Living on tour is never boring.
Okay, yeah, sometimes it is boring.
But what I mean is it's interesting. The four of us each have our own respective personalities, and living together on a bus is like throwing those personalities into a blender on puree and then voila! You have a strange blend of zany, chaotic, activity and muddled body clocks, weird smells, and a lot of coffee.
It's difficult to have very much privacy or breathing space, no matter what bus upgrade we've earned this time around. For example, when someone (Ray) falls asleep on the couch in the lounge, there is absolutely nowhere to sit unless you fancy being sardined in your bunk for the time said person is snoozing the day away.
Then there's the bathroom, which is a toxic gas chamber, especially when the catering menu offers Mexican food. I swear it needs to be fumigated before I will ever go in there other than to take an emergency shower
I slunk across the floor of the house, silent at three in the morning, and unmoving under the silver moonlight except for me, trudging along with the bottle of pills in my hands. I laughed a little at the irony.
These pills this medication was supposed to make my life brighter and take away the depression and pain. They hadn't done their job, so they were being commissioned by me to perform one final fling. A contract kill that'd relieve the pain permanently. Seemed about right, to end a futile life that I was tired of living. I'm a fish in a barrel anyways; waiting to be picked out by the stronger,
Hes going again! Someone from the other room announced. The first person to run in was Gerard. Frank coughed again, and gagged. All the while Gerard kept a hand on Franks back, rubbing in circles. He whispered to him, and handed him a towel when he was finished. Frank wiped his mouth and took a drink from his glass of water on the coffee table.
By now, all of his band mates surrounded him and were trying to comfort him.
Ive got to play tonight He groaned, his mouth tasting horrid.
No way! Gerard shook his head and sat down on the couch beside his sick friend. What did you eat, anyway? He asked.
He just shrugged, unable to think back to what made him sick.
Frank almost bursting into tears.
I feel so crap
Everyone patted his back and generally tried to lift spirits.
I have to play
I smiled and decided to seat myself next to him. He's always funny when he's drunk. And it doesn't take much to get him drunk since he's such a light weight with it. Which is weird considering how much he actually does drink.
"Hey Gee." I said while plopping down on the stool next to him.
"Whoaaaaaaaaa...Hey Frankie baaaaaaby" He slurred putting an arm around my neck.
"Drunk I see?" I giggled.
"Pshaw, I'm completely sober." He emphasized.
"Sure you are..." I was trying to stiffle my laugh.
"Don't you sass me you...you elf."
"Elf?" I questioned.
"Yeah. You're an elf. I know because you're this big." Then he put his hand in the air showing me how tall he thought I was.
"I'm not THAT short." I said pouting playfully.
Well, well, well. Here we are again. See, I wouldn't have to rant at all you fine people like this if you would just shut up and listen.
This is a problem that has extended past teenage boys and girls who- admittedly- are occassionally allowed to make stupid little assumptions and petty stereotypes as long as it doesn't go too far. But, of course, it goes too far. The basic point of all this being something very, very simple that many people just can't seem to grasp: My Chemical Romance is not (let's all say it now: not) "emo".
First off, "Emo" is hardly a legitimate form of music. Here is the definition, found on Wikipedia:
"Emo is a style of rock music which describes several independent variations of music with common stylistic roots...In later years, the term emocore, short for "emotional hardcore", was also used to describe the emotional performances of bands in the Washington, D.C. scene and some of the offsho
I'm naturally drawn to beauty. It's something I personally find rare enough to put on a pedestal; that anything beautiful is meant to be examined and admired.
I'm also more curious than a normal person should be. I guess it's in my genes, and that's something I can't necessarily just wash out.
The first time was an accident.
He had to have known his curtains and blinds were wide open, exposing not just a window, but a huge bay window, on the other side of which was his bedroom. It always struck me as odd of someone to require such a large window in the room where the most private things are accomplished. I didn't dwell on it, though. It wasn't the window I found interesting, anyway, but what lay beyond; within, and what I saw.
