Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > A nasty, guilty pleasure.
Nothing can keep us together
2 reviewsI hope this chapter gives you fangirls a lot of hope ^^
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Daily visits to a therapist after two-three hours of arguing with Ashlee did not help. There wasn't really anything left to say.
Doctor prescribed Lithium, Lithium makes you fat. No chick wants to see a fat dude jumping around on stage and then having a series of small heart attacks.
Isn't it amazing what money can do? On to the next medication!
____________________________________________________
"She doesn't put out." Pete explained, resting his head on his hand. The therapist looked at him like he was insane for about the fifteenth time.
"So... Ashlee won't have sex with you?" He asked, writing absolutely everything down.
"That's what I just said." Pete felt like throwing a 'moron' or a 'half-wit' on at the end of the sentence, but that just might send him on to another pill prescriber. But, thankfully, he kept his mouth shut with an irritated look on his face.
"... And why is that?" He asked, writing more stuff down. The way he was constantly writing things down was making Pete wonder if he was writing some sort of erotic story about him. The thought made him want to puke when he noticed that the man before him really needed to shave his nose-hairs.
"She says that 'things need to be right' or some sort of stupid shit like that." He started, fidgeting with a bit of string that was coming off of the hideous chair he was sitting in. "To be honest, it makes me wonder if she thinks I've got some sort of STD or something." The thought had suddenly hit him, and it was so obvious it wasn't even funny. He was a rockstar and when on tour, who knew who he was fucking.
"Does she have OCD?" There was a slight scoff in the doctor's voice which made Pete want to get up and punch him.
"No," Pete replied, the anger starting to boil again. "It might be because I have two platinum albums and another one that we're working on?" He growled and then huffed. Since he was a spoiled popstar, it was odd when somebody didn't recognize who he was. However much of a break it was, it also sucked because no one was going to pay special attention to him.
"Yeah, that must change things." Apparently Dr. Bentley was getting annoyed with Peter's high and mighty attitude. "Don't you get laid constantly when on tour?" He asked, scribbling more notes down.
"Excuse me?! I do have a girlfriend, y'know, who I'm not willing to cheat on." He snarled, resisting the urge once again to get up and bleed this guy dry. Oh yeah, mad props for being a great liar, Pete!
Dr. Bentley looked up at him with a smirk on his face. Years of handling many fuck-ups had him looking through even the tiniest of white lies. "I bet." He snorted, just as ready to get to up and start a fist fight with this Spring Chicken in front of him. "Let's move on, shall we?"
"Please." Pete answered, not bothering to look up at him when he was talking. He wasn't worth his precious time.
"You're manic depressive." It wasn't a question as it would have typically been with any other therapist, but rather a statement. Pete had attempted suicide before, had rough drug patches and during these times no one could tell him what was right. He was in his 'I'm okay, you're not okay' phase, otherwise known as a Manic Phase.
"Mmm." Pete grunted in an answer, still not looking up.
Dr. Bentley didn't reply at first, but then scribbled something down on a fresh sheet of paper. "Okay, and you say that she's pushing you to marry her?" Pete nodded in reply, noticing something for the first time: there was a hole in his hoodie. "So why don't you?" He prodded further into Pete's mind, occasionally looking up to make sure this faggoty and depressed looking kid didn't try to jump out of a window.
"The only reason to get married is to have kids, which is something I don't want. They'll cramp my style on tour." He grumbled, absent-mindly letting the Doctor know that he was, in fact, sleeping around with the lowest grade of a whore that he could find. But really, it was sort of obvious. Ashlee knew it, Pete lived it, and a lot of other women could verify it as well.
Peter was also aware that he had told the media that he wanted children, but there were Jews that told him what to say for a certain amount of money. As I said before, isn't it amazing what money can do? But pretty soon the same amount gets old and Pete was going to start to demand more or else he was going to say what he wanted to say: 'Ashlee doesn't put out, I like men, too, I'm hot, I'm rich, and fuck you, Uganda!' Especially that last part, but he couldn't risk getting fired.
His head snapped up when he realized that Dr. Bentley was talking. "... Since apparently you're a heartthrob, Lithium is not an option. Zoloft might help..." He had taken out one of those prescription slip things and was busily writing down what needed to be filled.
