Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > They Say Quitters Never Win
Pete,
Scribble.
Well hi,
Scribble.
Peter Wentz,
More scribble.
Dear you,
Scribble.
Dear Pete,
I don't know how to tell you this in person. Hell, I don't even know how to talk to you about everyday affairs in person anymore. So I'm writing you this. I have to leave. I need to clear my head of everything. You've been distant for months. You haven't spoken to anyone since your band took a break, except your son. You wake up, eat your Cheerios, head to Bronx's room, and then come out for dinner until you get tired enough to head back to bed. And you think I'm sleeping then, but I'm not. I'm awake. I wait for you. And I always hope you nudge me awake to talk, but you never do. You go to sleep. And I lay there, wondering when I'm going to get my husband back. When you're going to walk out of this funk you're in. But you never do. And I'm tired of waiting, Peter. I'm tired of you pushing everyone away, especially me, your wife. I don't know you anymore. You're not the man I married. You've closed yourself off from everyone so well that I can't even speak to you. I'm sick of your selfish ways. I deserve better than this, but you just expect me to wait around until you finally snap back. But I've lost hope. Things have been hard for all of us, but you just want to distance yourself. Well, mission accomplished. I know you probably have a lot to say to me, but I can't deal with it at this point. I've wasted my time doing nothing and I'm sick of this one-track life. I can't take care of two children. This is the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I'll always love you and Bronx. But I need to start over. Don't forget to feed the dogs.
xo,
Ash.
These were the words. That ones that kept my head spinning while I slurred my thoughts with the bottle of alcohol I always had handy. The worth of this life only decreased with every stroke of breath. Everything hurt. I found no beauty in words or the sleepless nights that had me at the ends of solitaire cards, begging for an ace or perhaps peace of mind. The cursive of her pen and even the tinge of her perfume lingered in my mind. I kept the note with all my composition books, exposed on the first page when opened, so I'd know where to find it. It was this note that severed my life into pieces, but I felt I could at least get some use to it as inspiration for a song. But nothing came to mind. I had a blank piece of paper and pen, but words just didn't come. Only a sting of tears.
I read the note everyday. Over and over again. I had memorized it word for word. It was the monologue of the lonesome; a sonnet for a sad soul. I rehearsed these lines out loud, when I was looking at myself in the mirror. To see if I could handle the way it sounded when I glared into the empty eyes of a stranger written into a goodbye letter. I spoke her words to myself- about myself- and it broke me down every time. Yet, I still did it. I wondered why I played these sick games with myself, but then I remembered. It was the only way to show that this is real- that she's actually gone. That I can actually feel. There was numbness in every inhale. In a way, I needed those words- just to feel alive.
I didn't know if I should feel angry. It took too much effort to muster up a defense. I just wanted to say she was right about it all and throw a pity-party. Self-loathing mixed perfectly with the alcohol. But more than anything, I just felt hopeless. As though there could be anything to break me and I would feel the bitter of New York weather on the edge of a balcony. But I couldn't do that. Not with Bronx.
He was the only thing that kept me breathing. The only thing worth breathing for. That was the only thing decent she had done for me- was leave me my kid. I would've figured she'd take him. But that morning when I woke up to the note, I rushed to Bronx's room- and there he was. He was in a perfect world of sleep where nothing could harm him. Where silly note couldn't destroy everything. His life wasn't changing in a matter of moments, just because of ink-stained paper. But when he awoke- what would happen? When he asked for Mommy, what could I tell him? That his father is a fuck-up and Mommy couldn't deal?
But then I could only realize that maybe I wasn't the one to fully take blame. She had left her own kid. Her family. She didn't want to fix anything. She wanted to fault me for everything that was wrong with our marriage. But she was 'tired of waiting' and was 'sick of this one-track life'. That wasn't all me. She would rather run away.
But here I am, wasting away at a solitaire game and a bottle of scotch in my hand. The walls of my sanity peeled and crumbled. My little boy was sleeping, but I couldn't even tell what time it was. The shades were drawn, so if morning bloomed, I still wouldn't be able to tell. How long have I been up? The bottle of scotch was almost gone, but that didn't mean much. My drinking had gotten progressively worse with every conscious night. I held the note in my hands; it had gotten crinkled and the ink had smeared.
I wondered if she did this to prove a point. Did she want to prove that I couldn't do this without her? Point proven. I couldn't. I was mess without her here. She was the only thing I had left. And then she disappeared. Just like everything else had. My band was gone, my friends were gone, and now my wife was gone. I couldn't even imagine what I'd do with myself if she had taken my son away from me too.
