Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > Everything Must Belong Somewhere
It's recently come to my attention that I will never be happy. I will never be fully satisfied. This is because I cannot seem to find happy medium. Some middle ground. I always seem to be uncomfortably located on one end of the spectrum all the while wishing to be on the other, knowing that if I ever got to the other, I would wish to be back where I began. It's also recently come to my attention that I just left my apartment in my underwear. Jesus fucking christ. Going back inside now would completely negate my dramatic exit. I fully blame Patrick for this.
Patrick. It was indescribably strange to see him after all this time, while at the same time, undesirably normal. I half wondered why another one of Pete's friends hadn't shown up in Patrick's place. Perhaps one that had the ability to tolerate me, such as Pete's friend and band mate, Joe. It was a useless thought. Patrick had explained why he was the one who had to show on my door step just minutes ago. He was Pete's fucking best friend. The two of them had a bond that was ridiculously impenetrable. Secretly, I had always been jealous of it. I had never had a bond like that with anyone in my life. To be so platonically close and trust someone so fully that you could actually be yourself in front of them? It's unthinkable. They got each other. However, all of that is besides the point. My mind is being haunted by Patrick's voice. The word 'lifeless' was echoing around my head as if someone had just screamed it off a cliff over water
I dug around the backseat of my small Jetta for something resembling a shoe. Last Tuesday, I had accompanied a friend to a cocktail party and remembered discarding my knee-length, black, heel-less boots somewhere in this very car. To be minimally clothed in public is one thing, but to be barefoot as well? Well, that's just trashy. After all, you've read the signs, right? You must have a shirt (check) and you must have shoes (check. . .well, potential check), but the signs say nothing about pants. I assume they leave that up to one's own discretion. Lucky me. I honestly thought if I were to ever be in such a situation I would be well beyond drunk. Smashed, even. Also, with much sexier underwear.
I slipped the boots on over my bare feet and put the car in drive. I needed answers and I knew just where to go to get them.
Twenty minutes later, I was not so discreetly parked outside of a house in a town on the outskirts of the city named Bothell. I knew for a fact that he had friends he stayed with whenever he was in said city. I had never formally met them. I had never formally met any of Pete's friends, with the exception of his band mates, because he and I were often victims of a world we created. We didn't play well with others.
With a nerve and confidence I had forgotten I owned, I marched to the front door and began beating on it profusely. Part of me was showing Patrick up. Proving that I could be more obnoxious than he for some reason. The other part of me had trouble focusing because certain words were still floating around in my mind.
The door opened and I nearly fell in due to the force I was using on the door.
"Where's Pete?" I asked immediately, wasting no time on the tall long haired man that answered the door.
"He's not up yet," The man looked me up and down, focusing on my legs "but I am." he joked. At least I think he was joking. Hope. I hope he was joking. What a corny ass line. Fuck that.
"Where's his room?" It was then I realized how absurd I must have looked welcoming myself into a stranger's home in only my underwear. It was also then that I realized that these boots were not considered trendy and elegant with this attire. No, with this attire they closer resembled boots of the hooker kind. Fucking wonderful. Someone told me I made horrible first impressions once and I didn't believe them. I think I get it now.
The man pointed me upstairs and walked away mumbling something about rockstars and starting a band.
Luckily the first door I opened when I arrived at the top of the steps, was the correct one. I suppose someone up there thought that I was making an ass out of myself enough and spared me from having to come up with an explanation as to why I was awakening a complete stranger with my half naked body.
Pete had fitfully kicked the blankets off of him in his sleep and was clad only in dark blue boxers. Every tattoo and muscle formation was visible and I contemplated walking out as if I never came in. It felt wrong to see him this exposed and innocent now. Suddenly, Patrick's voice came back to me like a fucking ocean wave crashing against the shore. I had to know. I had to ask. That's what I came here for.
I walked to the side of his bed, my boots clicked against the floor with each step. How was I supposed to wake him? I remember how I used to wake him. That seems more than slightly inappropriate now. Good times, though. Very good times. Excuse me if I take a minute to indulge myself in those memories.
"Charley? Is that you?"
Or a second. Whatever.
"No, I'm just a figment of your imagination. Now go back to sleep."
"What?" Pete sat up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.
"Yes, it's me." I always sounded so bored when telling the truth.
"Are those the boots I bought you?" He yawned. What? His former lover is standing in his room uninvited covered only with a tank top, tiny panties, a plaid pea coat, and hooker boots and that fucker focuses on the latter? Seriously? He was handling this news incredibly well.
"Nice panties, by the way." He leaned up in his bed and stretched his arms. Hell no. Nice?! Rugs are nice. The purse you found at the thrift store down on Church and Broadway is nice. My fucking panties are hot. Or sexy. Or some word that is positive and complimenting. Nice my ass. Why was Pete acting so casual? Like it was absolutely normal and accepted to see me standing here in my nice panties and boots. Like it happens often. This does not happen often. I try not to wake ex boyfriends up with my nice panties and boots on a daily basis. It seems unhealthy. However, none of this is important because I came here for a reason. Focus on the reason.
"Nice boxers." That is not the reason.
"So what do I owe this pleasure?" Pete asked, suddenly awake. How is this not strange to him? Why is he not questioning my intentions for this visit? Why is he acting so normal? Why did he describe my panties as 'nice'? Hot, goddamnit. Fucking hot. Give me something to work with.
"Well. . ." I had full intentions on finishing that sentence, but the words didn't seem in order. How were you supposed to ask someone that you hadn't spoken to in nearly two years if they tried to commit suicide? And in the event that they did, why? And when? And what exactly is it about these panties that makes them considered simply 'nice'? Instead, I stood awkwardly in the center of the room fiddling with my hands.