I had been walking home from my friend Bob's house. It wasn't far from my apartment at all, maybe a few blocks. I usually rode the bus because Bob complained whenever I was late, and walking meant more distractions. T
He feels…stiff, dry, worn out, and incredibly confused. His confusion only increases when he looks to the right of him and sees another man lying on the altar beside him.
But…it isn't just any man – it is himself. But the other him…the other him looks, well, dead. And how is that even possible? His hand stretches out, fingertips skimming across the high cheekbones of his – but not his – face. The skin is waxy and cold. He is dead, and has been for a while, although the corpse must have been preserved in some way.
So then…is he a ghost? How would that work, exactly? He feels so real, more real, even, than the dead him, who is as still and artificial looking as a mannequin, scarlet hair falling over closed eyes. His own eyes flick down to the corpse's neck, where a ragged wound is, black around the edges as though burnt. Caused by…a raygun. He remembers now, with a strange sort of s
He should have turned eighteen (and nineteen and twenty) but somewhere along the lines he placed a roadblock in that path and his mentality slammed head-first into that stubborn wall. He refused to change because if
I am NEVER okay.
I was welcomed to the Black Parade.
I am young, and I don't care.
I am Disenchanted.
I am filled with unapologetic apathy.
I mourned Mikey's glasses and the death of Pansy.
I live Life on the Murder Scene.
I cried to The Ghost of You.
I cried to Famous Last Words.
I worried about Bob & his burn.
I helped Gee stay sober.
I have an obsession with Ray's hair.
I am not afraid to keep on living.
I crashed the cemetery gated.
I've brought you my bullets when you brought me your love.
I've given Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge.
I know what they do to guys like us in prison.
I've given 'em hell, and hung 'em high.
I've killed all my friends.
I gave you gallons of blood.
I've seen the Early Sunsets Over Monroeville.
Vampires can never hurt me.
I am DEAD!
And i will be buried in all my favorite colors. Black.
So shut your eyes, kiss me goodbye, and Sleep.
These are my Famous Last Words.
So, Thank You for the Venom, so long, and goodnight!
Today, would be Valentines day.
Normally I would be spending this day moping around with my band mates and their girlfriends.
This year its different.
I have a wife, so today we will be exchanging Valentine gifts.
The strange thing is.
Its not her who I keep thinking of...Frank.
During the summer of 2007, on our tour of Projekt Rev.
Frank and I were, abnormally 'close'
Everyday something new would happen.
We kissed too much for people not to believe something was up.
Or we would do some sort of sexual, kinky move.
I know deep down I love Frank more than I should.
But when Frankie is around me, he wears his heart on his sleeve.
Lately, ever since I, well you can say "dumped" him in august near the end of Projekt Rev. and married Lyn-z, hes been depressed.
He chopped his long beautiful locks.
Doesnt shave anymore.
He wears alot of baggy clothing.
Then again, when he isn't, everyone could tell he's depressed, heartbroken, hurt..
Hes gained weight.
It saddens me to a great exte
for the kids with tattoos
for the kids with dreams
for the kids who dedicate themselves to music
for the misfits
for the lonley
for the business casual
for the moms
for the dads
for the brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles
for the ones who get harassed
for the ones that don't want to wear black forever
for the ones that bleed black and cry during classes
for the ones that write on their arms
for the ones that draw on thier math homework
for the chipmunck lovers
for the unicorn lover
for the dog lovers
for the cat lovers
for those with imagination
for those with humor
for those with crafty tendencises
for those who hurt
for those who don't
for those in divorce
for those in a broken home
for those in a prefect home
for the one stuck on the bottom bunk
for the one who won the top bunk
for the ones in summer school
for those who are gone
for those who mourn
for those who love
for those with out love
we gather in concert halls
and in the middle of malls
we hold ou