Thursday, May 16, 2019

Clockwork Orange Milk Over My Cereal


***BEFORE I BEGIN***

I know it’s been a while since you’ve last heard from me. And by a while, I mean only a few days, which doesn’t seem like much to the laymen in my life, but to me it’s an eternity. I’ve been busy lately. I currently divide my time between editing the shit out of Emilio and the Scratching Post (which I now want to rename to Emilio & Marigold) and taking naps in the middle of the day for no reason. The editing process has been just a tad overwhelming at times, even more so now that I’ve got a bunch of macro edits staring me in the face. But the good news is, I’ve learned how to create biographies for my characters. So now their actions have a purpose. Now my short story can be…a character-driven fairytale! Woo-hoo! Wish me luck! I’m going to need it! And now for a more lighthearted topic! We now return you to your regularly scheduled program.


***CLOCKWORK ORANGE MILK OVER MY CEREAL***

“Alcohol: because no great story ever started with a glass of milk.”

(Cue the picture of Alex De Large from A Clockwork Orange drinking Moloko Velochek.)

The other night, I was eating a bowl of Life cereal and the milk reminded me of that opening scene from A Clockwork Orange. And that got me thinking: what if I actually poured Moloko Velochek over my cereal and ate it? No, I have no idea where this thought will take me. It’s nothing more than a good idea.

My obsession with drug-laced milk didn’t end there. Last night I ate hot wings at the Tracyton Pub with my brother James, his friend Blake, and their mutual friend Jeffrey. I ordered fifteen breaded wings of the spiciest flavor the pub had: Death Wish. My mouth was on fire, my nose was dripping like a waterfall, and the next day my asshole was leaking lava. Milk is the only thing that will calm down a fiery mouth, so I drank two glasses of it at the pub and multiple glasses when I got home. I couldn’t help but hear the Clockwork Orange opening theme playing in my head as I downed the milk. That quickly changed when James drove me and Blake home at a bajillion miles per hour while playing “Rollin’” by Limp Bizkit at maximum volume. For the record, James hates Limp Bizkit.

Luckily, I didn’t go out for a night of “ultra-violence with my droogs”, fast driving aside. I also didn’t get brainwashed into becoming a pacifist, which would suck if I still watched WWE on a regular basis. The thought of becoming violently ill at Ricochet’s aerial offence or Braun Strowman’s powerhouse slams would be depressing as fuck. While it is hard to feel sorry for violent criminals, it’s even harder to feel good about brainwashing the fuck out of them to where they can’t even defend themselves. And while we’re at it, was it really necessary to play Alex’s favorite music during the torture process? Imagine if that happened to me. Not only could I not watch pro-wrestling, but I also couldn’t listen to heavy metal anymore. What a big bag of suck life would be.

I don’t really have any philosophical thoughts beyond all of this. I didn’t even anticipate how short this topic would be. So I’ll just call it a night and post this sucker on my social media accounts. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like throwing up, keep listening to…nah, don’t do that.


***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Say when! We’re outlaws wanted dead or alive under the cover of a blood red sky. Bring a knife to a gunfight and we still win. Pale horse is coming. Retribution for sin. Skin that smoke wagon. I said throw down, boy. You going to do something or just stand there and bleed? If you want to die, say when. If you want to play for blood, just say when. Say when! Domination to anything that’s in our way. Life mowers are coming and stocking the graves. It’s futile to run and there’s nowhere to hide. So get down on your knees and pray for your life. Should I hate him? He reminds me of me. Now I know I hate him. So now it’s time to bleed. If you want to die, say when. If you want to play for blood, just say when. This is how the war is won. Cultivate the blood that we feed on. Sanguis! Credat apaella non ego. Eventus stoltorum magister. In pace requiescat. I want your blood. I want your soul. Do you want to play for blood? I’m your huckleberry. Sanguis! Credat apaella non ego. Eventus stoltorum magister. In pace requiescat. Just say when!”

