Oh! The Places You Will Go!
Title: Oh! The Places You Will Go!
Author: howXiXdisappear
Rating: PG-13
Summary: My therapist said that admitting your problems was the first step.
Disclaimer: Once upon a time, a baby was dropped on her head. Years later, she started making up stories about My Chemical Romance making sweet gay love to each other. This is one of those stories.
We start in an attic. One song down. Matt thinks we're on to something.
I think we need more beer.
Two songs down. My therapist said that admitting your problems is the first step. We went through the whole cliche theraputic shit you see in the movies, complete with the "How does that make you feel?"'s and the strange assumption that they're shit don't smell too bad because they're not the ones sitting in the big comfy chair next to a coffee table with set with a box of tissue and no coffee.
Me? I don't have anything to admit to. I'm not hidinig anything. Every ugly thing I hate about myself is set out into the open because I don't know how to hide, and everyone can see it and judge it and judge me because of it.
Three songs down. We record a demo on a shitty 16-track Matt picked up from a pawn shop. Toro's the only one who can figure it out- big surprise. The man was born into a fucking cult of computer geeks. He gets in a screaming fight with Matt again. Mikey and I step out for a cigarette.
Later, we'll play shows in basements. Even shitty clubs where the seventeen people listening will be too drunk to remember a single note. Later, we'll be recording in a studio. Maybe get out a CD and have a few fans. This isn't something I have much faith in right now though. A few fans kind of sound like a few too many.
Mikey's pissed at my cynical outlook on just about everything and can't I be positive for like half a fucking second, Gerard?
No. No, I cannot be positive for like hafla fucking second, because what is the fucking point? Life, I've learned, is not a very positive fucking thing. One minute, you're walking down the street in a perfectly, disgustingly cheerful mood, maybe with a bounce in your step and you might even be whistling Zippidy-fuckin-doodaa as you go. And what happens?
You get hit by a car as you walk across the street.
Want to try hitting a little closer to home?
You're on your way to work. You're young, freshly out of college and excited about meeting with, holyshit! Cartoon Network for the first time. Niave. Life's been tough, but it's been an okay run. You've lost weight, you have a half-way decent haircut, and you might have landed a job for Cartoon fucking Network. Awesome. You're on a ferry, sitting away from the rest of the crowd and feeling unusually optimistic. Then, someone screams. You look to the side.
Just in time to see a plane crashing into the World Trade Center. Just in time to see people murdered, people committing suicide to prevent a more painful death, people's lives ending. Families being destroyed. The beginning of mass hysteria and paranoia that the country will carry with them everywhere they go for years to come. And you realize you're just as vulnerable as the rest of them. Just as suseptable to death and destruction and evil. Just as mortal as all of them. You realize that the last twenty-four years of your life has meant absolutly nothing to absolutly no one.
You realize that had you have missed the bus like you almost did and came to the city only half an hour later, you would be right in the middle of all that chaos and there would be no chance to change anything and you would die and be forgotten because your exsistance didn't make a damn different to anyone. You realize you have to change.
Four songs down. Suddenly, we're playing for people. Three people, actually. But it's better then playing for our moms'.
Mikey says that if I don't take the stick out of my ass, I'm going to end up old, lonely, and fat. I say, "What does that make me now?" He kicks me in the shin for making him smile when he's trying to be mad at me.
A friend of ours has a recording studio set up in his mother's basement. He lets us record there, and I discover that as we continue to write, I'm getting higher hopes about this thing. We learn pretty quickly that we need another guitarist. Toro's scared shitless, not used to playing with someone else. We're all kind of nervous about it, really.
This band thing is getting pretty serious.
Author: howXiXdisappear
Rating: PG-13
Summary: My therapist said that admitting your problems was the first step.
Disclaimer: Once upon a time, a baby was dropped on her head. Years later, she started making up stories about My Chemical Romance making sweet gay love to each other. This is one of those stories.
We start in an attic. One song down. Matt thinks we're on to something.
I think we need more beer.
Two songs down. My therapist said that admitting your problems is the first step. We went through the whole cliche theraputic shit you see in the movies, complete with the "How does that make you feel?"'s and the strange assumption that they're shit don't smell too bad because they're not the ones sitting in the big comfy chair next to a coffee table with set with a box of tissue and no coffee.
Me? I don't have anything to admit to. I'm not hidinig anything. Every ugly thing I hate about myself is set out into the open because I don't know how to hide, and everyone can see it and judge it and judge me because of it.
Three songs down. We record a demo on a shitty 16-track Matt picked up from a pawn shop. Toro's the only one who can figure it out- big surprise. The man was born into a fucking cult of computer geeks. He gets in a screaming fight with Matt again. Mikey and I step out for a cigarette.
Later, we'll play shows in basements. Even shitty clubs where the seventeen people listening will be too drunk to remember a single note. Later, we'll be recording in a studio. Maybe get out a CD and have a few fans. This isn't something I have much faith in right now though. A few fans kind of sound like a few too many.
Mikey's pissed at my cynical outlook on just about everything and can't I be positive for like half a fucking second, Gerard?
No. No, I cannot be positive for like hafla fucking second, because what is the fucking point? Life, I've learned, is not a very positive fucking thing. One minute, you're walking down the street in a perfectly, disgustingly cheerful mood, maybe with a bounce in your step and you might even be whistling Zippidy-fuckin-doodaa as you go. And what happens?
You get hit by a car as you walk across the street.
Want to try hitting a little closer to home?
You're on your way to work. You're young, freshly out of college and excited about meeting with, holyshit! Cartoon Network for the first time. Niave. Life's been tough, but it's been an okay run. You've lost weight, you have a half-way decent haircut, and you might have landed a job for Cartoon fucking Network. Awesome. You're on a ferry, sitting away from the rest of the crowd and feeling unusually optimistic. Then, someone screams. You look to the side.
Just in time to see a plane crashing into the World Trade Center. Just in time to see people murdered, people committing suicide to prevent a more painful death, people's lives ending. Families being destroyed. The beginning of mass hysteria and paranoia that the country will carry with them everywhere they go for years to come. And you realize you're just as vulnerable as the rest of them. Just as suseptable to death and destruction and evil. Just as mortal as all of them. You realize that the last twenty-four years of your life has meant absolutly nothing to absolutly no one.
You realize that had you have missed the bus like you almost did and came to the city only half an hour later, you would be right in the middle of all that chaos and there would be no chance to change anything and you would die and be forgotten because your exsistance didn't make a damn different to anyone. You realize you have to change.
Four songs down. Suddenly, we're playing for people. Three people, actually. But it's better then playing for our moms'.
Mikey says that if I don't take the stick out of my ass, I'm going to end up old, lonely, and fat. I say, "What does that make me now?" He kicks me in the shin for making him smile when he's trying to be mad at me.
A friend of ours has a recording studio set up in his mother's basement. He lets us record there, and I discover that as we continue to write, I'm getting higher hopes about this thing. We learn pretty quickly that we need another guitarist. Toro's scared shitless, not used to playing with someone else. We're all kind of nervous about it, really.
This band thing is getting pretty serious.