Lyrics to Teenagers by My Chemical Romance (2007)
When Lincoln got home that Friday afternoon, he was surprised (and a little annoyed) to find a box truck parked in front of the house, its ass end jutting out and blocking the driveway. The big back doors were open and a metal ramp angled down to the street. A man in blue overalls carried a crate down, and Leia, holding a clipboard, pointed him toward the garage. Lizy stood next to her, watching impassively, her hands clasped behind her back and her red cap pulled low on her forehead.
Oh, God, what is this?
He passed the truck and parked at the curb. For a moment he sat behind the wheel, the heel of his palm pressed against his achy temple. His eyes ached too; as did his back, his knees, and his feet. His feet most of all.
With a weary sigh, he threw the door open and climbed out; the mid-August air was dry and warm, the sounds of kids playing and the smell of barbecuing chicken washing over him like a pleasant memory. He walked along the side of the truck and then wide around the ramp. Leia was studying the clipboard intently, the butt of a pen resting thoughtfully against her chin. Lizy twisted left and right; when she saw him, her face brightened. "Hi, Daddy!"
Leia looked up and smiled too, here's a slight more...suggestive than her sister's.
"What's all this?" Lincoln asked, gesturing toward the truck.
"Lemons," Leia said.
Lincoln's step faltered. "Lemons? Not in this chapter."
The ten-year-old rolled her eyes fondly. "No, Daddy, lemons...literal lemons."
"They're really sour," Lizy said and screwed her face up in a cute pucker. "I like 'em."
The man in the overalls grunted and brushed past Lincoln. The crate was overful...as were the two dozen stacked in the garage; Lincoln could see them through the open roll-top doors...welcome home, asshole. "That's a lot of lemons," he said, fighting to keep the irritation out of his voice and winning...for the most part.
"Don't worry, I paid for them."
Leia was a businesswoman in the making; she was always hatching childish get-rich-quick schemes. Some were successful, others were not. Selling hot cocoa to plow drivers and neighbors shoveling out from under a blizzard last winter went well...her kissing booth (10 DOLLARS W/TONGUE, 5 DOLLARS W/O TONGUE) didn't; those under a certain age were too shy, and those over a certain age wouldn't touch her with a ten foot pole because jail or pedophila or some damn thing. Sometimes, she 'borrowed' money from him to fund her ventures...and more often than not, he did not get it back.
"Okay," he allowed, "but why are there thirty crates of lemons in the garage?"
"We're opening a lemonade stand," Lizy piped.
Leia sighed. "No, I'm opening a lemonade stand. You're just the help."
Lizy looked up at Lincoln and beamed. "I'm the help."
Aw, Christ. He rubbed his temple and took a deep breath. "Honey," he started, and Leia perked up (she loved being called affectionate pet names...you could call her smelly tramp if you cutesied it up), "I appreciate your drive and your vision, I really do…"
She smiled widely. "Thank you, Daddy."
"...but don't you think that maaaaybe that might be a little much? You're selling lemonade on a suburban street, not in the middle of Grand Central Station. You're not going to get a return on your investment."
"The overhead is a little high," Leia admitted, "but I'm offering a delivery service." She grinned proudly. "Fresh lemonade wherever you are."
Lincoln crossed his arms. "Oh? And how's that going to work?"
The little girl smiled sheepishly. "My Daddy…"
"...would like to enjoy his Saturday," Lincoln finished.
Leia sighed. "I -" she cut herself off, and a devious smile cleaved across her lips. Lincoln recognized that expression all too well; it was identical to Lola's. He called it their I-have-an-evil-plan-brewing look, and when he saw it, he always did what he did now; ran away like a coward. She might be a little girl, but if you got in her way when she had her mind set on something, you were going down and so was everyone you loved.
At the front door, he took a deep breath and braced himself, then turned the knob and went in; he bent slightly forward at the waist because sometimes when they came running, the family jewels wound up in the crosshairs.
No one came, and he stood. Oh. Okay. Loan looked up from the couch, and her perpetual scowl turned into the brightest, cheeriest smile you've ever seen. "Hey, Daddy," she said.
"Hi," Lincoln said and shut the door. "Where is everyone?"
Loan shrugged. "I don't know. Around."