-Hellyeah singing “Say When”-

Saturday, May 11, 2019

Not Tonight


VERSE 1
All I want to do is lay on the couch
Keep the TV on while I’m zoning out
A precious fur baby on my chest
Relaxing this way is truly the best
Any other night would have been okay
Any other night, I wouldn’t want to stay
But for now it’s time to turn out the light
Not tonight, my sweetie, just not tonight

VERSE 2
All I want to do is read my novel
I shouldn’t even have to beg or grovel
I shouldn’t have to debate this with you
I’m an introvert and it’s nothing new
Any other night would be pure bliss
Any other night, I wouldn’t want to miss
But for now this isn’t worth a fair fight
Not tonight, my queen, just not tonight

VERSE 3
All I want is a bowl of ice cream
To satisfy my sweetest sweet tooth dreams
Peanut butter chocolate or plain vanilla
It’d be worth weighing more than a gorilla
Any other night we’d have a healthy meal
Any other night I’d submit to your deal
But for now sugary heaven just feels right
Not tonight, my lady, just not tonight

VERSE 4
You can call me lazy as I swim in gravy
You can call me a child innocent and mild
All I know is that I need my own space
All I know is that I need a comfy place
To rest my head and decompress my mind
Before anxiety crushes me from behind
I’m sure one day you’ll understand my plight
Not tonight, my lovely, just not tonight

Wednesday, May 8, 2019

Schizophrenic Playboy


RJ Redmond folded his arms and curled into his seat as an army of screaming wrestling fans polluted the air with their fried chicken breath, open bottles of beer, and overly-buttered popcorn. Was being in the front row really worth it? Was being in the nosebleed section really worse when there was a video monitor hanging over the ring?

RJ breathed deeply in an attempt to quiet his schizophrenic mind, always racing with wild thoughts the more these fans screamed. It didn’t help matters that the Jabba the Hutt look-alike sitting next to him grabbed RJ by the sleeve of his System of a Down T-shirt and shook him. The piggish wrestling fan also ruffled Mr. Redmond’s spiky green hair. RJ could do nothing but sigh and ride out this wave of testosterone.

The ringside announcer in a tux belted into a microphone, “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the ring: ‘The Nation of Temptation’ Luna Kat!” Every drunken male in the crowd came to life and quite possibly came in their pants at the announcement. RJ shrunk in his chair and sighed again. Calm down, it’s just a stupid fucking woman, he thought to himself. He ignored his own mental command as did everyone else in the arena.

With a hard rock remix of “Love Is Blue” by Paul Mauriat blasting over the speakers, the aptly named Nation of Temptation strutted down the aisle swinging her hips from side to side. As part of her sexy gimmick, she came to the ring wearing a black leather bra, a black leather thong, and fishnet stockings. Her pale white skin, long red hair, and puffy blue lips also did their job in getting the horny male crowd to go berserk. Isn’t she supposed to be a heel?, thought RJ.

Luna did the splits on the ring apron and then wormed her torso underneath the bottom rope. The fans’ screams really set off fireworks in RJ Redmond’s mind. Why am I even here? I should just get up and go, he said to nobody in particular. He failed to heed his own advice by the time Luna picked up a microphone and licked it to get some extra crowd attention.

The music died down and Luna smiled seductively at her audience, which did nothing in getting them to shut up. In fact, they chanted her name over and over again despite the fact that RJ himself said she was a heel, or villain in plain English. Luna couldn’t hold the microphone to her lips without being whistled and catcalled by the audience. She held her land to her mouth and smiled, selling it like the champ she wanted to be.

“Okay, boys, settle down,” she said in her sweetest voice, which surprisingly worked. “I came here tonight for a one-on-one match. But to be honest, it probably won’t last five minutes. Or two. Or even ten seconds. My opponent tonight is a lot like all of you: lazy, out of shape, and probably eating government cheese with a plastic spork.” That got a boo from the entire arena, RJ included. “In fact, just to show you all how easy this is going to be, I’m going to need a volunteer.”

Oh dear god, why did she have to say that? I fucking hate these sacks of protoplasm around me, RJ thought. He had every right to say those words as the crowd roared to life once again, every horny male pointing at themselves and screaming to be chosen.

Luna giggled as she scoped the audience. RJ was secretly grateful that her pretty jade eyes scanned the upper tiers first. She shook her head and wagged her finger in disgust as she moved to the middle tier. And then…the front row. She tapped her chin in contemplation and finally found the one man she’d love to make an example out of. “You!” she said in a low, steamy voice while pointing at RJ.

His insides locked up on him while his skin vibrated in absolute crippling fear. He shook even harder when obnoxious fans pointed at him and messed with his hair again.

“Come on, don’t be shy, love bug,” said Luna as she sat on the middle rope with her thong-wearing butt pointed directly at him.

