I told Twitter to stop me! WHY DIDN'T THEY STOP ME.
...Oh, goddammit. I think it's gotten to the point where I have to start counting American Idiot as one of my fandoms even though I don't interact with any other fans. (unless someone has good fic recs? anyone? no? thought so. :c )
WHATEVER. BASICALLY I WROTE A THING. IT'S A DUMB THING.
This Life-like Dream
RATED PG-13 OR SOMETHING.
Pairings: Past Johnny/Whatsername, (past Johnny/Jimmy were you expecting anything else)
Warnings: Mentions of drug use, "character death," incoherency.
Summary: He's not listening to a word now/He's in his own world and he's daydreaming.
Disclaimer: I'm not Green Day, I have no right to do this, no really this is not even my jurisdiction.
So.
Jimmy’s dead.
And it’s like, whatever, right? Jimmy was the one fucking everything up. Jimmy’s the reason he lost his girl, Jimmy’s the reason he’s probably lost about a million brain cells too many, Jimmy’s the reason he doesn’t even have the cash for a bus ticket home. He doesn’t need Jimmy. He never needed Jimmy.
…Okay, so that’s a big fat fucking lie and everyone knows it. He did need Jimmy, needed him like air and water and whatever the fuck other biological junk you need to live, and there’s just no way he could have left Jimmy by himself. Damn it.
But now, now Jimmy’s just a splatter on the inside of his own head, and his girl’s probably off starting a new revolution with What’s-his-face, Will’s probably wiping up babyshit with Heather, Tunny’s still in the goddamn desert for all he knows, and. And he’s lonely, okay?
And now he’s on his tenth cup of coffee and his third stack of paperwork and he’s still fucking alone, and people might be talking to him but if it’s not about his paycheck he doesn’t fucking care. He signs some forms, stamps some papers, one-two, left-right, he’s not really sure of what he’s doing but he knows he gets money for it. He knows he’s become One Of Them, the idiots stuck where they are because they couldn’t think of anything else to do with their pathetic little lives, but it’s getting harder and harder to care.
Maybe he was wrong in thinking that living the way he wanted was a choice.
Maybe he was destined for this little square prison all along, and he was just delaying it.
Whatever. He’s stuck here now, making barely enough for rent and cheap beer that’s nowhere near the kind of shit Jimmy would always get him. That he’d always get Jimmy. Fuck. He doesn’t know anymore.
His guitar sits next to his bed, collecting more dust with every day he doesn’t sing another love song, every day he’s too exhausted from staring at tiny printed words for eight hours, every day he’d just rather lie on his bed and hate himself than pick it up.
Fuck.
Somebody needs to get him out of here.
(And it’s not going to be Jimmy, not this time.)
WHATEVER. BASICALLY I WROTE A THING. IT'S A DUMB THING.
This Life-like Dream
RATED PG-13 OR SOMETHING.
Pairings: Past Johnny/Whatsername, (past Johnny/Jimmy were you expecting anything else)
Warnings: Mentions of drug use, "character death," incoherency.
Summary: He's not listening to a word now/He's in his own world and he's daydreaming.
Disclaimer: I'm not Green Day, I have no right to do this, no really this is not even my jurisdiction.
So.
Jimmy’s dead.
And it’s like, whatever, right? Jimmy was the one fucking everything up. Jimmy’s the reason he lost his girl, Jimmy’s the reason he’s probably lost about a million brain cells too many, Jimmy’s the reason he doesn’t even have the cash for a bus ticket home. He doesn’t need Jimmy. He never needed Jimmy.
…Okay, so that’s a big fat fucking lie and everyone knows it. He did need Jimmy, needed him like air and water and whatever the fuck other biological junk you need to live, and there’s just no way he could have left Jimmy by himself. Damn it.
But now, now Jimmy’s just a splatter on the inside of his own head, and his girl’s probably off starting a new revolution with What’s-his-face, Will’s probably wiping up babyshit with Heather, Tunny’s still in the goddamn desert for all he knows, and. And he’s lonely, okay?
And now he’s on his tenth cup of coffee and his third stack of paperwork and he’s still fucking alone, and people might be talking to him but if it’s not about his paycheck he doesn’t fucking care. He signs some forms, stamps some papers, one-two, left-right, he’s not really sure of what he’s doing but he knows he gets money for it. He knows he’s become One Of Them, the idiots stuck where they are because they couldn’t think of anything else to do with their pathetic little lives, but it’s getting harder and harder to care.
Maybe he was wrong in thinking that living the way he wanted was a choice.
Maybe he was destined for this little square prison all along, and he was just delaying it.
Whatever. He’s stuck here now, making barely enough for rent and cheap beer that’s nowhere near the kind of shit Jimmy would always get him. That he’d always get Jimmy. Fuck. He doesn’t know anymore.
His guitar sits next to his bed, collecting more dust with every day he doesn’t sing another love song, every day he’s too exhausted from staring at tiny printed words for eight hours, every day he’d just rather lie on his bed and hate himself than pick it up.
Fuck.
Somebody needs to get him out of here.
(And it’s not going to be Jimmy, not this time.)