As if on cue, Lupa hurried down the stairs, her normally blank face lit up like a Christmas tree. "Hey, Dad," she said. This is what he looked forward to most when he came home in the evening, seeing his two most dour girls glowing like the metal on the edge of a knife. It made it all worth it: The long hours, the back-breaking work, the constant, never-ending-even-when-I-want-it-to s -
Lupa hugged his waist and looked up at him with a salacious grin. Her hand snaked around and squeezed his butt, making him jump. "Can you help me with something in my room?"
"Well, actually -"
"I need his help with something on the couch," Loan put in and patted the open spot next to her with a wink.
Lupa's face hardened and she turned. Before she could snipe back, however, Lincoln held up his hand. "I'll spend time with both of you - later. Right now I just want to relax a little. Okay?"
Both of them looked at him with disappointment so keen it made his heart hurt. He had to be firm, though; a pushover parent is no parent at all if you asked him. He bent forward and kissed Lupa's forehead. "I'll come up in a little while."
She accepted this with a reluctant nod. "Alright," she said, her voice returning to the flat monotone she used with everyone but him. She turned and trudged up the stairs with heavy, crestfallen watched her go with sadness; he really did love seeing her and Loan so happy, but sometimes after a hard days' work, a man just wants to come home and relax. They knew that. At least they should.
He turned to Loan, and she gave a come hither nod. "Later," he said, and her face fell. She looked grumpy and ill at east again. Lincoln sighed as he went into the kitchen. Sometimes he felt like no matter what he did he was letting someone down...usually a lot of someones. That's to be expected in a...situation as unique as his, but knowing that it went with the territory didn't make it any easier. Jeez, between work, his sisters, and his eldest daughters, he barely got to spend time with Lemy, Lizy, or Lulu. That bothered him. Oh, he made damn sure there was time, but, God, he was being pulled in so many directions that it was never as much as he wanted.
Especially with Lemy.
Here's something you might not have considered: Lincoln grew up surrounded by girls - eleven if you count Mom, and his first six children were girls. He knew the ins and outs of the female psyche so goddamn well he might as well be one himself. Boys? He didn't know shit about them. Connecting with Lemy was so much harder than it should be, and sometimes he lost sleep wondered why he struggled with it, why it didn't come natural like it did with the girls. He considered and rejected the sexual aspect of their relationship as being a factor; he felt the same about them when they were little and the thought of being with them had never crossed his mind. He felt that way about Lemy, too, a deep, abiding love, but...have you ever seen a plane being refueled in midair by another plane? There's this long hose that connects them. He was like the plane with all the fuel; it was there, ready to go, but he couldn't get the damn hose to its mark.
Part of that was, he thought, because he and Lemy weren't very much alike. When he was twelve, he was a comic book geek who valued his social life so much that he went to great pains to avoid being ostracized at school (like powering the house once with an exercise bike and his own sweat just so his class wouldn't lose some dumb eco challenge). Lemy was one of the guys who sat in the back of the class and didn't give a shit what people thought. That wasn't a terrible thing, but it wasn't a great thing, either. You have to care what other people think, to a degree, or you're in for a rough, lonely life. He was a good boy overall, and whenever Lincoln saw him helping or spending time with one of his sisters, his heart swelled with love and pride. He'd kick up a fuss here and there, but he always did the right thing in the end.
Lemy was also at the threshold of his teens, and that's a time fraught with confusion, hormones, and budding independence. When he wasn't being kind and considerate with one or more of his sisters, he was usually in his room listening to music or working on radios - the latter of which was a talent Lincoln was extremely proud of. At that age, a boy wants his space, and he tried to give it to him without backing away entirely, but each day it felt like he was walking a tightrope; he was beginning to wobble and one wrong move would send him crashing down on one side or the other. There's an old song Luna really liked that says to hold on loosely, but don't let go...if you cling too tightly you're gonna lose control. That was what he tried to do with Lemy, to hold on loosely.
Sometimes, though, it didn't feel like it was working. He only saw Lemy at dinner now, and whenever Lincoln spoke to him, he grumbled as though talking to him was the last thing in the world he wanted to do. He told himself it was classic teenage sullenness, but he couldn't help feeling that he went terribly wrong somewhere and that the more he tried to find the right path, the farther in the wrong direction he went.