RJ’s blood turned cold and sweat glistened off of his goose bumps while rowdy fans chanted, “Don’t be shy!” over and over again. With one last wave of her hand, Luna invited RJ into the ring. One leg over the barricade and he nearly stumbled onto the floor, which earned a chuckle from everyone around him. At this point he was convulsing with terror as he slowly made his way up the stairs and into the ring. The crowd laughed again when he entered through the side that Luna wasn’t sitting on. She laughed too and shook her head before wrapping her arm around his shoulders.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” asked Luna before holding the microphone to her mark’s mouth. His lips quivered and the crowd laughed at him even more. “You speak English, honey?”

“…R…RJ. My name is RJ.”

“Give it up for RJ, everyone!” said Luna while clapping her hands. The crowd booed at her new boy toy, causing him to shrink inside of himself again. “So RJ, you’ve seen the show before, I’m sure. Do you know how this goes by now?” No answer, just trembles and stuttering, which earned even more boos from the audience. “Come on now, guys, be nice. He’s obviously proving my point as to how easy of a match I’ve got coming up. I’d be nervous around me too if I was a lonely, sweet little virgin. This isn’t a Magic: the Gathering tournament, honey. If you’ve got something to say to me, say it.”

The sea of laughter that swallowed RJ Redmond whole sent his panicked mind into overdrive. First the fans laughed…then his head voices laughed…then the fans called him vulgar names…then his head voices called him vulgar names. RJ’s knees got so weak that he crumpled to the ground to the amusement of others. On his hands and knees, his high anxiety morphed into schizophrenic anger. His mental illness often led him to be Incredible Hulk levels of angry at little things. But the big things in life…

“I can’t fucking take it anymore!” RJ shouted as he began pummeling the canvas with his fists. He shrieked and foamed at the mouth while raking his nails across the ring. Pounding. Raking. Pounding. Raking. All of his psychotic energy concentrated on the spot next to Luna Kat’s feet. She soon backed up from that spot in fear and threw her arms in the air in the shape of an X.

RJ’s strikes and claws grew so intense that he managed to pull out pieces of the canvas along with pieces of his fingernails. He didn’t care that his fingertips bled. In his racing mind, everybody in this arena should have been on the receiving end of his fury, not the mat. More energy was expended. And more. And more. When his tank was quickly emptying, the fans booing gave him more energy to work with. And then…his arms and legs ached with lactic acid buildup. His breathing intensified. And in his ultimate low, he dropped his forehead on the ground and bawled his eyes out in front of this hostile crowd.

He didn’t notice paramedics helping him to his feet. He didn’t notice Luna Kat breaking the code of fiction known as kayfabe to show concern for something that was essentially her fault. His mind was too destroyed to notice the crowd still mocking him with hateful chants. Or were they mocking Luna? Who gives a fuck, it’s never really over, he thought to himself.

RJ had been wide awake throughout this whole disaster, this shit show in a fuck factory, but when his mind calmed down for just a few seconds, he found himself laying on his back on a padded doctor’s bench in the trainer’s room. His body ached worse than any wrestler who worked a match that night. He felt like he had been body slammed off of a skyscraper. His legs felt like they were twisted off and sewn back on Frankenstein-style. His arms hung off the bench like wet beach towels. He kept repeating to himself in an exhausted raspy voice, “I’m so angry…I’m so angry…I’m so angry…”

The face that came into his blurry view wasn’t that of a villainous wrestler. The raised eyebrows and sorrowful frown painted a picture of concern and genuine heartbreak. RJ thought he was hallucinating again when he saw Luna Kat’s face, but she held his hand and there was no mistaking it anymore. Still, he repeated the silent, tearful phrase, “I’m so angry…I’m so angry…I’m so angry….”

“I know you are…and I’m sorry about what happened to you,” whispered Luna uncharacteristically. “I feel awful right now. I took my role too far. You didn’t deserve that.”

“I’m so angry…I’m so angry…I’m so angry…” RJ squeezed Luna’s hand for extra effect, but she only gave a minor wince of pain.

