Hi, I'm Hope. I have little if any respect for celebs though I long to be one. Not just for the money, but for the sense of belonging. You want me to explain? Well I'm not going to. I have said ...
I saunter over to table 8 with a tray in my hand. Here we have it, yet another couple on a date making out. Way to make me uncomfortable. I know exactly how to deal with the situation.
"Two steaks, medium rare and a bottle of champagne on ice." I winced at my cheesiness as I walked away from 'make out table'. You see, I work in Claire's a very posh restaurant in Chicago. This is just a job to make money, not my real job.
Hi, my names Hope and I play the drums for my band, Porcelain Dolls. Quite ironic seeing as I don't exactly have porcelain skin. I also write lyrics, isn't that weird. Drums and lyrics usually isn't a combination that goes well but here I am.
I glanced at the time, 10pm. Time for my work to finish.
"Guys I'm gonna head home okay?" I said to my work mates and (in a cruel twist of fate) my band mates. Steven, James and Harvey.
"You can't go home." Steven, our lead singer and bass player said. "Look who's here?"
I looked around expecting to see my mother but surprisingly, no. I didn't have a clue who he was talking about.
"Okay Steven, you can go back to your padded room now." I said, shaking my head and going to walk out of the door.
"No, you can't leave yet." James our backing vocals and rhythm guitarist said grabbing me by the hood of my jacket.
"Okay guys it's off to an institute you go unless Hope here gets some answers." Had my friends' gone psycho on me?
"Look at table eight." Harvey said turning my head towards the table. Great the make out table. I was going to be in serious trouble unless I was home soon and there I was staring at the make out table where the couple were no longer making out, and I noticed the male member of that table just so happened to be a Mr Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III.
"Oh my lord, oh my fucking great lord is that...?" I stuttered something profound (see what I did. 1 point to Hope.) "Fuck. I served that table and I didn't notice."
"What do we do? What do we do?" I panicked.
"We slip them our demo along with the bill smart ass." Harvey, our lead guitarist said to me.
"By we you mean I don't you?" They all nodded. "Sexist assholes"
"You mean sexiest assholes, lil miz PMS." Harvey replied shoving me in the direction of table eight with a CD and bill.
I took off my coat and threw it in his face, walking over to the table as normally as possible even though my insides were tightening with every second.
"Ex...excuse me sir." I said. "Your bill."
I snuck the CD into the book looking thing where the bill is kept and walked away before he could say anything.
"I'm leaving." I said, grabbing my jacket and running out of the restaurant before Pete could even mutter a word to me.
A week later I walk into my cold and lonely apartment if you could call it that. I have to push the door away from me to put the key in, pull it to turn the key, push and then nudge the door to open.
Once I have got in I have to step back for the dust that has gathered on top of the door to fall before stepping in carefully to avoid the missing floorboard right in front of the door. Once I am passed that I am safely in my home.
It may not be the best home but it is my home. It was the first place that I could call my own.
I never knew my mother and father, let's just leave it at that so I spent my life in and out of 'group homes'. No one wanted to keep me for more than three weeks because I was a pyromaniac. Though I am over it now fire has still has the ability to heal me.
I used to burn things that mattered to me. The letters my mom left, the blanket I was wrapped in, stuff like that. Once they were ash they didn't exist anymore, they got swept up in the wind and once they didn't exist, I could convince myself that they weren't real. That my past was a figment of my imagination.
I got into the shower and let the warm water cleanse my skin. It felt so good, so hot, almost like fire. Almost. I could faintly hear the sounds of Tainted Love (the original not that Marilyn Manson crap) playing from my bedroom.
Shit! My phone. I jumped out of the shower and wrapped my towel around me Who cares if I live alone, being naked gives me the creeps. The man across the street walks around his house in the nude. He's borderline obese and has no curtains.
I didn't recognise the number calling but I answered it anyway. Not like someone can kill me over the phone. Not like anyone could kill me full stop I'd kick their ass.
"What?" I asked.
"Hi, its Harvey." The voice said. "Guess where I am."
"Having a gay threesome with James and Steven?" I guessed.
"No. Not yet." I laughed. "I am at Pete Wentz's private studio."
Now was my cue to fall off the bed.
"Come, I'll give you directions, he wants to hear us live." He said nonchantly as if me falling off of the bed was a regular occurrence (which it was.)
Don't get me wrong I love music (and Fall Out Boy) as much as the next girl but I can't stand celebrities. Most say I'm obnoxious, I say I'm a fan of the art not the artist.
"Why can't he wait until Saturday's show?" I asked. "Too busy?"
"Come on this is Pete Wentz." He said. "THE Pete Wentz inviting you to play for him and you're arguing. Can't you just bite the bullet and swallow your pride?"
Clever. Using the lyrics that I wrote for our first song, Winning Is For Losers. Using my own tool against me.
"Okay, okay. How do I get there?"