My Name In Your Mouth

***MY NAME IN YOUR MOUTH***

Before I begin with the body of this blog entry, I want everybody to know that this isn’t aimed at anybody in particular nor is it meant to be an attack in the first place. This is about something that’s been going on in my mind for quite a while now. I’m sure a lot of my writer friends can relate, or at least I hope they do. But anytime somebody mentions me in association with my writing in real life or in a You Tube video…I panic. I get this anxious sensation in the pit of my tummy and my first instinct is to turn around and run away (or cringe if I don’t have an available exit). These people could be saying the nicest, friendliest things about my work, but I’m still Clockwork Oranged into believing it’s worth being nervous about. Why is that?

I’m no stranger to criticism and I’ve had a lot of it in my career. But I’m also at a place in my life where I’ve come to depend on critiques and notes like the mature adult that I am. Although critiques are necessary to any author’s success, it doesn’t make the nervousness go away. In fact, the longer I have to wait for it, the higher the anxiety builds. Yes, I know I sound like a sensitive snowflake with thin skin and a strong need for a safe space. If I could choose to be more durable, I’d be fucking invincible. It never gets easier for me with age and I can’t understand why.

I’ll always remember a time in late 2010 when I wrote music-themed fan fiction and posted it live on Face Book. One of those stories was called “Awake and Alive” and it was about a young man named Junie Fritz, who wanted to break his own shyness by going to a Skillet concert in Seattle and making friends with a cute girl named Shawn Tucker. My brother’s girlfriend at the time Susan (who doesn’t live with us anymore) caught me in the hallway and said, “So I read your story about Junie!” Without missing a beat I wave goodbye to her and try to retreat into my room. Turns out she liked the story and wanted to praise it (despite the fact that Junie rode a fucking ATV to the arena).

Another example of wanting to cringe and/or retreat was Mother’s Day earlier this year, when I gifted my mom a copy of Poison Tongue Tales. She’s one of my biggest fans and wanted to see a sample of what I’ve published, so I gave her that. She was so happy to have it and immediately jumped into the Two-Sentence Horror Stories section. I cringed hard when she read some of those stories out loud, not because of her, but because I was listening to my own writing and I wanted to get the fuck out of there. It’s like I’ve been conditioned into thinking my own writing sucks by the various haters I’ve had over the years.

Still to this day I have that anxious feeling whenever somebody wants to talk about my writing in real life or on You Tube. Sometimes I feel this way whenever it’s in written form. For a guy who’s trying to market myself to the public so that I can get as many book sales as possible, this is quite the barrier. I should WANT to have my name in people’s mouths. I should WANT the free advertising. I should WANT to have the limelight on me 24/7. But I feel tiny every time my writing comes up in conversation.

Sometimes it’s not even a low self-esteem issue. Sometimes I write a personal story in an email or social media post and there’s a certain part of that story that makes me nervous to talk about it. Just the other day, I wrote an email to my mother detailing why I didn’t want to go on dates when I was in middle school. The biggest reason was because my dad was going through nasty shit with his ex-wives at the time, so I didn’t want to pay alimony or child support to another woman (even though I was fucking thirteen). I told mom that I didn’t want to play second fiddle to a girlfriend who would no doubt prevent me from achieving my college dreams. It didn’t help matters that I watched the Millennium episode “A Room with No View” right around that time and saw Lucy Butler get touchy-feely and kissy-kissy with her hostages. Obviously, things have changed since then and if the opportunity presented itself, I’d definitely go on a date with a nice woman. But still, that was quite the revelation for my mother.

So why all the nervousness? Why all the fuss? Why can’t I just put on my suit of armor and deflect bullets like Superman? Why can’t I just…you know…”toughen up”, like a stereotypical male would say in a Skillset Magazine article? Did my mental illnesses make me this way? Am I just a naturally sensitive person? Do I have too much empathy? Does anybody else feel this sense of panic whenever they hear their own writing? Have I really been Clockwork Oranged into believing I suck? What’s going on here? I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying….well, that would be a good time to retreat to your room and lock the door. No mountain climbing until you calm the fuck down.

