Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Send In The Clowns
You know how you start out loving something, and you think that you'll never, ever, ever get tired of it? That's bullshit.
Really, the only perk I could think of when I took this job was, hey, at least I'm gonna get to have lots of cake! Surely that will always be something to look forward to. Nope. Wrong-o. Cake absolutely disgusts me at this point. I am fairly sure that I have tasted nearly every flavor of cake in existance, from classic yellow to pistachio to gluten free to wheat cake. And let me tell you. Cake is fucking overrated.
Perhaps what's even sadder is that I almost always accept the cake that is offered to me at the end of the party, usually the awkward corner piece, the part that is left behind, abandoned after all the good parts have been eaten. But ninety percent of the time, the cake I get is the only food I digest that day. I think it's safe to say that I survive purely off of cake.
Today I clamour into the car, soaked in sweat from head to toe, my greasy hair sticking to my face in wild strands, trying to balance my stupid costume in one hand and plate with a couple pieces of today's cake, a decidedly average red velvet in the other. I lay the cake in the passenger seat, pushing countless gas station coffee cups, pencils and cassette tapes to the floor in the process. I yawn, stretching out as much as I can in the cramped space and squeezing my eyes shut. I'm exhausted. All I can think of is my beloved cigarettes and my shiny lighter, and my creaky pullout bed. It's Saturday night, and the only things on my mind are smoke and sleep.
I sit in silence for a moment, before I hear a car door slam and notice a blonde lady next door staring at me like I'm a sexual predator. I blink, feeling confused until I remember that I'm wearing makeup and staring in the general direction of a bunch of kids left over from the party. The woman continues to gape as I throw the car into reverse and hightail down the street, blushing awkwardly beneath the white and red splotches that decorate my cheeks.
I'm tearing down the highway with both the windows down, visions of streams of smoke coming out of my mouth replaying over and over in my brain like a reel of film. Jesse Lacey howls ironically from my stereo, " WE NEED VICES!" Indeed we do, I think to myself, my brain now drifting, imagining a brilliant colored mahogany wine. My imagination flies forward, so vividly that I can almost feel it rolling down my throat, sweet and bitter and making my stomach radiate warmth. I am jerked back into reality by the buzzing of my phone in my pocket, a horrendous Jitterbug, purchased for me by my parents, having never been upgraded. I sigh and flick it open, holding it up to my ear.
"Speak." I say irritatedly. My fantasy seemed bitter now, with the realization I had absolutely no money for anything like wine, not even ten dollars for a shitty bottle.
"Gee?" I hear Mikey's voice coming through the phone fuzzily, static dramatically interfering with it.
"Mikes? I can't hear you." I tell him, as the static heightens when I pass beneath a heavily graffitied overpass.
"Gee..don't freak when..back to the room...I told...stay with...temporary...don't...pissed...please!" Mikey fades in and out over the airwaves and I am not even trying to decipher what he says. The words float lazily through my ears, my brain not even attempting to comprehend any of it. I'm tired and beyond caring.
"Look Mikey, I can't hear you. I'll see you at the room." I flip the phone shut and shove it back into my pocket, retreating back into my head as I picture all the things I wish I could have, mostly art supplies and a decent music player and liquor, liquor and more liquor. I lose myself in it, barely even noticing that I've arrived at the hotel until I bump into the concrete bar in the parking space and the car jolts forward. Yanking the keys out of the ignition, I grab my jacket, leaving everything else in the car. The prospect of smoking, showering and sleeping help me find the energy to drag myself to the elevator and then to the door. I twist the door, surprised when it opens. Mikey always locks the door. Being 125 pounds, he doesn't exactly trust himself to be able to fend off anyone who might come by looking for...whatever creeps who knock on doors of shitty hotels are looking for.
I fall through the door way, and the first thing that hits me is the smoke smell. My eyes search frantically, zooming instantly to the countertop, where my glorious pack of cigarettes lies, it's insides bare. My lighter sits next to it, an infinitesmal amount of juice left in it. I feel my hands begin to tremble. I NEED those.
My teeth grind against each other viciously. Mikey had been known to smoke a cigarette or three once and a while. Evidently he must have suddenly had a nicotine pang, or developed a deathwish. God better save my brother. I have no intention of showing him an ounce of mercy.
It's then that I notice the shower running, just a second before it shuts off. I inhale deeply, trying to breathe somewhat normally, though I'm really on the brink of a minor panic attack.
"MICHAEL FUCKING WAY." I bellow, feeling my vocal cords strain in my throat. I spin on my heel, turning to face the bathroom door. I'm seething, ready to pound my beanpole of a younger brother into a pathetic puddle on the floor as the door swings open. The figure standing in the frame is short, muscular, with dripping dark hair and dark eyes, with colorful tattoos chasing each other around most of his skin. This stark naked man is most definitely not my brother.
