Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > Why is this bedroom so cold, turned away on your side?
You wake up, back stiff, on the Wentz's couch. You roll off, falling into a heap on the plush, cream-colored rug. You head aches; every time your heart beats, it pounds the word 'Hangover' into your brain like a jackhammer. You pick yourself us, and arrange your brown curls in a gold-framed mirror mounted on the wall so that you look half-decent. Your clothes are rumpled; you try to smooth out the wrinkles. A voice disturbs your silent agony;
"Joseph, dear?"
You look up to find Mrs. Wentz.
"'Morning, mum Wentz." You mumble.
Mrs. Wentz is used to Pete's friends staying the night, but they always sleep in Pete's spare bed; never the couch. She looks confused; you offer her no explanation, though you feel guilty about your rudeness. Lovingly called 'Mum Wentz' by Pete's closest friends, she is the sweetest woman on earth.
"Erm...breakfast, dear?" she asks warily.
"No thanks, mum Wentz."
You ponder asking for some Advil; your mind votes against it and you grab you leather jacket off of a nearby chair.
"I've gotta get going."
Mum Wentz nods, and you awkwardly kiss her cheek. Is you breath sour? Oh, God, what if she knows. She is a second mother to you; you can't bear the thought of her knowing that you were drunk last night. Pete won't tell her, will he? Thought rush through the busy highway that is your mind. You're out the door faster than lightening; you don't want to face Pete. You climb into your car, and head for the City. You drive around and around, pondering what to do and where to go. You can't go home; it's too soon. Band practice isn't 'till two o'clock...hmmm. You know a little place that's open downtown...for God sake, it's eleven a.m.! Your drinking is under enough control for your piddly little mind to know better than to drink during the day, let alone before noon!
Fuck it. It's a cruel world; might as well live a little before we all drop dead.
'One little drink'. Pssh. There's no such thing. You stagger into band practice at quarter to four; Pete is yelling at you. What the fuck is his problem? He should be glad you're not dead; you drive here. Shit. Did you just say that out loud? Must've, now Andy is yelling, too. Patrick's reaction is the worst; he is just staring at you, shaking his head, giving you that horrible "I am disappointed in you" look. Why can't he just yell? Doesn't the motherfucker have any balls? Goddammit, you said that out loud, too.
"Lay off of Patrick, fucking Christ, Joe!" Pete screams.
Patrick must be strong; he's not crying. Though he looks on the verge of. It's the most heart-wrenching sight; guilt seeps into your veins, contaminating your blood, making you feel dizzy. Maybe it's the booze. Or maybe it's that poisonous feeling; you let them down. You let everyone down; Mum Wentz, your best friends, your Italian angel, and your sweet baby girl...everything swims before your eyes, and you pass out cold.
"Joe...Joseph...Joe! You son-of-a-bitch, Joe, wake up..."
Voices sound far away and unreal- are you dreaming? You open your eyes, and figures swirl into existence; Pete, Andy and Patrick are hovering over you. Someone's jacket is bunched up underneath your head; which aches worse than a hangover. You must have hit the concrete floor. Your attention snaps back to the trio; they look pissed, yet grudgingly worried; you're in shit.
"Thank God..." Andy mutters.
"Mmmph. How long was I out for?" you murmur.
"Dunno, ten, maybe fifteen minutes." Patrick replies.
You sit up, and your breath is taken away momentarily; major head rush. Andy and Patrick each grab an arm and help you to your feet.
"Put some ice on your head when you get home." Pete advises.
"But...practice." You're slurring.
Your friends, your best friends, exchange a look. And instantly you know.
"Andy'll drive you home. Practice is cancelled until further notice...consider yourself on probation." Pete tells you.
You want to cry.
"Joseph, dear?"
You look up to find Mrs. Wentz.
"'Morning, mum Wentz." You mumble.
Mrs. Wentz is used to Pete's friends staying the night, but they always sleep in Pete's spare bed; never the couch. She looks confused; you offer her no explanation, though you feel guilty about your rudeness. Lovingly called 'Mum Wentz' by Pete's closest friends, she is the sweetest woman on earth.
"Erm...breakfast, dear?" she asks warily.
"No thanks, mum Wentz."
You ponder asking for some Advil; your mind votes against it and you grab you leather jacket off of a nearby chair.
"I've gotta get going."
Mum Wentz nods, and you awkwardly kiss her cheek. Is you breath sour? Oh, God, what if she knows. She is a second mother to you; you can't bear the thought of her knowing that you were drunk last night. Pete won't tell her, will he? Thought rush through the busy highway that is your mind. You're out the door faster than lightening; you don't want to face Pete. You climb into your car, and head for the City. You drive around and around, pondering what to do and where to go. You can't go home; it's too soon. Band practice isn't 'till two o'clock...hmmm. You know a little place that's open downtown...for God sake, it's eleven a.m.! Your drinking is under enough control for your piddly little mind to know better than to drink during the day, let alone before noon!
Fuck it. It's a cruel world; might as well live a little before we all drop dead.
'One little drink'. Pssh. There's no such thing. You stagger into band practice at quarter to four; Pete is yelling at you. What the fuck is his problem? He should be glad you're not dead; you drive here. Shit. Did you just say that out loud? Must've, now Andy is yelling, too. Patrick's reaction is the worst; he is just staring at you, shaking his head, giving you that horrible "I am disappointed in you" look. Why can't he just yell? Doesn't the motherfucker have any balls? Goddammit, you said that out loud, too.
"Lay off of Patrick, fucking Christ, Joe!" Pete screams.
Patrick must be strong; he's not crying. Though he looks on the verge of. It's the most heart-wrenching sight; guilt seeps into your veins, contaminating your blood, making you feel dizzy. Maybe it's the booze. Or maybe it's that poisonous feeling; you let them down. You let everyone down; Mum Wentz, your best friends, your Italian angel, and your sweet baby girl...everything swims before your eyes, and you pass out cold.
"Joe...Joseph...Joe! You son-of-a-bitch, Joe, wake up..."
Voices sound far away and unreal- are you dreaming? You open your eyes, and figures swirl into existence; Pete, Andy and Patrick are hovering over you. Someone's jacket is bunched up underneath your head; which aches worse than a hangover. You must have hit the concrete floor. Your attention snaps back to the trio; they look pissed, yet grudgingly worried; you're in shit.
"Thank God..." Andy mutters.
"Mmmph. How long was I out for?" you murmur.
"Dunno, ten, maybe fifteen minutes." Patrick replies.
You sit up, and your breath is taken away momentarily; major head rush. Andy and Patrick each grab an arm and help you to your feet.
"Put some ice on your head when you get home." Pete advises.
"But...practice." You're slurring.
Your friends, your best friends, exchange a look. And instantly you know.
"Andy'll drive you home. Practice is cancelled until further notice...consider yourself on probation." Pete tells you.
You want to cry.
Sign up to rate and review this story