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER PROGRESS***

As of today, I’ve written the prologue and first two chapters of this reloaded project. The third chapter will see an argument take place between Torger Manson and Shelly Atwood. Torger wants Shelly to be a businesswoman first and a lover second if she’s going to deny him access to the sex slaves. If you’re not cringing right now, check your pulse. Shelly has already forcibly deflowered Windham, so any conversation she has with Torger about sex will give you the feeling of spiders crawling on your skin. Wish me luck!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Between suicide and all your dirty lies. Are you looking sad for girls? Are you looking bad for sympathy? Between suicide and secrets that you hide. Are you feeling pain like birds? Are you trading pearls for misery? It’s getting hard to say open your eyes. Needles haven’t fixed anything. I guess we’re millions of faces waiting somewhere for somebody else’s place to feel like home. Love is a refuge with fears and doubts. It’s the Jesus on your necklace. Love is a silence to your cry outs. Sleepless hideouts. The cheapest, the fabulous.”

-Your Favorite Enemies singing “Open Your Eyes”-

The Land of Milk and Medication

VERSE 1

Take me by the hand to dreamland

Tell me a story of fantastic glory

Everything is ours for twelve hours

The recesses of my mind are all mine

Give me a reason to greet the season

Give me a tale I can write without fail

I do it for a living, it’s all I am giving

Buy from the hovel of paperback novels

CHORUS

The land of milk and medication

Is where I do my best meditation

From reality I take a vacation

To a brand new mystical destination

VERSE 2

Milk and honey for my cinnamon bunny

Milk and Xanax for my creative annex

Milk and cereal for the morning ethereal

Milk and fudge to give my face a smudge

Every day is Christmas, night is Halloween

Thanksgiving is somewhere in between

No Valentines for the girl I shall pine

No firecrackers from patriotic attackers

CHORUS

The land of milk and medication

Is where I do my best meditation

From reality I take a vacation

To a brand new mystical destination

BRIDGE

When the sun is kissing, something is missing

Is anybody watching? Is anybody listening?

Where will I get today’s creative fuel?

Must keep the mind sharp, it’s my only tool

EXTENDED CHORUS

The land of milk and medication

Is where I do my best meditation

From reality I take a vacation

To a brand new mystical destination

A world of wonder and musical thunder

Realm of magic born from something tragic

Imagination is my favorite medication

Milk and pills still give me the chills

Masticators of the Universe

“Eat well, my pretties. Dinner is on me,” said Lara Spider with a grin as her tarantulas munched on potato chips like wild dogs. She could understand the trepidation of the fellow customers around her in the Brew Pub that night. Grown men inching away from her. Grown women twisting their faces in disgust. To be honest, the solitude was alright with her. If it meant no sloppy jowled, beer breathed man was going to hit on her in public, so be it. She even kissed one of her tarantulas and said, “I love you all so dearly.”

Lara didn’t even feel bad about her appearance that evening, nor should she ever have to be. A pretty pink dress made from the finest layers of silk, high heeled shoes that she slid her bare feet in and out of, and flowing chocolate colored hair that looked as delicious as the actual dessert. But once those spiders crawled around her table, she felt safe enough to be bare naked if she wanted to be, which she didn’t. “Looks like it’s just us tonight,” she said with a dainty smile.

The tarantulas scurried and sprawled into her dress once everyone the sounds of vomit-like coughing and snot gurgling erupted over the pub. “Oh no, not him again,” whispered Lara. Such wishful thinking never came to light. Bursting through the front door smelling like blood-flavored whiskey and pus-scented perfume was Tor Vemola, the bastard son of the once prominent celebrity family, the Vemola Dynasty. His blond hair covered in sewage, his blue skin ripped and shredded, his clothes disheveled and moldy, if he wasn’t royalty, he could have easily passed as a bum on the streets. “At least the bums need the money more than he does,” Lara thought to herself.

Those disgusted sentiments echoed among the pub customers, each of them backing away and holding napkins over their mouths and noises, making just as sickening noises as Tor did before skulking in the establishment. “Bunch of fucking drama queens! Har-har-har!” snorted Tor before gagging on his own snot yet again.

The young barmaid slowly approached him and struggled to get her words out as her lips trembled. “Um…what can I…get you…today?”

“I want two big fat breasts!” bellowed Tor, which caused everyone’s eyes to shoot up in horror.

“Um…pardon me?” squeaked the barmaid.

“You heard me! I said I want two big fat chicken breasts! I’m an American, I can eat big fat breasts if I want!”

“Oh, uh…hehe…chicken breasts, of course…we actually have some coming out of the oven right now…let me go check on them.”

Before she could leave, Tor grabbed her by the wrist and burst out, “Wait a minute! Aren’t you going to ask what I want to drink?”

“Uh…I think you’ve had enough to drink already, Mr. Vemola.” The zombie-like creature growled at her before she said, “You know what? Here, have some beer. Heh…” She poured him a pitcher of golden ale as fast as she could before hurrying to check on the status of the chicken breasts…or look for an exit, either one.