In the kitchen, he went to the fridge and grabbed a Coke. He opened it on his way into the living room and took a drink once he was esconded in his Lazy-Boy. Time to relax and…
The front door opened and Luna came in with a plastic grocery bag in each hand; she wore tight jeans and a billowy purple shirt with little stings by the throat. I don't know what the hell they're called. Lucy came behind in a black dress that reached her knees. Her black hair was in a ponytail and her bangs came down to the tops of her eyebrows. She, too, held bags.
"Hey, bro," Luna said happily, "glad you're here, we could really use some help."
Lincoln bowed his head. Of course. "Alright," he said and pushed himself up. His feet panged in protest but he ignored them. Outside, the truck driver was pushing a handcart stacked with crates up the driveway. Jesus, how many did Leia order? A single lemon fell, hit the pavement, and rolled awkwardly into the grass.
"Hey!" Leia called. "I paid good money for those!"
"Sorry, ma'am," he said in a tone that suggested he'd heard it all before...and no longer cared.
Luna's Jeep was parked on the other side of the street; Lincoln waited for a minivan to pass then crossed and went around to the back hatch. Bags were heaped upon bags, and the whole mess was covered with a layer of bags under a coating of bags.
There were a shit ton of bags is what I'm saying. Lincoln grabbed two in each hand and carried them into the house. Lucy was on her way out, and she leaned in to kiss him as they passed - a quick, affectionate peck on the lips. He returned it and brushed his nose against hers like an Eskimo. "Stop," she smiled, "that tickles."
"Sorry."
Not sorry.
In the kitchen, Luna was standing on her tippy toes to put a box in the cabinet over the drying rack; the hem of her shirt rode up to expose her pale, creamy flesh. Lincoln sat the bags on the table, went over, and put his hands on her hips. She was warm and soft, and when he kissed her neck, his crotch rubbing against her butt, she purred. "Hey, bro."
"Hey," he said. The scent of her skin filled his nose and tantalized his senses. He began to stir, and he crept his hands around her stomach. "How was your day?"
"Pretty sweet," she said and perched the box on the edge of the shelf. She pushed it in with her fingers, and then turned in his arms, her arms circling his neck. "How was yours?"
"The usual," Lincoln said, "crap."
Luna offered a big, closed lip smile that told him she was up to no good. "Well, if it's any consolation we're having your favorite for dinner."
Something told him she wasn't talking about Swedish meatballs. "Yeah?"
She nodded. "Yeah, man, fur pie."
For a moment they gazed deeply into each other's eyes...then broke out laughing. "You wanna know the really funny part?" Lincoln asked when he recovered.
"What?"
He leaned in and kissed her lips. "I had it for lunch."
She shoved him away and he snickered. "Jane in accounting," he said, "ummmm."
"Go away," Luna said fondly.
Back outside, he crossed paths with Lucy again, and smacked her butt. She tossed a glance over her shoulder and did her best deadpan. "Later." The twinkle in her eye and the smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth betrayed her, though.
A lot of people didn't understand his relationship with his family, and theris with him. Lincoln could respect that; once upon a time he too would have furrowed his brows at a man having sex with his sisters and daughters, all of them living under the same roof like some kind of Mormon incest cult, but it worked for them; they were happy and loving and closer than most other families. What's so bad about that?
At the Jeep, he grabbed two more bags, both heavy, one with milk and the other with a jar of spaghetti sauce, then started back to the house.
How did he have enough love for all of the women in his life, you might ask? Well...he was a passionate man. Sometimes, though, the...more physical aspects of the family dynamic were a bit taxing: Keeping up with close to twenty women would be a challenge for even a much younger man, and there were days when he crawled into bed half dead and so spent he could barely move. Hopefully it wouldn't be long before L -
Lincoln Loud had a problem: He gathered wool when he should be paying attention to where he was going. In the past, he walked into walls, door frames, and street signs while his brain was out to lunch. This time he stepped on a lemon; one second things were fine, the next he was slipping and falling, his heart rocketing into his throat. His life flashed before his eyes and that cartoon slip-and-fall sound effect rang in his ears. He tried to save himself, but wound up making it worse: His arms fileaid and the grocery bags shot straight up into the air as he went down. He hit the pavement flat on his back, and his head slammed hard. Pain exploded in his skull, but the worst was yet to come.