"You know, Charley, you shouldn't pop your knuckles. You'll get arthritis like my dad."
"Your dad has arthritis?" That was something I didn't know.
"Yes."
"Perhaps he shouldn't have popped his fingers so much."
Patrick. It was indescribably strange to see him after all this time, while at the same time, undesirably normal. I half wondered why another one of Pete's friends hadn't shown up in Patrick's place. Perhaps one that had the ability to tolerate me, such as Pete's friend and band mate, Joe. It was a useless thought. Patrick had explained why he was the one who had to show on my door step just minutes ago. He was Pete's fucking best friend. The two of them had a bond that was ridiculously impenetrable. Secretly, I had always been jealous of it. I had never had a bond like that with anyone in my life. To be so platonically close and trust someone so fully that you could actually be yourself in front of them? It's unthinkable. They got each other. However, all of that is besides the point. My mind is being haunted by Patrick's voice. The word 'lifeless' was echoing around my head as if someone had just screamed it off a cliff over water
I dug around the backseat of my small Jetta for something resembling a shoe. Last Tuesday, I had accompanied a friend to a cocktail party and remembered discarding my knee-length, black, heel-less boots somewhere in this very car. To be minimally clothed in public is one thing, but to be barefoot as well? Well, that's just trashy. After all, you've read the signs, right? You must have a shirt (check) and you must have shoes (check. . .well, potential check), but the signs say nothing about pants. I assume they leave that up to one's own discretion. Lucky me. I honestly thought if I were to ever be in such a situation I would be well beyond drunk. Smashed, even. Also, with much sexier underwear.
I slipped the boots on over my bare feet and put the car in drive. I needed answers and I knew just where to go to get them.
Twenty minutes later, I was not so discreetly parked outside of a house in a town on the outskirts of the city named Bothell. I knew for a fact that he had friends he stayed with whenever he was in said city. I had never formally met them. I had never formally met any of Pete's friends, with the exception of his band mates, because he and I were often victims of a world we created. We didn't play well with others.
With a nerve and confidence I had forgotten I owned, I marched to the front door and began beating on it profusely. Part of me was showing Patrick up. Proving that I could be more obnoxious than he for some reason. The other part of me had trouble focusing because certain words were still floating around in my mind.
The door opened and I nearly fell in due to the force I was using on the door.
"Where's Pete?" I asked immediately, wasting no time on the tall long haired man that answered the door.
"He's not up yet," The man looked me up and down, focusing on my legs "but I am." he joked. At least I think he was joking. Hope. I hope he was joking. What a corny ass line. Fuck that.
"Where's his room?" It was then I realized how absurd I must have looked welcoming myself into a stranger's home in only my underwear. It was also then that I realized that these boots were not considered trendy and elegant with this attire. No, with this attire they closer resembled boots of the hooker kind. Fucking wonderful. Someone told me I made horrible first impressions once and I didn't believe them. I think I get it now.
The man pointed me upstairs and walked away mumbling something about rockstars and starting a band.
Luckily the first door I opened when I arrived at the top of the steps, was the correct one. I suppose someone up there thought that I was making an ass out of myself enough and spared me from having to come up with an explanation as to why I was awakening a complete stranger with my half naked body.
Pete had fitfully kicked the blankets off of him in his sleep and was clad only in dark blue boxers. Every tattoo and muscle formation was visible and I contemplated walking out as if I never came in. It felt wrong to see him this exposed and innocent now. Suddenly, Patrick's voice came back to me like a fucking ocean wave crashing against the shore. I had to know. I had to ask. That's what I came here for.
I walked to the side of his bed, my boots clicked against the floor with each step. How was I supposed to wake him? I remember how I used to wake him. That seems more than slightly inappropriate now. Good times, though. Very good times. Excuse me if I take a minute to indulge myself in those memories.
"Charley? Is that you?"
Or a second. Whatever.
"No, I'm just a figment of your imagination. Now go back to sleep."
"What?" Pete sat up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.
"Yes, it's me." I always sounded so bored when telling the truth.
"Are those the boots I bought you?" He yawned. What? His former lover is standing in his room uninvited covered only with a tank top, tiny panties, a plaid pea coat, and hooker boots and that fucker focuses on the latter? Seriously? He was handling this news incredibly well.
"Nice panties, by the way." He leaned up in his bed and stretched his arms. Hell no. Nice?! Rugs are nice. The purse you found at the thrift store down on Church and Broadway is nice. My fucking panties are hot. Or sexy. Or some word that is positive and complimenting. Nice my ass. Why was Pete acting so casual? Like it was absolutely normal and accepted to see me standing here in my nice panties and boots. Like it happens often. This does not happen often. I try not to wake ex boyfriends up with my nice panties and boots on a daily basis. It seems unhealthy. However, none of this is important because I came here for a reason. Focus on the reason.
"Nice boxers." That is not the reason.
"So what do I owe this pleasure?" Pete asked, suddenly awake. How is this not strange to him? Why is he not questioning my intentions for this visit? Why is he acting so normal? Why did he describe my panties as 'nice'? Hot, goddamnit. Fucking hot. Give me something to work with.
"Well. . ." I had full intentions on finishing that sentence, but the words didn't seem in order. How were you supposed to ask someone that you hadn't spoken to in nearly two years if they tried to commit suicide? And in the event that they did, why? And when? And what exactly is it about these panties that makes them considered simply 'nice'? Instead, I stood awkwardly in the center of the room fiddling with my hands.
"You know, Charley, you shouldn't pop your knuckles. You'll get arthritis like my dad."
"Your dad has arthritis?" That was something I didn't know.
"Yes."
"Perhaps he shouldn't have popped his fingers so much."
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