Tor took a long liquidly snort of the beer and Lara’s insides grumbled like a machine as she held her hand to her mouth. She could feel her dinner rising to the surface when the creature guzzled his beer and made throat noises like a double bass drum solo. Within seconds, the beverage was swimming and sloshing in his gut loudly enough for everyone to hear. Some patrons got up and left, making throaty noises of their own. Not Lara. She sat at her table and watched this piggish man with cruel intentions.

The barmaid hurried to the counter with a plate full of chicken legs as big as telephone poles. She giggled nervously and said, “Enjoy your meal…Mister…Vemola…” He tried to grab her wrist to ask for something else, but she hurried out the door screaming in sheer terror.

“Wonder what that bitch’s problem is,” barked Tor, much to Lara’s cringing disgust. If she thought she was in an unappetizing mood before, she finally had the misfortune of listening to Tor chomping away at fried chicken and smacking his lips together as hard as he humanly could.

Lara believed the next time she opened her mouth would be the last time anything of substance stayed in her stomach. But she had to say something, if not for the other customers than for her own sanity. A few lip smacks later, she said, “Please! For god’s sake! Chew with your mouth closed!”

“It’s a free country, you feminoonoo. I can eat however I want!” Another alligator bite, another long minute of his lips and tongue smacking together like crash cymbals. And another bite. And another. And another. For somebody who could finish a beer within seconds, he sure loved to take his time eating a plate of fried chicken.

The bile rising in her neck, Lara mustered up the strength to say one more time, “Chew with your mouth closed…or else!”

Tor turned around in his stool with a green-toothed grin and said, “What are you going to do, report me to the Social Justice Police? Maybe you’ll want to make a citizens arrest or some shit like that. Why don’t you come on over and…slap some cuffs on me!” The last sentence was punctuated with a swirl of his pig slop tongue.

Lara couldn’t keep it together any longer. Her stomach pounded and throbbed. Her blood and sweat ran colder than her sweet iced tea. She leaned over and puked all over the ground, losing what could have been an enjoyable meal had it not been for Tor Vemola and his gross eating habits. She puked again. And again. And again, until her mouth tasted like battery acid.

“Hey, sweet patooties! Barf with your mouth closed! You’re triggering me and offending my sensitive areas!” mocked Tor before hee-hawing and slapping his bloody knee.

“You think that’s sick? You haven’t seen a damn thing yet!” growled Lara as she extended her long sleeve and unleashed her tarantula magic upon the “patriotic” zombie. The little creepers scurried and tap-danced across the wooden floor, yet Tor’s facial expression amounted to a simple “meh”.

“Is this hocus pocus shit supposed to scare me?!” he bellowed before scooping handfuls of arachnids and eating them like candy, venom oozing from his already sloppy sewer hole. There must have been a whole army of little buggers and Tor just devoured the whole lot of them….all while smacking his lips and clicking his tongue for extra effect.

Lara could only drop to her knees and stain her dress with what was once a delicious meal. She quivered, “No…no…not my babies…not my beautiful babies…”

Tor’s expression softened, but Lara didn’t want to believe it behind her damp eyes. “Now, now, darling,” said the burping zombie. “If it’s a baby you want, I can give you that. I believe we should all be making babies, including a pretty little thing like you. It’s all part of the master plan.”

As he slowly approached her while squishing spider corpses beneath his boot, Lara crab walked away from him until she was trapped in the corner of the restaurant with nowhere to go. This man was so disgusting that the place had completely emptied out on account of nobody wanting to be around a man who ate like that. “What am I doing here,” Lara muttered to herself. “I need to get out of here…what’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you, sweetheart. In fact, I love you just the way you are. If you’ve got anymore of them spiders handy, I’d love to have them chicken fried. I bet you’re a goddess in the kitchen! Actually, probably not since you came to a restaurant tonight instead of staying home.”

Tor pulled his jorts down and revealed something resembling a burned sausage with warts and pus protruding everywhere, maybe even a mushroom sprouting in the forest of greasy hair. Lara covered her eyes and squealed, but the zombie paid no mind to her fear and advanced forward. “Come on, baby girl. Let’s do this for the man upstairs. Let’s make some babies!”

Lara slowly removed her hands from her eyes and took one last look at the diseased organ. A shy smile crept upon her face as she crawled over to have a better look. On her knees with a bigger smile than before, she said, “You’re right…let’s make babies…You heard him, Pepper!”

“Huh? Pepper?”

