Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > Smells Like Teen Spirit
Welcome To The "Good" Life (Sticks And Stones)
4 reviewsEnter: High School Zone. You are now off American premises.
0Unrated
Patrick was sitting at a shitty desk, in a shitty class, in a shitty room in his Shitty school. Glenview Public high.
He was also writing Shitty lyrics. He sat in the back of his science class, writing shitty lyrics in his neat print, or writing lyrics from David Bowie or Prince’s songs. He could hear the chatter of people around him, but he wasn’t really listening. He heard drifting words like:
“Oh My God, Jenifer and Brent! They went out last night!”
“But i thought you and Brent were going out?”
“Me too!”
“..So there was like, i swear dude, like this monster, and like, Jayna goes to me, Kyle, start the engine! So i started it, drove it off the bridge, right off, into the water...”
“..And Midtown, and, like, no one was there. “
“So what did you do?”
“I went home”
“..I know. What A nerd. Do you see he just sits at the back, like he doesn’t even look at everyone. He just hunches up!”
“I know, look at him now. He’s just sitting there, writing. What does he even write about?”
“Probably his boyfriend or something”
“Hhaa, yeah.”
Patricks grip tightened around his Sharpie and he continued to write shitty lyrics about the shitty people he had the pleasure of sitting in class with.
Finally, about a million years later, his maths teacher came in, and they began the lesson. The class quietened and Patrick could write with ease. He drew a few musical notes on the inside of his book. He tapped his foot in time to a beat that was forming in his head. He tapped his sharpie, too.
“Whoever is making that distracting noise, please stop,” Said the teacher.
Patrick sighed and stopped. He glared at the board for a while, not really understanding why x was on the denominator, and why 16 was the answer. He never got maths, not even the basic algebra. It was simpler if it was put into Musical notation, like 8 beats, or one bar was a whole. If there was a graph problem, Patrick would envision the staff. Sometimes he’d even do his times tables with instruments.
One guitar with 6 Strings, multiplied by 2, becomes a 12 stringed bass-guitar.
It made, sense, then, In Patrick’s head. Sure, it was a strange way of doing it, difficult, even. But it made sense , in some weird, strange way.
And Because Patrick didn’t get maths, he was absolutely terrified when the teacher called out “Stump, come do this equation on the board,”.
It was simple, 8th grade stuff, that Patrick could never get passed. Patrick only passed in Music. And Sometimes English. But Maths, not at all. Maths. Was. Bad. BAD. And Patrick being forced to do it? Even worse.
Even so, Patrick got up, and walked to the front, took the chalk out of the teachers hand, and stared at the equation.
2x=16
It was kind of like the question before, only x was the denominator anymore. It was. A pronumeral? Or something, right? Patrick could remember that much.
So, Patrick had 2x...Patrick had 2 plectrums. And somehow, he had to get 16 of them. Wait, that was wrong. Didn’t he need to find out what he had two OF?
In that case, he had plectrums, obviously. He’d just said it in his head. This question was so POINTLESS. Who cares about the number of pics you have, if you’re just going to loose them all? Or if you’re going to buy more. And how do the numbers even fit into this? 2picks = 16? That doesn’t work.
It was then Patrick remembered that he’d said x=picks. Therefore he felt very stupid about getting annoyed at a question that he’d made up the answer for.
“Mr. Stump, please, if you will, work it out.” The teacher said.
Patrick jumped. He’d forgotten he was in front of the class, in front of faces and staring eyes. He sighed silently and looked at the question, again.
2x=16.
2 times x...=2x. But there was a 16! Why was it there?. Equations. Right. Equations.
So, Patrick guessed, if he divided 16 by 2, he’d get 8. So therefore, x=8.
8 beats. Two bars. Two minums.
It made sense.
Patrick sat back down very quickly, and proceeded to copy down the questions, but not complete them. He just sat there, trying to get over that feeling of being watched and embarrassed. He’d been nervous and shaking, and it was just the after effects now. He calmed himself down enough to start writing shitty lyrics, and attempt the questions. Surprisingly he got everyone right.
**
When Patrick Made his way to lunch, he remembered that tonight he started work. Tonight. He was pretty nervous, but kind of excited. He just hoped he made a good first impression. Which meant he was wearing his jeans and not his shorts or argyle sweater, or black knee highs. No no no no. Those were BAD.
Patrick sat behind the school building, not even bothering with lunch. He was too nervous. Although, lunch did give him something to do besides sit there and be a looser with no friends, drawing notes in his science book.