I heard someone come in through my front door. I didn't know the hour or who had a key to my house or even if they did have a key. Maybe it was a robber. I was too drunk and sad to get up. I listened to them walk around the living room and turn on lamps. It couldn't be a stranger. Suddenly, my bedroom door opened and light came pouring through, stabbing my eyes. I squinted and saw the newly slim figure of Patrick.
I closed my eyes to rid away the migraine-inducing light. I could barely move. My limbs felt heavy. So I just lied on the floor, eyes closed, with the scotch bottle in one hand and the note in the other as Patrick moved around me and opened the shades, letting in sunlight. He sat down next to me and removed the alcohol from my grasp, without much of my protest. My fingers felt weak. My whole body felt hollow and limp, yet hard to lift. Did I have bones? Or was it just the flesh of a soulless corpse?
"Where's Bronx?" he asked.
"Sleeping." I tried, my voice cracked and scratchy. My throat felt like I had swallowed sand.
My eyes were still shut, but I felt him take the note from my hand. I could feel him reading it, but I was too weak to stop him. I don't even think I cared. I heard him sigh, and when I gained the courage to face the light and look up at him, I saw he was rubbing his eyes with glasses and Ashlee's note in one hand. He was also wearing a hat. This was the Patrick I was used to. The new one had cut off all his hair and bought contacts. I smiled. At least there was this moment to hold on to. I closed my eyes and leaned against my bed.
"Get up." he told me. But I couldn't.
I mumbled a protest.
"Get up. Shower. Fix yourself and Bronx some breakfast, and I'll take him back to my place. I'll keep him for as long as you like." he said, alarming me as my eyes shot open and I sat up.
"What? No! You're not taking my son anywhere!" I said, except it hurt to talk, so it came out in a whisper.
"I'm gonna take him to my place until you fix yourself up. You've been acting like this ever since she left. Hell, you've been acting like this before she even left, just less worse. You take care of Bronx for the day and then at night you lock yourself in here with the poison of your choice and drink yourself away. Your son doesn't need to see you hung-over. I know you're hurting, dude. But you need to get your act together."
I just looked at him. He was right. And my poor son, having to deal with a dead-beat dad and an absent mother. I only wanted what was best for him. And I got the complete opposite. Maybe a day or two off would do me some good. I held out my hand for him to help me up. With some difficulty and wobbling, I finally managed to stand and it turns out I did have bones after all.
So I did just as Patrick instructed. I got up and showered.
---------------------
Author's note:
I'm not sure what I'm doing
Scribble.
Well hi,
Scribble.
Peter Wentz,
More scribble.
Dear you,
Scribble.
Dear Pete,
I don't know how to tell you this in person. Hell, I don't even know how to talk to you about everyday affairs in person anymore. So I'm writing you this. I have to leave. I need to clear my head of everything. You've been distant for months. You haven't spoken to anyone since your band took a break, except your son. You wake up, eat your Cheerios, head to Bronx's room, and then come out for dinner until you get tired enough to head back to bed. And you think I'm sleeping then, but I'm not. I'm awake. I wait for you. And I always hope you nudge me awake to talk, but you never do. You go to sleep. And I lay there, wondering when I'm going to get my husband back. When you're going to walk out of this funk you're in. But you never do. And I'm tired of waiting, Peter. I'm tired of you pushing everyone away, especially me, your wife. I don't know you anymore. You're not the man I married. You've closed yourself off from everyone so well that I can't even speak to you. I'm sick of your selfish ways. I deserve better than this, but you just expect me to wait around until you finally snap back. But I've lost hope. Things have been hard for all of us, but you just want to distance yourself. Well, mission accomplished. I know you probably have a lot to say to me, but I can't deal with it at this point. I've wasted my time doing nothing and I'm sick of this one-track life. I can't take care of two children. This is the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I'll always love you and Bronx. But I need to start over. Don't forget to feed the dogs.
xo,
Ash.
These were the words. That ones that kept my head spinning while I slurred my thoughts with the bottle of alcohol I always had handy. The worth of this life only decreased with every stroke of breath. Everything hurt. I found no beauty in words or the sleepless nights that had me at the ends of solitaire cards, begging for an ace or perhaps peace of mind. The cursive of her pen and even the tinge of her perfume lingered in my mind. I kept the note with all my composition books, exposed on the first page when opened, so I'd know where to find it. It was this note that severed my life into pieces, but I felt I could at least get some use to it as inspiration for a song. But nothing came to mind. I had a blank piece of paper and pen, but words just didn't come. Only a sting of tears.