In one fluid motion, Lara grabbed Tor’s peter and ripped open one of his pus-filled wounds before inserting her last tarantula. The zombie screamed and danced as the little bastard crawled inside his flesh, chewing, digging, burrowing, injecting poison like an inoculation for the social disease, laying eggs for “the man upstairs”.

“You sick prick!” shouted Tor as he dug inside his wound to try to get the tarantula out of his system. Lara’s grin turned mischievous as poison rotted her foe inside out. Poison sprayed from every open wound in his body. Goop sloshed on the floor like a wading pool. It looked as though he was going to drop dead at any moment. And then…

“I’m just messing with you,” laughed Tor, much to the wide-eyed horror of his victim. “What? You actually thought that little shit kicker was going to do me in? I’ve got more diseases than a chemical weapons factory. There ain’t nothing you can give me that’s any grosser than what I’ve already got!”

Knowing her spider magic could only take her so far, Lara shot up to her feet and bolted for the door, only to be tackled to the ground by a powerful force. “No! Get off me!” she shouted, secretly wishing Tor would just get this over with. But oddly enough, the sloppy odor was replaced with a French perfume smell. The barmaid! With one shotgun blast, Lara screamed her head off yet again as blood, pus, and sewage sprayed the inside of the restaurant. A resounding thump on the ground signaled the end of this would-be rape struggle.

Lara felt a gentle hand pat her on the back while saying, “It’s okay…it’s okay…you can get up now. He’s gone.” The barmaid helped her to her feet and the two of them surveyed the damage to this once lovely restaurant: vomit, blood, gonorrhea goblins, god knows what else.

The barmaid lowered the shotgun and tearfully said, “The board of health is going to kill me for this…if not them…then that damn Vemola family. Bunch of do-nothing celebrities think they own everything. Famous for being famous and rich enough to sue our asses off…what have I done?”

Lara hugged the barmaid and said, “I’ll bet you anything those other Vemola jerks aren’t as diseased as their bastard son was. I’ll bet they’re just a bunch of posh snobs.”

“So what? That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, but I think it does…” Lara broke her embrace and smiled at the barmaid. “If they can’t handle their own bastard son…what makes you think they’re going to be able to handle a little…arachnomancy?!” Lara punctuated her sentence with a wink. “They can take us to court all the want. They can bend the legal system to their wills. But they wouldn’t last five seconds on a giant spider web without having a heart attack. Trust me, babe, there’s more where that came from!”

Everybody Knows Your Name

VERSE 1

Caught in a spider web of lies and rumors

Cut that shit out like an overgrown tumor

The harder you fight, the stronger they come

It’s a raging epidemic of sheeple so dumb

There is no escape from the worldwide prison

That thrives and survives on political schisms

You can run for your life or for your own death

Either way, you’re face-down like the rest

CHORUS

Everybody knows your name

Everybody spreads your shame

Everybody plays mind games

Everybody kills your fame

Everybody get down!

VERSE 2

You’ve got your own pornographic cinema

Gone are the days of being a private citizen

Gone are the days of endless wealth

Gone are the days of your mental health

Anxiety closes in on your cracking mind

Depression isn’t too goddamn far behind

Schizophrenia talks to you all hours of the day

A broken soul is the price you shall pay

CHORUS

Everybody knows your name

Everybody spreads your shame

Everybody plays mind games

Everybody kills your fame

Everybody get down!

BRIDGE

I know it isn’t fair

As you rip out your hair

As you fall down the stairs

As nobody seems to care

VERSE 3

No comeback tour on this year’s calendar

No epic fanfare of any such caliber

No open arms to give you a warm hug

No bottles of beer to sloppily chug

Just you and your thoughts to keep you awake

Doesn’t matter how much Xanax you take

Dead in the water, dead in your bed

Dead to the world, dead in your head

EXTENDED CHORUS

Everybody knows your name

Everybody spreads your shame

Everybody plays mind games

Everybody kills your fame

Everybody wants your bounty

Everybody storms your county

Everybody fires their rounds

Drops your corpse to the ground

Everybody get down!

Goodbye WWE

***GOODBYE WWE***

I’ve been watching WWE television since 1991 with a brief vacation from the product during the Attitude Era. I’m sorry to say that now I’ll be taking a permanent vacation from the product here in 2018. I tried to hold on. I tried to see the silver linings. I tried to remain faithful purely out of habit and hope. But Raw and Smackdown have gotten so unbearable to watch that I just can’t do it anymore. I don’t care about the wrestlers as characters, the ones I do care about are being made into walking punch lines, and all of this under a three hour and two hour show respectively just makes watching WWE a miserable experience.