Patrick hoped the people who worked there were nice—maybe they could be kind old ladies, smiling sweetly and calling him ‘Sugar’. Or, middle-aged guys, complaining about their wives and kids, but telling Patrick he was a great friend, someone to always rely on.
That was his deepest darkest secret. He desperately wanted a friend. Someone he could call, talk to, vent to, cry to, listen to, help, hug, smile at. Right now all he had was his Mom. And that wasn’t nearly good enough. Kevin and Patrick didn’t really get along very well, and Patrick hardly saw David, so that didn’t work either.
But Patrick was so nervous that’d he’d mess it up, that somehow, it wouldn’t work. He kept telling himself he’d be fine, he could DO this, he could, he could.
At the end of lunch, Patrick walked on, chanting in his head, about how tonight he was going to be awesome at Borders, and not be shy. He’d wear his JEANS and the customary white shirt, along with his nametag. He contemplated putting in his contacts that his Mom had gotten him—and, yeah, maybe he would. His face looked completely different without his glasses, Patrick knew this, but he didn’t know if it was for better or worse. He’d have to find out tonight.
He walked on to class, and tripped over someone’s leg. Whoever tripped him had sniggered and called out “Whats the matter, Patty-cakes. Can’t get up, can ya, big boy? Aww does Mommy need to get you new slippers to wear, once that aren’t as slippery? Maybe she should get you a few more argyle sweaters and those shorts, with rainbow coloured knee high socks? Yeah baby, maybe.”
Patrick felt his face get hot. Don’t cry. Don’t Cry. I wont. Its just stupid Jamie. Jamie who was dating Jamie. Jamie Keith dating Jamie Richards. The school jock. Bully. Asshole. Douchebag. Patrick could create a dictionary filled with names about Jamie Keith. Fuck Ass. It could all go on, but Patrick stopped himself.
He got up, and walked onwards. To class. He sat at the back of the room, as per usual, and tried desperately not to think of the taunting that he’d just undergone. It really was not his day. He needed to be relaxed for tonight.
Relax.
**
When Patrick got home, his Mom was making dinner. “I’ve got yours ready’ she Said To him.
‘Great. IT smells good, what is it?’
“Lasagne. I figured you could eat before you went, and you could take some there, too. I also made cupcakes. I know, you’re kind of too old...but, well, i wanted you to nto be hungry. I packed chips, too, just in case, and 3 juice boxes. And a packet of Oreos. And celery stick with peanut butter. And i gave you 15 dollars in case you were still hungry or thirsty.”
“Uh, Mom thanks. Look, its only from 4 till 9, i’m sure i’ll be fine. I’ve gotta have a shower now though, so can you pack in that Lasagne too? I’ll have the oreos or something before i go.”
‘Okay, Sure. Oh, darling, i got your clothes ready for you, they’re on your bed.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Patrick said weakly, dreading to envision them.
When he got to his room, he saw his white shirt, along with denim shorts, and cream-coloured knee high socks, with black school shoes, sitting on his bed. It could of been worse, but No. No. He was wearing his jeans, like planned.
And no knee high socks for him, thanks very much.
*
When Patrick came down from the shower, his hair wet, and long (“Its almost shoulder length, honey. You look so good with long hair!”) and in his jeans, and trainers, Patricia frowned.
“Where are your clothes, dear?”
“I’ve got them on.”
“I meant the ones i picked out for you.”
“Oh. Oh yeah, they got wet in the bathroom. I accidently dropped them on the floor in the shower, so yeah. I had to wear this instead.”
“Oh. Be more careful next time, okay?”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “yes Mom.”
“Good. Now, give us a kiss, and smile for the camera,”
Patricia withdrew an old 80’s Polaroid camera, and snapped a photo of Patrick.
“Mom, that was really unnecessary, don’t you think?”
“No. You’re my Baby. Why would it be unnecessary?”
“Umm. Why’d you even take it?”
“Because its you’re first job!”
“Oh Mom. Come on. Parents don’t do shit like that these days.”
“Patrick, language. And i don’t care if i’m old-fashioned. I care about you and your life. It’s just a Picture, why do you get so huffy about things? From your fathers side, obviously. Now come on, have a cookie” Patricia said, annoyed.
“No thanks Mom. I’ve gotta go dry my hair, anyway” Patrick said, and he raced up to his room, and to his dresser.
