sometimes I wonder if having a husband is like having a kid
J has a stomach virus. A really, really horrible stomach virus. I'm just basically following him around and scouring everything he touches with disinfectant and washing all his clothes, sheets, towels in scalding water. Apparently there's a norovirus going around Jersey and Philly? It sucks. I'm going to be so upset if I get this - which I probably will, oh god.
So should I still attempt to write the battle of the bands high school AU?
At lunch, Brendon settles at a table in the corner with Greta and eats all the feet off his animal crackers.
“You’re so weird,” Greta says, nose wrinkled.
Brendon sticks his tongue out at her, covered in crumbs. The feet are the best part. He holds the box out to Greta and shakes it a little. “Want one?”
Greta beams at him and sneaks two fingers in, grabbing a giraffe. She eats the head first.
“I don’t think you should be calling anybody weird, Miss Greta,” Brendon says.
Nate drops his tray on the table next to Greta and then shoves a piece of crumpled paper at Brendon. “Check this out,” he says. “Battle of the bands, dude, Wentz’s dad is sponsoring it.”
This is really awesome news, Brendon thinks, except Brendon isn’t in a band. Greta’s in a band, and so is Nate - with Gabe Saporta, even, who goes to O’Hara and drives this kick-ass purple firebird and is generally so much cooler than Brendon can ever hope to be, and also kind of creepy - and Frank isn’t exactly in a band, but that’s only because Gerard prefers the term music collective.
Brendon isn’t in a band mainly because his parents won’t let him. He always feels like a tool giving out that explanation, though, so he tries not to mention it very often. It helps that only one person - Greta - has ever actually asked him to be in a band. Even though Brendon’s totally talented and can play the piano, guitar and the trombone. He’s even been known to pick a banjo now and then.
So should I still attempt to write the battle of the bands high school AU?
At lunch, Brendon settles at a table in the corner with Greta and eats all the feet off his animal crackers.
“You’re so weird,” Greta says, nose wrinkled.
Brendon sticks his tongue out at her, covered in crumbs. The feet are the best part. He holds the box out to Greta and shakes it a little. “Want one?”
Greta beams at him and sneaks two fingers in, grabbing a giraffe. She eats the head first.
“I don’t think you should be calling anybody weird, Miss Greta,” Brendon says.
Nate drops his tray on the table next to Greta and then shoves a piece of crumpled paper at Brendon. “Check this out,” he says. “Battle of the bands, dude, Wentz’s dad is sponsoring it.”
This is really awesome news, Brendon thinks, except Brendon isn’t in a band. Greta’s in a band, and so is Nate - with Gabe Saporta, even, who goes to O’Hara and drives this kick-ass purple firebird and is generally so much cooler than Brendon can ever hope to be, and also kind of creepy - and Frank isn’t exactly in a band, but that’s only because Gerard prefers the term music collective.
Brendon isn’t in a band mainly because his parents won’t let him. He always feels like a tool giving out that explanation, though, so he tries not to mention it very often. It helps that only one person - Greta - has ever actually asked him to be in a band. Even though Brendon’s totally talented and can play the piano, guitar and the trombone. He’s even been known to pick a banjo now and then.