roommate, Walter Garcia, has a drawer full of child pornography. The main character has to carefully word his letter so that he doesn’t offend the parents while also not masking his own disgust with Walter. And because he’s writing the letter on an old-fashioned typewriter, he keeps throwing away the pages whenever he makes a mistake or hates his writing in general. This story is one example where the simplistic writing style doesn’t hamper the emotional impact of it all. Frank Mundo can get away with it this time around. Not all the time, but this time around. The simplistic style allows for a speedy narrative and that’s the kind of pace you want when talking about a guy who’s struggling with his racing thoughts. This story is another one of my favorites from the collection.

There are times when it’s hard to enjoy this book, but enjoy it I did. Throughout my reading journey, I kept asking myself what kind of grade I would give it. Would I fail it because of the haphazard writing style? Would I pass it based on the content alone? After wrestling with myself in a mat classic, I settled on three stars out of five. Not the worst, not the best. It’s simply just there. Having given this book a mixed grade, would I recommend it to other readers? I guess it depends on the reader in question. In general, though? That’s going to require some more self-wrestling.

Zombie Sex

VERSE 1

We need to talk about aliens and lizard men

I don’t even believe nor will I try to pretend

We need to talk about your conspiracy theories

And how you should save them for stories and queries

You can play with my brain like a lump of clay

Just kidding, little lady, there ain’t no fucking way

You believe in the strange, but not a witch’s hex

It was all supposed to lead up to zombie sex

Come here, baby

Zombie sex

VERSE 2

We need to talk about guns and the ammo inside them

And how you wear a big ass trench coat to hide them

Who exactly are you defending your white ass from?

If you need some gas money, I can loan you some

You can spray paint my brains all over the sidewalk

Just kidding, sweetheart, put away the body chalk

You can shoot like a cowboy sheriff named Tex

But I won’t give into your calls for zombie sex

Come here, lovely

Zombie sex

VERSE 3

We need to talk about the k-pop you blast from your speakers

And the trippy techno beats you play for the tweekers

And the hip-hop bass shattering my bedroom windows

If you explode my brain, that would make you a widow

Burn me a copy of what you’ll put on the loop

Just kidding, baby cakes, I like heavy metal groups

You can blow my eardrums on records and tape decks

I won’t change my tastes for a night of zombie sex

Come here, angel

Zombie sex

FINAL VERSE

I march to the beat of my own two bass drums

I won’t conform to you, do you think I’m dumb?

A real lady wouldn’t ask her man to change

Even if it means the love is far out of range

I don’t have the body of an incubus seducer

I just have the mind of a creative producer

When you take that away, what will you take next?

An hour of my time for vanilla zombie sex?

No way, baby

No zombie sex this time

No way, sweetheart

No tradeoff for my mind

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”-