Having a dresser wasn’t that embarrassing. He used it as a desk, anyway. Even though he had a desk in his room already, but half the space on that desk was occupied by his good-for-nothing laptop.
Patrick searched for contacts quickly, and finally, finally found them. He took his glasses off and held his breathe. Just do it, Patrick. Come on. Just put the contact in.
But it was so hard. Like, how do people do it? They put something in their eye. Doesn’t it hurt, alot? What if it hurts at work and i have to take it out, and then i can’t see.
Patrick sighed and put the contacts case down. Maybe another day, when he learnt the arts of putting in contacts.
“Patrick, you better go!” Patricia called.
“Coming” Patrick called back dully. He was feeling less and less like going to work every second. But he piled into the car, with his backpack, which was filled with things to do. Read (not that Patrick would) homework (something Patrick avoided alot, too) his music notebook (something he’d enjoy) and a Biography of Prince.
When the car stopped, Patrick quickly kissed Patricia, and then watched as she drove away. He stared at the shopping centre, and decided to get going. He finally managed to snail walk his way there, his palms sweating and his feet slipping. At least im dressed normally, Patrick thought.
It was a nice change, after all.
Patrick slowly made his way to the entrance of Borders, and walked in. He found the counter and explained to the girl who worked there (Marlene) that he was new, it was his first day, blah blah blah. Unfortunately he stumbled at least 5 times every sentence, and He was surprised to see that she understood his incoherent speech.
“Welcome aboard, Patrick,” the blond 20-year old said, grinning.
“Here’s your name tag,’
Patrick pinned it on.
“Here are some boring details, and you’ll be working upstairs with Joe, who will be your mentor. Joe. Is kind of..ditzy. But his nice, okay? If he gives you any hassle, or if you can’t understand him, or if he gets too hyper, give me a yell, and ill come and help, yeah?”
Patrick nodded, and tried to get all this information into his head. He saw the stairs Marlene had been pointing to for at least 3 seconds now, and grinned at her, sheepishly.
He slowly made his way up the stairs, found the counter in the ‘Music’ section, and stood there, awkwardly. No one else was behind the counter. Just Patrick. But, there were lots of people here, and he was afraid of being asked something that he wouldn’t know how to do. Instead, to occupy his time, he got out his music notebook, and began to write shitty lyrics, about his shitty job, and about his shitty mentor, who couldn’t be found.
Chapter 3:
He was also writing Shitty lyrics. He sat in the back of his science class, writing shitty lyrics in his neat print, or writing lyrics from David Bowie or Prince’s songs. He could hear the chatter of people around him, but he wasn’t really listening. He heard drifting words like:
“Oh My God, Jenifer and Brent! They went out last night!”
“But i thought you and Brent were going out?”
“Me too!”
“..So there was like, i swear dude, like this monster, and like, Jayna goes to me, Kyle, start the engine! So i started it, drove it off the bridge, right off, into the water...”
“..And Midtown, and, like, no one was there. “
“So what did you do?”
“I went home”
“..I know. What A nerd. Do you see he just sits at the back, like he doesn’t even look at everyone. He just hunches up!”
“I know, look at him now. He’s just sitting there, writing. What does he even write about?”
“Probably his boyfriend or something”
“Hhaa, yeah.”
Patricks grip tightened around his Sharpie and he continued to write shitty lyrics about the shitty people he had the pleasure of sitting in class with.
Finally, about a million years later, his maths teacher came in, and they began the lesson. The class quietened and Patrick could write with ease. He drew a few musical notes on the inside of his book. He tapped his foot in time to a beat that was forming in his head. He tapped his sharpie, too.
“Whoever is making that distracting noise, please stop,” Said the teacher.
Patrick sighed and stopped. He glared at the board for a while, not really understanding why x was on the denominator, and why 16 was the answer. He never got maths, not even the basic algebra. It was simpler if it was put into Musical notation, like 8 beats, or one bar was a whole. If there was a graph problem, Patrick would envision the staff. Sometimes he’d even do his times tables with instruments.
One guitar with 6 Strings, multiplied by 2, becomes a 12 stringed bass-guitar.
It made, sense, then, In Patrick’s head. Sure, it was a strange way of doing it, difficult, even. But it made sense , in some weird, strange way.
And Because Patrick didn’t get maths, he was absolutely terrified when the teacher called out “Stump, come do this equation on the board,”.