That’s not to say that I’m abandoning wrestling completely. This is the same form of entertainment that inspired me to write a novella called Occupy Wrestling, which isn’t doing so well in terms of sales or ratings, but it’s still my baby and I love it. There are certainly other wrestling shows outside of WWE. New Japan Pro-Wrestling constantly gets praised by hardcore fans, but the one promotion I really want to start watching is Lucha Underground, which is presented in the form of a dark fantasy serial drama rather than a pure wrestling show. I want some dark magic in my wrestling, damn it! I want necromancy! I want creatures! I want death (fictional, of course)! And the best part about this? Lucha Underground is on Netflix and I can binge watch it anytime I want. All I have to do is figure out how my brother’s TV works, because his is the only one that has Netflix access.

You won’t get necromancy in WWE. You know what you’ll get? Toilet humor. Unfunny kid jokes. Terrible storytelling. Lackluster pay-per-views. NXT call-ups who fail on the main roster. The list goes on and on until the end of time. I’m not even going to get into Most Disgusting Promotional Tactics this year, because those award nominations are peanuts compared to a boring product. I kept watching throughout the years because I hoped things would change and eventually get better. I’m still waiting for that change. I’m still waiting for Vince McMahon to step down and relinquish control to someone else. Nope. Not happening. I’ve waited too long and now it’s all over.

So what do I do now that WWE Raw and Smackdown are no longer going to play on my TV? I’ve already mentioned the possibilities of watching New Japan and Lucha Underground. But what about non-wrestling shows that I’ve missed out on over the years? James’s TV is capable of digging up those old shows and I can watch them anytime I want. I could finally watch “A Room With No View” from Millennium and cry my eyeballs dry while wanting to heal Landon Bryce. I could binge watch Outlander and cry even harder when Jamie Fraser gets raped at Wentworth Prison by Captain John Randall. I could watch Gilmore Girls and cry happy tears instead of sad ones. I could watch Dragon Ball Super and take back my anime fan card. I could watch Game of Thrones and bypass the slow-paced books altogether. Or I could cry my ass off once again watching a dark comedy show known as BoJack Horseman. Goddamn, that’s a lot of crying! Could my 2007 record be broken by one of these shows?

As long as I’m looking for hobbies outside of writing, reading, and fucking around on my computer, what else could I do to keep my brain from sinking into a depression? I could play the keyboard and get my musical magic working again. I could play videogames with my brother even though noobs are shunned by the gaming community. I could do some more photography, but with different subjects. I could carve things out of my five million soap bars. I could make plans to travel the world even though plane rides are a literal pain in the ass. So many possibilities, all of which could keep me entertained long enough to avoid overeating out of boredom. Yes, eating out of boredom is a real thing and it’s one of the reasons I’m still overweight.

Shit, man, there are a lot of things I could be doing that are better than watching WWE. I could shove a cactus up my ass. I could have my cat Piper perform a lobotomy on me with her claws. I could jam a screwdriver up my dickhole. I could listen to “Love Is Blue” by Paul Mauriat over and over again while having a cute girl tell me how much she loves my mediocrity, although that’s not fair to Paul Mauriat since that’s actually a relaxing song. I could do Tope Suicidas down the staircase, to reference wrestling once again. I could perform a circumcision on myself with a steak knife. I know I’m exercising my hyperbole muscles when I say these torturous things are better than watching WWE, but certain podcasters like Jason Solomon and Greg Morgan would actually agree with me if they read this.

I’m only one and a half pages into this rant and already I feel as though a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Goddamn, that was liberating! I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain! Or in this case, if you feel like dying, turn off WWE Raw!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER RELOADED***

I figured these blogs would be a good opportunity to track my progress on Beautiful Monster since I can’t post the chapters online. I’ll go ahead and say that the prologue is finally written and I have twenty-seven more chapters to write, including an epilogue. I like the fact that I could stretch Windham’s introspection out into 1,500 words, but I fear he’s still an emo kid of sorts. I’ll try to tone that shit down in the oncoming chapters. Chapter one is where Windham will get captured and taken to Shelly’s bedroom for sex slavery. Windham can bypass the dungeon altogether, because Shelly is head over heels in love with him. Sound familiar?

***CONCERT QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“I asked myself the question. I wrestled with myself. Should I put this out there? Should I put this out there? Should I put this out there? Are people going to embrace it or are people going to stab me in the fucking heart? And I said fuck it, I trust them. I’m putting it out there. And if it happened to me, it probably happened to someone else. Hopefully, this song will help anybody that this has happened to. I want you to know that you’re never alone. This is a song called Hush.”