“You have every right to be angry, RJ,” she said while petting his shoulder. “Your ride to the hospital is going to be here any minute now. I just…thought I should let you know how sorry we are about the whole thing. You’re probably not in the mood to accept apologies right now, but…I thought I’d put that out there…”

“I’m not angry at you, Luna…I’m angry at those fat bastards out there who think my suffering is funny…It’s like…they’ve never seen a schizophrenic before…”

Kat’s face sank as her eyes got a little dewy. “I honestly didn’t know you were mentally disabled. I thought you were just shy…I’ve always liked being around shy guys, but…not like this…I’m so sorry, RJ…I really am…”

“Nobody knows I’m schizophrenic. They know there’s something wrong with me, but they probably didn’t guess that until tonight…” RJ sniffed and wiped away a single tear with his weak hand.

“Look, if you want a refund for your ticket, you can…”

“I don’t need a fucking refund…getting my money back isn’t going to mean much to me…it’s not even my money…it’s the government’s. If you wanted to do me a favor…nah, I shouldn’t ask….”

A sad smile formed on Luna’s face. “What do you mean you shouldn’t ask? Is it something…you know…derogatory?”

“No…it’s not…at least I hope it’s not…”

“Well, what is it?”

Swallowing a peach-sized lump in his throat, RJ asked in a slow and jittery voice, “Would it be alright with you…if I…if I…rested my head on your lap until the ambulance gets here? You don’t have to say yes if you don’t want to. I promise…I won’t be pervy or anything, but…”

Luna shushed him and placed a finger on his drooling lips before wiping some of it away. “Of course you can. No problem. It’s hardly the worst thing someone’s asked me to do for them.” She smiled and sat on the padded bench, cradling RJ’s head on her lap and playing with his hair.

“Thank you…you…have no idea how much…this means to me…especially after tonight…I’m not trying to hit on you or anything, but…”

“It’s okay…I swear it’s okay,” whispered Luna. For the next few seconds, this was how they sat together. RJ would have smiled at this moment, but he was too weak to even curl his lips. So instead, Luna continued the conversation with, “You know…there’s already talk amongst the wrestling journalists. If it’s any comfort to you, what happened out there is being considered for a Most Disgusting Promotional Tactic award from the Wrestling Observer Newsletter. I know you smarks like to read that stuff.”

“Yeah…and WWE’s like, ‘Hold my beer. We’re going to Saudi Arabia.’”

Luna laughed. For the first time that evening, RJ allowed himself to laugh too. It wasn’t a hearty one, but it was a good start.

Goose Eggs and Donuts


VERSE 1
How many disasters did you save me from?
How many apologies did you give more than once?
How many times did you mean that you loved me?
How many bad memories actually led to something?

CHORUS
Zero!
Zero!
Goose eggs and donuts!
Goose eggs and donuts!

VERSE 2
How many times did you fail to seduce me?
How many times did you not fucking use me?
How many times did you pay me back?
How many times did you stop your attacks?

CHORUS
Zero!
Zero!
Goose eggs and donuts!
Goose eggs and donuts!

BRIDGE
Manipulation is education
To those with selfish desires
Capitulation is demarcation
To those who’re sick and tired

VERSE 3
How many times will I find my redemption?
How many times will I achieve my exemption?
How many times will I stay on my feet?
How many times will I get off my knees?
How many times will I see through the lies?
How many times will I even really try?
How many times will I eventually succeed?
How many times will I realize my dreams?

CHORUS X2
Zero!
Zero!
Goose eggs and donuts!
Goose eggs and donuts!

Tuesday, May 7, 2019

Rolling the Dice


***ROLLING THE DICE***

Last night I had quite the wonderful conversation with one of the CEO’s of Hollow Hills, Aurora Styles. Round three of editing is rapidly approaching for Emilio and the Scratching Post, so the two of us agreed it would be a good time to talk about character profiles. I’m bold enough to admit that creating characters is something that I struggle with. Sometimes my characters are relatable and three-dimensional, other times they’re either despicable as hell (despite being heroes) or bland and boring. Aurora has been writing a long time and has character creation down to a science. That’s because she treats her TV and movie viewings as “study time”. She pinpoints flaws and traits in the TV characters she likes to watch and (either subconsciously or consciously) adds them to her own characters.

Unfortunately, I don’t put that much time and effort into my own character creation. I should. I know now I should. But up until this point, I’d been doing something I like to call “rolling the dice”. It’s actually called pantsing, which is the opposite of plotting. Everybody’s a hybrid of the two when it comes to writing, but for me personally, I would be a plotter for the events happening in the story and a pantser for character creation. My characters would be listed in my pre-writes as a name, a race, and an occupation. The main character of Beautiful Monster was listed as Windham Xavier, Elf Mercenary. His rapist was listed as Shelly Atwood, Human Seductress. With this incredibly limited information at my disposal, I would rely heavily on subconscious influences to flesh out these characters, much to their detriment.