It was simple, 8th grade stuff, that Patrick could never get passed. Patrick only passed in Music. And Sometimes English. But Maths, not at all. Maths. Was. Bad. BAD. And Patrick being forced to do it? Even worse.
Even so, Patrick got up, and walked to the front, took the chalk out of the teachers hand, and stared at the equation.
2x=16
It was kind of like the question before, only x was the denominator anymore. It was. A pronumeral? Or something, right? Patrick could remember that much.
So, Patrick had 2x...Patrick had 2 plectrums. And somehow, he had to get 16 of them. Wait, that was wrong. Didn’t he need to find out what he had two OF?
In that case, he had plectrums, obviously. He’d just said it in his head. This question was so POINTLESS. Who cares about the number of pics you have, if you’re just going to loose them all? Or if you’re going to buy more. And how do the numbers even fit into this? 2picks = 16? That doesn’t work.
It was then Patrick remembered that he’d said x=picks. Therefore he felt very stupid about getting annoyed at a question that he’d made up the answer for.
“Mr. Stump, please, if you will, work it out.” The teacher said.
Patrick jumped. He’d forgotten he was in front of the class, in front of faces and staring eyes. He sighed silently and looked at the question, again.
2x=16.
2 times x...=2x. But there was a 16! Why was it there?. Equations. Right. Equations.
So, Patrick guessed, if he divided 16 by 2, he’d get 8. So therefore, x=8.
8 beats. Two bars. Two minums.
It made sense.
Patrick sat back down very quickly, and proceeded to copy down the questions, but not complete them. He just sat there, trying to get over that feeling of being watched and embarrassed. He’d been nervous and shaking, and it was just the after effects now. He calmed himself down enough to start writing shitty lyrics, and attempt the questions. Surprisingly he got everyone right.
**
When Patrick Made his way to lunch, he remembered that tonight he started work. Tonight. He was pretty nervous, but kind of excited. He just hoped he made a good first impression. Which meant he was wearing his jeans and not his shorts or argyle sweater, or black knee highs. No no no no. Those were BAD.
Patrick sat behind the school building, not even bothering with lunch. He was too nervous. Although, lunch did give him something to do besides sit there and be a looser with no friends, drawing notes in his science book.
Patrick hoped the people who worked there were nice—maybe they could be kind old ladies, smiling sweetly and calling him ‘Sugar’. Or, middle-aged guys, complaining about their wives and kids, but telling Patrick he was a great friend, someone to always rely on.
That was his deepest darkest secret. He desperately wanted a friend. Someone he could call, talk to, vent to, cry to, listen to, help, hug, smile at. Right now all he had was his Mom. And that wasn’t nearly good enough. Kevin and Patrick didn’t really get along very well, and Patrick hardly saw David, so that didn’t work either.
But Patrick was so nervous that’d he’d mess it up, that somehow, it wouldn’t work. He kept telling himself he’d be fine, he could DO this, he could, he could.
At the end of lunch, Patrick walked on, chanting in his head, about how tonight he was going to be awesome at Borders, and not be shy. He’d wear his JEANS and the customary white shirt, along with his nametag. He contemplated putting in his contacts that his Mom had gotten him—and, yeah, maybe he would. His face looked completely different without his glasses, Patrick knew this, but he didn’t know if it was for better or worse. He’d have to find out tonight.
He walked on to class, and tripped over someone’s leg. Whoever tripped him had sniggered and called out “Whats the matter, Patty-cakes. Can’t get up, can ya, big boy? Aww does Mommy need to get you new slippers to wear, once that aren’t as slippery? Maybe she should get you a few more argyle sweaters and those shorts, with rainbow coloured knee high socks? Yeah baby, maybe.”
Patrick felt his face get hot. Don’t cry. Don’t Cry. I wont. Its just stupid Jamie. Jamie who was dating Jamie. Jamie Keith dating Jamie Richards. The school jock. Bully. Asshole. Douchebag. Patrick could create a dictionary filled with names about Jamie Keith. Fuck Ass. It could all go on, but Patrick stopped himself.
He got up, and walked onwards. To class. He sat at the back of the room, as per usual, and tried desperately not to think of the taunting that he’d just undergone. It really was not his day. He needed to be relaxed for tonight.
Relax.
**
When Patrick got home, his Mom was making dinner. “I’ve got yours ready’ she Said To him.
‘Great. IT smells good, what is it?’