-Chad Gray, lead singer from Hellyeah-

***POST-SCRIPT***

In case you follow my posts about concerts and are curious, no, I haven’t been to a Hellyeah show before and I might not get the chance now that Vinnie Paul Abbot is dead. That makes me sad. Who’s cutting onions around here? I’m not crying, you’re crying! I’m not watching Outlander, you are! I’m not watching A Room with No View, okay, you get the point by now. Rest in peace, Vinnie Paul.

Happy Thanksgiving 2018

***HAPPY THANKSGIVING 2018***

With all of the political splooge going on in the world today, it’s easy to forget the positives in life. There were times when I forgot as well and took everything I had for granted. It took me a long time to get my positive energies realigned this year, but better late than never. In spite of everything, I have lots to be grateful for in 2018 alone. Isn’t that what Thanksgiving is supposed to be about? You know, aside from the good food, good company, and lots of leftovers? After a few days of Turkey comas, I finally have the energy to write a blog and that in and of itself is something for me to be grateful for. So here they are: things I’m thankful for in 2018.

***ROCK CONCERTS***

Music is more than just a collection of noise. It’s therapy. It’s medicine for the soul. Every concert I go to is a pilgrimage into the holy lands. I’ve been to eight different rock concerts this year and they were all tons of fun. In February I saw Pop Evil and three nights later I saw Starset at the same venue. In May I saw Papa Roach and on Mother’s Day I saw Soulfly at the now defunct Studio 7 in Seattle. In July I saw Breaking Benjamin and Five Finger Death Punch on the same show and at the end of that month I saw Seether. In August I saw Halestorm and In This Moment on the same show and in September I saw Evanescence perform a symphonic version of their music. The Pop Evil concert will always be known for the crazy chick who tried to dance with me, but if not for that moment, I wouldn’t have had one of the three pieces necessary to write Beautiful Monster. The Seether concert will always be known as the time another chick wrapped her arm around mine while they played “Fine Again”. I actually enjoy being seduced by women at concerts, I just don’t know what to do with that attention once I get it. Eight concerts of badass rock and roll to set my spirit on fire: what more could I ask for?

***FAMILY***

Family is always a given topic to be thankful for every time November comes along. People like to look their noses down on adults who live with their parents, but if my parents are fun to hang around with, then what’s the fucking problem? This counts for both sides of my family, whether it’s the Haines clan here in Port Orchard or the Temons clan in Tacoma. And of course, no family is complete without a collection of fur babies. As of today, I have one dog and five cats living with me. That’s a lot of furry friends! Of course, that number used to be much higher, but over the course of this year, two of my cats and one of my dogs has passed away, all due to old age. Maggie the Springer Spaniel dog had to be put to sleep because she was too sick to carry on. Sitka died on her own after battling lung cancer. Smokey had a heart attack and collapsed on my floor. If there’s something to be thankful for in all of this, it’s that I got to give these animal babies a relaxing and comfortable life during their final moments on earth. As far as humans go, my Uncle Brian passed away earlier this month after he fell asleep at the wheel and had a collision with a semi truck. I’m thankful that I introduced him to the music of Within Temptation during his final moments alive. Sharon Den Adel’s voice can be a comfort to him in death. I’ll have to contact her on Face Book and tell her this story one day.

***ONLINE FRIENDS***

As well as the physical Haines and Temons families, I consider my online friends to be my secondary family. I made a new friend on Deviant Art named Patrick Doran and he’s been my biggest supporter when I wrote the first drafts for Silent Warrior, Beautiful Monster, and Incelbordination. Whenever I doubted myself, he was there to bring me to life while still being honest in his critiques of my products. Speaking of critiques, I’ll forever be in Marie Krepps’s debt after she gave Beautiful Monster the ass-ripping it so desperately needed. I don’t know what I’d do without that wonderful woman. I’d probably get one and two star reviews on my books. She’s that good when it comes to critiques. I’m also thankful to her and her business partner Aurora Styles for allowing me to be part of their Still Standing anti-bullying anthology (I wrote Savage Beatings). They were even there for me when I felt like quitting because I thought I angered the other authors in the collection for my offensive content. On the contrary, they were very understanding of me and still thought of me as a valuable asset. That’s what true friendship is all about, ladies and gentlemen: believing in each other even when the chips are down. Speaking of which, hopefully I’ve been a good friend to Kelly Damon a.k.a. Rainbow Skychild, an Author Tuber who recently went through a depressing breakup with her now ex-boyfriend Sean. I would hug her for the longest time if I lived anywhere near South Africa (her home country). So many online friends, so little time!