Aurora said it best when she told me that the fiction we consume has the heaviest influence on our writing, whether subconsciously or consciously. This could not have been truer for Beautiful Monster, to use that example again. My biggest influences as a young writer included WWE, Pulp Fiction, Tales From the Hood, The Shield, Pink Floyd the Wall, and pretty much anything where the dialogue is snarky and vulgar. Well, those subconscious thoughts leaked into my characterizations of Windham and Shelly. They swore like no tomorrow. They got angry at little things, not unlike a WWE wrestler. The lengths that they would go to in being vulgar had no limits. The result? Having to completely rewrite the first draft from scratch. Windham and Shelly were hardly the only ones to act this way. Torger? You’re damn right. Tarja? Hell yeah. Orpheus Rinehart? Absolutely. There was no distinction between these characters’ dialogue. If I had quoted text with no names next to them, you’d never know who they were.

My critique sessions with Marie Krepps (the other CEO of Hollow Hills) led to a complete overhaul of my characters while my conversation with Aurora enforced and confirmed everything I should have learned. To use Beautiful Monster as an example again, Windham is soft-spoken and quiet-voiced even during moments of anger. Shelly is a lot more tempting and classy than she was in the first draft. Christian and Kody Savage don’t have any dialogue at all; they’re just a couple of drooling zombie rednecks.

For Emilio and the Scratching Post, the same thing is true: a complete overhaul of characters’ personalities. While I can’t divulge major plot points due to my confidentiality agreement with Hollow Hills, I am willing to give you some appetizers. In the first draft, Sweet Pea (Emilio’s master) was a little brat who disrespected her elders and got away with everything. Now, the newly christened Marigold is a lot more fearful of the villains in her life and that’s something she wants desperately to overcome. Antonia, Marigold’s grandmother, started off as a bland and boring screamer. Now, she’s still a villain, but her eerily calm demeanor makes her more believable. She’s creepy during her coldest moments and a joy to be around when she needs to lie to the public. In Antonia’s case, I stole her characterization from Abel, Trevor Noah’s abusive stepfather in his memoir “Born a Crime”. Yikes!

Of course, Emilio and the Scratching Post (which has the funny as hell acronym EatSP) has only entered round three of editing. There will be more changes. There will be more rounds. The macro and micro aspects will be fine-tuned. This will all be done before June 1st, when Hollow Hills’s deadline for submissions comes to fruition. June 1st is also two days before my 34th birthday. Being a part of Hollow Hills’s anthologies will be the ultimate birthday gift for me. But before I can get to that milestone, I’ve got a lot of work to do…but not tonight. Tomorrow? Maybe. The next day? Could be. But not tonight. I’m physically drained after going for a long walk in the springtime heat. I need to be alert and alive if I’m going to make these macro edits to my manuscript. Until then, I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain! Or in this case, the scratching post to Uncle Thud’s catnip garden! There’s another thing that needs changing: Uncle Thud’s characterization. We’ll cross that bridge when a new day rises. For now, it’s about taking it easy.


***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

In between edits of EatSP, I’ve been writing chapters of Beautiful Monster and I’m currently on chapter twenty, where Queen Llewellyn Xavier is scheduled to make her first appearance in my story. The economic hardships have not been kind to her village. Her crops are covered in blight, her citizens are disappearing left and right, and she still hasn’t negotiated a trade deal with King Lars Stonewall. She’s ready to throw in the towel after so many failures…until a familiar face returns to her village with a traumatizing story to tell…


***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Summertime and the living’s easy. And Bradley’s on the microphone with Ras MG. All the people in the dance will agree that we’re well qualified to represent the LBC. Me and Louie run to the party. Dance to the rhythm, it gets harder. Me and my girl, we’ve got this relationship. I love her so bad, but she treats me like shit. On lockdown like a penitentiary. She spreads her loving all over, but when she gets home, there’s none left for me. Oh, take this veil from off my eyes. My burning sun will someday rise. So what am I going to be doing for a while? Said I’m going to play with myself. Show them how we come off the shelf. So what? Evil. I’ve come to tell you that she’s evil. Most definitely. Evil. Ornery, scandalous, and evil. Most definitely. The tension is getting hotter. I’d like to hold her head underwater.”