“Lasagne. I figured you could eat before you went, and you could take some there, too. I also made cupcakes. I know, you’re kind of too old...but, well, i wanted you to nto be hungry. I packed chips, too, just in case, and 3 juice boxes. And a packet of Oreos. And celery stick with peanut butter. And i gave you 15 dollars in case you were still hungry or thirsty.”
“Uh, Mom thanks. Look, its only from 4 till 9, i’m sure i’ll be fine. I’ve gotta have a shower now though, so can you pack in that Lasagne too? I’ll have the oreos or something before i go.”
‘Okay, Sure. Oh, darling, i got your clothes ready for you, they’re on your bed.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Patrick said weakly, dreading to envision them.
When he got to his room, he saw his white shirt, along with denim shorts, and cream-coloured knee high socks, with black school shoes, sitting on his bed. It could of been worse, but No. No. He was wearing his jeans, like planned.
And no knee high socks for him, thanks very much.
*
When Patrick came down from the shower, his hair wet, and long (“Its almost shoulder length, honey. You look so good with long hair!”) and in his jeans, and trainers, Patricia frowned.
“Where are your clothes, dear?”
“I’ve got them on.”
“I meant the ones i picked out for you.”
“Oh. Oh yeah, they got wet in the bathroom. I accidently dropped them on the floor in the shower, so yeah. I had to wear this instead.”
“Oh. Be more careful next time, okay?”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “yes Mom.”
“Good. Now, give us a kiss, and smile for the camera,”
Patricia withdrew an old 80’s Polaroid camera, and snapped a photo of Patrick.
“Mom, that was really unnecessary, don’t you think?”
“No. You’re my Baby. Why would it be unnecessary?”
“Umm. Why’d you even take it?”
“Because its you’re first job!”
“Oh Mom. Come on. Parents don’t do shit like that these days.”
“Patrick, language. And i don’t care if i’m old-fashioned. I care about you and your life. It’s just a Picture, why do you get so huffy about things? From your fathers side, obviously. Now come on, have a cookie” Patricia said, annoyed.
“No thanks Mom. I’ve gotta go dry my hair, anyway” Patrick said, and he raced up to his room, and to his dresser.
Having a dresser wasn’t that embarrassing. He used it as a desk, anyway. Even though he had a desk in his room already, but half the space on that desk was occupied by his good-for-nothing laptop.
Patrick searched for contacts quickly, and finally, finally found them. He took his glasses off and held his breathe. Just do it, Patrick. Come on. Just put the contact in.
But it was so hard. Like, how do people do it? They put something in their eye. Doesn’t it hurt, alot? What if it hurts at work and i have to take it out, and then i can’t see.
Patrick sighed and put the contacts case down. Maybe another day, when he learnt the arts of putting in contacts.
“Patrick, you better go!” Patricia called.
“Coming” Patrick called back dully. He was feeling less and less like going to work every second. But he piled into the car, with his backpack, which was filled with things to do. Read (not that Patrick would) homework (something Patrick avoided alot, too) his music notebook (something he’d enjoy) and a Biography of Prince.
When the car stopped, Patrick quickly kissed Patricia, and then watched as she drove away. He stared at the shopping centre, and decided to get going. He finally managed to snail walk his way there, his palms sweating and his feet slipping. At least im dressed normally, Patrick thought.
It was a nice change, after all.
Patrick slowly made his way to the entrance of Borders, and walked in. He found the counter and explained to the girl who worked there (Marlene) that he was new, it was his first day, blah blah blah. Unfortunately he stumbled at least 5 times every sentence, and He was surprised to see that she understood his incoherent speech.
“Welcome aboard, Patrick,” the blond 20-year old said, grinning.
“Here’s your name tag,’
Patrick pinned it on.
“Here are some boring details, and you’ll be working upstairs with Joe, who will be your mentor. Joe. Is kind of..ditzy. But his nice, okay? If he gives you any hassle, or if you can’t understand him, or if he gets too hyper, give me a yell, and ill come and help, yeah?”
Patrick nodded, and tried to get all this information into his head. He saw the stairs Marlene had been pointing to for at least 3 seconds now, and grinned at her, sheepishly.
He slowly made his way up the stairs, found the counter in the ‘Music’ section, and stood there, awkwardly. No one else was behind the counter. Just Patrick. But, there were lots of people here, and he was afraid of being asked something that he wouldn’t know how to do. Instead, to occupy his time, he got out his music notebook, and began to write shitty lyrics, about his shitty job, and about his shitty mentor, who couldn’t be found.
Chapter 3:
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