***WING WEDNESDAYS***

Back in…I want to say September of this year, my brother James and I started going to hot wing restaurants every other Wednesday with his group of awesome friends. I was shy around them at first like I normally am with new people, but these friends made it easy to come out of my shell. Apparently, I have a high tolerance for spicy foods and eating them without flinching will earn me a lot of respect. One night I ordered a platter of Death Wish wings, which are the spiciest flavor the Tracyton Pub has. I ate four of them and I gave one to James’s friend Ian. I was just sitting there with a “meh” expression on my face while Ian was watery-eyed and snot-nosed after just one wing. When other members of the group offered me their wings, I made a “come at me” motion with my hand and chowed down without tearing up. I also laughed like a crazed hyena at their jokes, which made them want me around even more. Of course, we didn’t have Wing Wednesday this week because Thanksgiving was the next day and lord knows the restaurants would have been packed. No worries, because we’ll be back in full swing the Wednesday after this one. I’ll be patiently waiting!

***CONCLUSION***

Things may be rough in the world today, but if you take your time and look hard enough, you’ll find something to be grateful for. And when you do, carry that feeling with you not just until next Thanksgiving, but for the rest of your life. The world desperately needs a dose of happiness after all we’ve been through. I’m Garrison Kelly. Be good to each other.

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

When you’re a politician greeting the public, don’t forget to kiss hands and shake babies. Wait a minute, do I have those things mixed up? Nah!

Incelbordination, Final Chapter

The Patron Saint of Involuntary Celibacy chased Valerie Sand down the empty streets, his breath becoming hungrier and hornier as he got closer to the bare-legged beauty. Every step led her into a nyctophobic nightmare while Antero Magnus grinned with fanged teeth at the loveliness of it all. He could smell her cold sweat and it was more intoxicating to him than any high-end perfume. Just like in true horror movie fashion, Valerie banged her knee against a light post and crumpled to the ground sobbing.

Antero’s Cheshire Cat grin widened as he savored this moment with slow, deliberate steps. Oh, what he wanted to do to this unfortunate victim. Where would his hands explore first? Her smooth legs? Her lovely feet? Her ample breasts? The buffet-like possibilities gave him a tingling sensation in his ball sack. “So beautiful, Ms. Sand…now you’re going to share that beauty with me whether you want to or not.” Even with tears raining down Valerie’s face, Antero saw no qualms about leaning in for what would surely be a passionate kiss. And then…

“Who are you calling beautiful?!” shouted a gruff voice that awakened Antero from his dream. The horny dream allowed him a temporary vacation from his real nightmare: a dark prison cell with a hairy muscle freak lying in the upper bunk bed. The terrorist took a while to catch his breath and dry his cold sweat. He even felt the scar across his face to see if it had scabbed and it did. Rough ridges of dried blood decorated his already creepy visage.

Antero’s cell mate leaned over the bunk bed and scowled at him, his hairy tattooed face a mosaic of true terror. “You must be having another one of your wet dreams. You keep that shit up and I’ll make sure you won’t be involuntarily celibate anymore! I’ve been looking for an excuse to jump you and now I might have found it.”

“Yeah, get yourself locked up in solitary. Great idea, champ,” scoffed Antero as he laid on his back with his hands behind his head.

The hairy beast laughed his ass off in a throaty, barbaric voice. “You really think these guards give a shit what happens to you in here? I could butt fuck you until your intestines fall out and nobody would come to your rescue. This ain’t no PC liberal-ass college campus, buddy. This is the big house.”

Antero swallowed a lump of saliva and feigned bravery when he said, “You’d better knock that shit off. I used to lead…”

“You used to lead what? A bunch of horny losers who are pissed off about not getting laid? Is that supposed to mean something to me?!” The cell mate jumped out of bed and stood over Antero with heavy breathing bouncing his colossal chest up and down. The incel leader backed up a little bit even though he was in the bottom bunk and had nowhere to go. “That pretty little mouth of yours doesn’t know when to shut up. It’s like it’s got a mind of its own. Why don’t you put that mouth to better use?”

The prisoner dropped his pants and underwear to reveal a forest of greasy hair underneath. Antero intentionally shielded his eyes so that he didn’t have to see what redwood that forest was hiding. He didn’t get much of a choice after that when the cell mate clutched Antero’s jaw and caused him to thrash around in the vice-like grip. “Shut the fuck up and stop moving around!” shouted the cell mate, orders which Antero blatantly ignored as he yelled for help.