I read the note everyday. Over and over again. I had memorized it word for word. It was the monologue of the lonesome; a sonnet for a sad soul. I rehearsed these lines out loud, when I was looking at myself in the mirror. To see if I could handle the way it sounded when I glared into the empty eyes of a stranger written into a goodbye letter. I spoke her words to myself- about myself- and it broke me down every time. Yet, I still did it. I wondered why I played these sick games with myself, but then I remembered. It was the only way to show that this is real- that she's actually gone. That I can actually feel. There was numbness in every inhale. In a way, I needed those words- just to feel alive.
I didn't know if I should feel angry. It took too much effort to muster up a defense. I just wanted to say she was right about it all and throw a pity-party. Self-loathing mixed perfectly with the alcohol. But more than anything, I just felt hopeless. As though there could be anything to break me and I would feel the bitter of New York weather on the edge of a balcony. But I couldn't do that. Not with Bronx.
He was the only thing that kept me breathing. The only thing worth breathing for. That was the only thing decent she had done for me- was leave me my kid. I would've figured she'd take him. But that morning when I woke up to the note, I rushed to Bronx's room- and there he was. He was in a perfect world of sleep where nothing could harm him. Where silly note couldn't destroy everything. His life wasn't changing in a matter of moments, just because of ink-stained paper. But when he awoke- what would happen? When he asked for Mommy, what could I tell him? That his father is a fuck-up and Mommy couldn't deal?
But then I could only realize that maybe I wasn't the one to fully take blame. She had left her own kid. Her family. She didn't want to fix anything. She wanted to fault me for everything that was wrong with our marriage. But she was 'tired of waiting' and was 'sick of this one-track life'. That wasn't all me. She would rather run away.
But here I am, wasting away at a solitaire game and a bottle of scotch in my hand. The walls of my sanity peeled and crumbled. My little boy was sleeping, but I couldn't even tell what time it was. The shades were drawn, so if morning bloomed, I still wouldn't be able to tell. How long have I been up? The bottle of scotch was almost gone, but that didn't mean much. My drinking had gotten progressively worse with every conscious night. I held the note in my hands; it had gotten crinkled and the ink had smeared.
I wondered if she did this to prove a point. Did she want to prove that I couldn't do this without her? Point proven. I couldn't. I was mess without her here. She was the only thing I had left. And then she disappeared. Just like everything else had. My band was gone, my friends were gone, and now my wife was gone. I couldn't even imagine what I'd do with myself if she had taken my son away from me too.
I heard someone come in through my front door. I didn't know the hour or who had a key to my house or even if they did have a key. Maybe it was a robber. I was too drunk and sad to get up. I listened to them walk around the living room and turn on lamps. It couldn't be a stranger. Suddenly, my bedroom door opened and light came pouring through, stabbing my eyes. I squinted and saw the newly slim figure of Patrick.
I closed my eyes to rid away the migraine-inducing light. I could barely move. My limbs felt heavy. So I just lied on the floor, eyes closed, with the scotch bottle in one hand and the note in the other as Patrick moved around me and opened the shades, letting in sunlight. He sat down next to me and removed the alcohol from my grasp, without much of my protest. My fingers felt weak. My whole body felt hollow and limp, yet hard to lift. Did I have bones? Or was it just the flesh of a soulless corpse?
"Where's Bronx?" he asked.
"Sleeping." I tried, my voice cracked and scratchy. My throat felt like I had swallowed sand.
My eyes were still shut, but I felt him take the note from my hand. I could feel him reading it, but I was too weak to stop him. I don't even think I cared. I heard him sigh, and when I gained the courage to face the light and look up at him, I saw he was rubbing his eyes with glasses and Ashlee's note in one hand. He was also wearing a hat. This was the Patrick I was used to. The new one had cut off all his hair and bought contacts. I smiled. At least there was this moment to hold on to. I closed my eyes and leaned against my bed.
"Get up." he told me. But I couldn't.
I mumbled a protest.
"Get up. Shower. Fix yourself and Bronx some breakfast, and I'll take him back to my place. I'll keep him for as long as you like." he said, alarming me as my eyes shot open and I sat up.
"What? No! You're not taking my son anywhere!" I said, except it hurt to talk, so it came out in a whisper.
"I'm gonna take him to my place until you fix yourself up. You've been acting like this ever since she left. Hell, you've been acting like this before she even left, just less worse. You take care of Bronx for the day and then at night you lock yourself in here with the poison of your choice and drink yourself away. Your son doesn't need to see you hung-over. I know you're hurting, dude. But you need to get your act together."
I just looked at him. He was right. And my poor son, having to deal with a dead-beat dad and an absent mother. I only wanted what was best for him. And I got the complete opposite. Maybe a day or two off would do me some good. I held out my hand for him to help me up. With some difficulty and wobbling, I finally managed to stand and it turns out I did have bones after all.
So I did just as Patrick instructed. I got up and showered.
---------------------
Author's note:
I'm not sure what I'm doing
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