Ooohhh...who could the naked boy possibly be? Rate and Review to find out why a suspiciously short tattooed boy is standing in Gerard's bathroom.XD
Really, the only perk I could think of when I took this job was, hey, at least I'm gonna get to have lots of cake! Surely that will always be something to look forward to. Nope. Wrong-o. Cake absolutely disgusts me at this point. I am fairly sure that I have tasted nearly every flavor of cake in existance, from classic yellow to pistachio to gluten free to wheat cake. And let me tell you. Cake is fucking overrated.
Perhaps what's even sadder is that I almost always accept the cake that is offered to me at the end of the party, usually the awkward corner piece, the part that is left behind, abandoned after all the good parts have been eaten. But ninety percent of the time, the cake I get is the only food I digest that day. I think it's safe to say that I survive purely off of cake.
Today I clamour into the car, soaked in sweat from head to toe, my greasy hair sticking to my face in wild strands, trying to balance my stupid costume in one hand and plate with a couple pieces of today's cake, a decidedly average red velvet in the other. I lay the cake in the passenger seat, pushing countless gas station coffee cups, pencils and cassette tapes to the floor in the process. I yawn, stretching out as much as I can in the cramped space and squeezing my eyes shut. I'm exhausted. All I can think of is my beloved cigarettes and my shiny lighter, and my creaky pullout bed. It's Saturday night, and the only things on my mind are smoke and sleep.
I sit in silence for a moment, before I hear a car door slam and notice a blonde lady next door staring at me like I'm a sexual predator. I blink, feeling confused until I remember that I'm wearing makeup and staring in the general direction of a bunch of kids left over from the party. The woman continues to gape as I throw the car into reverse and hightail down the street, blushing awkwardly beneath the white and red splotches that decorate my cheeks.
I'm tearing down the highway with both the windows down, visions of streams of smoke coming out of my mouth replaying over and over in my brain like a reel of film. Jesse Lacey howls ironically from my stereo, " WE NEED VICES!" Indeed we do, I think to myself, my brain now drifting, imagining a brilliant colored mahogany wine. My imagination flies forward, so vividly that I can almost feel it rolling down my throat, sweet and bitter and making my stomach radiate warmth. I am jerked back into reality by the buzzing of my phone in my pocket, a horrendous Jitterbug, purchased for me by my parents, having never been upgraded. I sigh and flick it open, holding it up to my ear.
"Speak." I say irritatedly. My fantasy seemed bitter now, with the realization I had absolutely no money for anything like wine, not even ten dollars for a shitty bottle.
"Gee?" I hear Mikey's voice coming through the phone fuzzily, static dramatically interfering with it.
"Mikes? I can't hear you." I tell him, as the static heightens when I pass beneath a heavily graffitied overpass.
"Gee..don't freak when..back to the room...I told...stay with...temporary...don't...pissed...please!" Mikey fades in and out over the airwaves and I am not even trying to decipher what he says. The words float lazily through my ears, my brain not even attempting to comprehend any of it. I'm tired and beyond caring.
"Look Mikey, I can't hear you. I'll see you at the room." I flip the phone shut and shove it back into my pocket, retreating back into my head as I picture all the things I wish I could have, mostly art supplies and a decent music player and liquor, liquor and more liquor. I lose myself in it, barely even noticing that I've arrived at the hotel until I bump into the concrete bar in the parking space and the car jolts forward. Yanking the keys out of the ignition, I grab my jacket, leaving everything else in the car. The prospect of smoking, showering and sleeping help me find the energy to drag myself to the elevator and then to the door. I twist the door, surprised when it opens. Mikey always locks the door. Being 125 pounds, he doesn't exactly trust himself to be able to fend off anyone who might come by looking for...whatever creeps who knock on doors of shitty hotels are looking for.
I fall through the door way, and the first thing that hits me is the smoke smell. My eyes search frantically, zooming instantly to the countertop, where my glorious pack of cigarettes lies, it's insides bare. My lighter sits next to it, an infinitesmal amount of juice left in it. I feel my hands begin to tremble. I NEED those.
My teeth grind against each other viciously. Mikey had been known to smoke a cigarette or three once and a while. Evidently he must have suddenly had a nicotine pang, or developed a deathwish. God better save my brother. I have no intention of showing him an ounce of mercy.
It's then that I notice the shower running, just a second before it shuts off. I inhale deeply, trying to breathe somewhat normally, though I'm really on the brink of a minor panic attack.
"MICHAEL FUCKING WAY." I bellow, feeling my vocal cords strain in my throat. I spin on my heel, turning to face the bathroom door. I'm seething, ready to pound my beanpole of a younger brother into a pathetic puddle on the floor as the door swings open. The figure standing in the frame is short, muscular, with dripping dark hair and dark eyes, with colorful tattoos chasing each other around most of his skin. This stark naked man is most definitely not my brother.
Ooohhh...who could the naked boy possibly be? Rate and Review to find out why a suspiciously short tattooed boy is standing in Gerard's bathroom.XD
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