“Like I said, nobody’s coming to save you! All your horny faggot friends are getting some of what you’re about to get. All the guards are busy making sure you don’t get out. That just leaves you and me, buddy, you and me. We make a perfect couple, don’t you think? You can be my housewife. You can scrub my dishes. You can do my laundry. You can…”

Shuddering at the idea of what he was about to do, Antero reached for the prisoner’s erection and bent it with so much force that it snapped in two. The screams that erupted from his throat afterwards transformed this prison into a bear enclosure. Antero’s cyan eyes lit up with psychosis as he watched his cell mate drop to his knees while clutching his broken junk.

The terrorist got out of bed and stood over his foe with a disgusted scowl. “You see this? This is what involuntary celibacy is all about. This is what I used to preach to my followers. I bet you got a lot of ass during your time under lock and key. But now those days are over. They’re especially over after you get out and find a real woman. Oh wait, I forgot…no woman will never want to date you again!”

As Antero laughed like a crazed movie villain, the prisoner threw a punch aimed at his gut. The arm moved too slowly to make a connection as Antero grabbed the prisoner’s elbow and twisted the arm into a bone crunching submission hold. The incel leader’s expression dripped with lust while the prisoner begged for his life. “No more jerking off for you!” said Antero as he hyper-extended the arm with a resounding crunch.

The cell mate laid on the ground in a broken heap of screaming and snapped body parts. Just like in his wet dream, Antero’s nether regions came alive with electricity. “You think I’m just a horny kid who can’t get what he wants? I’m a man’s man. I always get what I want in the end. Incelbordination isn’t going anyway anytime soon just because I’m stuck here with you. We are everywhere. And you? Now that you’re guaranteed a life of celibacy…you’re just one of the boys!”

“Fuck you, pal!” shouted the defiant prisoner, who received a few kicks to the ribs for his efforts.

“You know what?” said Antero. “I’m done playing games with you. I used to know a guy who was just as pathetic as you are right now. His name was Oswald Crow and I thought there was something special about him. Well, I’m done with thinking anybody’s special, including you. It’s a shame since you’ve got a few feet over Oswald. You could have been one of the great all-time Incelbordinates. But no…you’re just another victim of the system!”

Antero grabbed the prisoner by his unkempt hair and dragged him to the toilet while making straining noises. As grimy as the terrorist’s fingers became, it would be a nothing compared to having shit water cover his hands while he held his opponent’s face in the bowl. The prisoner kicked and gurgled with whatever strength he had left, but Antero refused to let up and even allowed his own eyes to roll in the back of his head for extra psychosis. The harder the prisoner struggled, the tighter Antero’s teeth clamped down. And then…the struggle stopped and the prisoner was limp, his lungs and mouth full of disgusting toilet water.

Antero shoved the prisoner to the ground and stood over him triumphantly. Giving a speech to nobody in particular, he shouted, “You see this?! This is what your prison system produces! He came here looking for an outlet and now Satan is shoving a trident up his ass! Anybody else want some?! Are you ready to give me the woman I deserve?! Or do you just want to sit there and bleed like this moron?!”

The cell door flung open and revealed a squadron of pissed-off looking prison guards carrying batons and pounding them against their own palms. The captain gazed down at the prisoner and then narrowed his venomous eyes at Antero, who looked as though he was just caught masturbating. “What do you want on your tombstone, you little shit? I’m asking for an undertaker who wants to bury you next to Uncle Tuomas.”

“You want a quote? You want a fucking quote?!” asked Antero with extra psychosis in his voice, never once causing the guards to flinch. “I got one for you. It’s about damn time you showed up!”

“Fair enough,” said the captain before whacking Antero across the stomach with his club. The terrorist felt as though he was going to vomit himself inside out after such a blow. And then another baton shot caught him clean across the back of the head. And then a kick to the shoulder rendered him useless. And then repeated stomps to the sternum slowed his heart rate down to dangerous levels. The terrorist could feel his eyelids getting heavier than a grand piano while his crunching bones created a melody of beautiful music.

The beating eventually stopped and Antero was dragged out of his cell by his wrists, his body bloodied and broken while his mind drifted in and out of consciousness. He might have met his maker, he might not have. He could feel the devil’s trident entering his sensitive areas and he wasn’t even dead yet. Before that all important dinner date with Satan himself, he heard a nearby prisoner whispering something that put a smile on his face: “Death to Chads and Stacys!”

THE END?