-Sublime singing “Doin’ Time”-

Monday, May 6, 2019

"Preacher, Vol. 9: Alamo" by Garth Ennis


BOOK TITLE: Preacher, Vol. 9: Alamo
AUTHOR: Garth Ennis
YEAR: 2001
GENRE: Graphic Novel
SUBGENRE: Horror
GRADE: Extra Credit

Jesse Custer’s search for God, the Grail’s mission to bring Armageddon to earth, the Patron Saint of Killer’s obsession with revenge, and Cassidy’s quest for redemption, they’ve all come together for one last battle at the Alamo. It’s an appropriate battlefield considering the history behind such a famous stronghold. Bodies will pile up, deals will be brokered with spiritual entities, and everybody will get what they deserve in the end for better or worse.

The reason I’m giving this issue of Preacher a full five stars has to do with the ending and how no loose ends are left untied. While I won’t say what exactly happened (because of spoilers and all), I will say that the letters written to the main characters had my eyes dewy for a moment there. Will the letters mend broken relationships? Will the subsequent conversations bring Jesse, Cassidy, and Tulip the peace they need? Is life more complicated than just saying sorry? Indeed it is. Life is about changing and developing as you grow older, much like the stories themselves. Life is about becoming more than a one-dimensional stereotype. Every character in this graphic novel played their parts perfectly. Whether you love certain characters or hate them, there’s no denying they’ve earned not only their places in this story, but also their endings.

Which brings me to God almighty, the reason for the world’s chaotic destruction and the reason for Jesse Custer’s misery. He’s not portrayed as some fictional entity that haunts the minds of his followers. He’s portrayed as an actual god who demands love from the world and will go to devious lengths to get it. He needs to be put down just like any other despicable villain in this story. Is his portrayal controversial? Maybe to some people. But to me and every other fan of this comic book series, it was about time someone said these things about our lord and savior. Garth Ennis probably got a lot of hate mail in his day and he couldn’t care less. Offensiveness is his bread and butter and he put it to good use. Garth Ennis doesn’t even do it for the sake of shock value. He actually created an entertaining and thought-provoking story from all of the bloody and blasphemous moments. That’s what all R-rated authors should aspire to do.

This was a wonderful way to end the Preacher series and I’m glad I stuck through with it. Then again, sticking through with it wasn’t hard to do considering the previous volumes before it were entertaining to the core. It’s not often I give a five-star review, especially when entertainment is the only thing a book has going for it. I’m giving the final volume my strongest endorsement because of all of the emotions it made me feel as it got closer to the end. I cared about the characters. I cared when they got beaten down, killed, or otherwise humiliated. I still care about them even after I’ve finished reading. Congratulations, Garth Ennis, for earning your extra credit grade!

Saturday, May 4, 2019

Conditioned to Ignore Me


VERSE 1
The Clockwork Orange magic spell
Gave you a brainwashed story to tell
Conditioned to ignore me no matter what
Whether I hurt inside or have a deeper cut
I could burn a building to the ground
Or I could rescue an abused hound
Optimist, pessimist, who gives a fuck?
If it’s a cry for help, I’m shit out of luck

CHORUS
Conditioned to ignore me
Because you find me boring
Because I’m down on my knees
Begging for me to finally be seen

VERSE 2
Pavlov’s sorcery has got you by the balls
Conditioned to laugh whenever I fall
Conditioned to walk right past me
Conditioned to low-key blast me
It’s meat paste and the bell once again
Making drooling slaves out of good friends
I could burn the world or buy you pearls
Who’d give a fuck? Any boy or girl?

CHORUS
Conditioned to ignore me
Because you find me boring
Because I’m down on my knees
Begging for me to finally be seen

VERSE 3
I could hack the biggest computer database
I could kiss my kitty on his fuzzy little face
I could ride a nuclear missile like a horsy
I could pet every Labrador and every Corgi
Your conditioned response is still the same
To forget that I exist or that I have a name
Who put this spell on your pretty little head?
Who was the one who wished your soul dead?

EXTENDED CHORUS
Conditioned to ignore me
Because you find me boring
Because I’m down on my knees
Begging for me to finally be seen
Conditioned to reject me
Chew me up then digest me
Because I can’t scream loud enough
Somebody else already has it rough