Oh joy.
Doctor prescribed Lithium, Lithium makes you fat. No chick wants to see a fat dude jumping around on stage and then having a series of small heart attacks.
Isn't it amazing what money can do? On to the next medication!
____________________________________________________
"She doesn't put out." Pete explained, resting his head on his hand. The therapist looked at him like he was insane for about the fifteenth time.
"So... Ashlee won't have sex with you?" He asked, writing absolutely everything down.
"That's what I just said." Pete felt like throwing a 'moron' or a 'half-wit' on at the end of the sentence, but that just might send him on to another pill prescriber. But, thankfully, he kept his mouth shut with an irritated look on his face.
"... And why is that?" He asked, writing more stuff down. The way he was constantly writing things down was making Pete wonder if he was writing some sort of erotic story about him. The thought made him want to puke when he noticed that the man before him really needed to shave his nose-hairs.
"She says that 'things need to be right' or some sort of stupid shit like that." He started, fidgeting with a bit of string that was coming off of the hideous chair he was sitting in. "To be honest, it makes me wonder if she thinks I've got some sort of STD or something." The thought had suddenly hit him, and it was so obvious it wasn't even funny. He was a rockstar and when on tour, who knew who he was fucking.
"Does she have OCD?" There was a slight scoff in the doctor's voice which made Pete want to get up and punch him.
"No," Pete replied, the anger starting to boil again. "It might be because I have two platinum albums and another one that we're working on?" He growled and then huffed. Since he was a spoiled popstar, it was odd when somebody didn't recognize who he was. However much of a break it was, it also sucked because no one was going to pay special attention to him.
"Yeah, that must change things." Apparently Dr. Bentley was getting annoyed with Peter's high and mighty attitude. "Don't you get laid constantly when on tour?" He asked, scribbling more notes down.
"Excuse me?! I do have a girlfriend, y'know, who I'm not willing to cheat on." He snarled, resisting the urge once again to get up and bleed this guy dry. Oh yeah, mad props for being a great liar, Pete!
Dr. Bentley looked up at him with a smirk on his face. Years of handling many fuck-ups had him looking through even the tiniest of white lies. "I bet." He snorted, just as ready to get to up and start a fist fight with this Spring Chicken in front of him. "Let's move on, shall we?"
"Please." Pete answered, not bothering to look up at him when he was talking. He wasn't worth his precious time.
"You're manic depressive." It wasn't a question as it would have typically been with any other therapist, but rather a statement. Pete had attempted suicide before, had rough drug patches and during these times no one could tell him what was right. He was in his 'I'm okay, you're not okay' phase, otherwise known as a Manic Phase.
"Mmm." Pete grunted in an answer, still not looking up.
Dr. Bentley didn't reply at first, but then scribbled something down on a fresh sheet of paper. "Okay, and you say that she's pushing you to marry her?" Pete nodded in reply, noticing something for the first time: there was a hole in his hoodie. "So why don't you?" He prodded further into Pete's mind, occasionally looking up to make sure this faggoty and depressed looking kid didn't try to jump out of a window.
"The only reason to get married is to have kids, which is something I don't want. They'll cramp my style on tour." He grumbled, absent-mindly letting the Doctor know that he was, in fact, sleeping around with the lowest grade of a whore that he could find. But really, it was sort of obvious. Ashlee knew it, Pete lived it, and a lot of other women could verify it as well.
Peter was also aware that he had told the media that he wanted children, but there were Jews that told him what to say for a certain amount of money. As I said before, isn't it amazing what money can do? But pretty soon the same amount gets old and Pete was going to start to demand more or else he was going to say what he wanted to say: 'Ashlee doesn't put out, I like men, too, I'm hot, I'm rich, and fuck you, Uganda!' Especially that last part, but he couldn't risk getting fired.
His head snapped up when he realized that Dr. Bentley was talking. "... Since apparently you're a heartthrob, Lithium is not an option. Zoloft might help..." He had taken out one of those prescription slip things and was busily writing down what needed to be filled.
Oh joy.
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