He opened his eyes just as the gallon of milk landed on his face, busting his nose and exploding; cow juice splattered him and the pavement, a good measure shooting down his throat and into his windpipe. His cough turned into a high pitched scream as a jar of spaghetti sauce dropped onto his balls; pain filled his stomach like a leaden balloon, and his hands flew to his damaged package.
The truck driver's fist went to his mouth. "Ooooh, shit," he snickered. Leia gaped, her face pale, while Lizy pointed and giggled.
To add insult to injury, he was the one who had to go back to the store for more milk.
Stupid lemons.
Everyone has a place in life, even if it isn't obvious. Take him, Lemy Loud, for example. His place was standing one inch high next to his father, who was currently bent over the dinner table with a pack of frozen peas pressed against the back of his head because he slipped on a banana peel or something like a fucking clown. You're not as good as Dad...I love Dad, I don't love you. That's basically what Lacy said to him today.
No, that was a bullshit line, had to be. Oh, cheating, oh, uh. Yeah? The man sticks his dick in how many other girls on the reg? Let's see: Loan, Liena, Lyra, Liby, Lupa, Leia...that's six, and that's not even counting his sisters. That's not cheating? Oh, I forgot, Dad's Jesus fucking Christ, so it's okay when he does it.
Deep breath, man, deep breath.
He really wasn't that mad about it - when he woke up from his nap, he felt...alright. Not great, but not like the broken, heart-dead sad sack he was before. Then, after an hour and a half, he came downstairs and there he fucking was with that cowlick...flapping with every step like a gay man's hand (heeeeeyyy) and those busted ass front teeth. He was sitting on the couch and allll of his daughters were clustered around (except Liby and Lacy for some reason) Oh, poor Daddy fell and hurt his widdle head. The way they were pawing at him you'd think he had terminal cancer or something. It made Lemy so fucking sick he almost walked back upstairs. Let me bust my fucking head, who's gonna give a rats ass about me? Mom, maybe, but that was it. That's not how a man handles his pain, son, he could hear his father saying. And hissing over your chipped grill while holding tomorrow night's side dish on your fucking head is?
Oh, okay, I forgot, I was shoehorned into this family and no one wants me. I'll keep my fucking mouth shut from now on, alright? Everyone else can bitch and piss and moan and that's fine, but let me fucking breathe wrong and Ew, gross, it's Lemy; oh, he's still here? Dad's better than him.
I get it. Just shut the fuck up.
Presently, he scooped up a spoonful of corn and pushed it past his lips. It tasted bland, watery. Must be Mom's night to cook; she was a chef the same way Tom Cullen was an astrophysicist. M-O-O-N, that spells eureka! He kept his head low, but he was aware of his sisters all around him, especially Lacy sitting next to Dad; he really didn't want to see her right now, because every time he did the knife twisted just a little deeper. He couldn't help himself entirely, though, and when he glanced up, he caught Lacy staring off into space, her face propped in her hand. She turned to him, and he saw pleading in her eyes.
He looked down at his plate. He was not aware of Liby and Lyra stealing glances at him, the latter with concern and the former with sad longing.
"You alright, Linc?" Lori asked and took a bite of mashed potatoes. Yeah, Linc, you alright? Need anything? Your seltzer bottle? Your unicycle? A tissue, you fucking bitch?
Dad nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said, "I'm fine."
Lemy stabbed a piece of chicken with his fork and lifted it to his mouth. Back to what I was saying, we all have a place in life, and there comes a point in time when you have to learn it. This is my place - in this chair, in family - and I'm going to accept that because you can't fight fate, man, you can't fight the universe, you just gotta roll over, bite the pillow, and take it. Maybe that sounds fatalistic, but it's true. I spent so long fighting back and it's like quicksand...the more you thrash, the deeper you get.I realized that and I gave up. Screw women, screw my old man, screw my mom, screw it all. I'm gonna carve out a little niche for myself and hunker there until I die.
And I'm not going to torture myself with this anymore. I'm going to let it go.
Deep breath in, deep breath out.
There.
Now this chicken...tasted like the kind you dig out of a Hungry Man meal. It feels good to be full. Full of what? Overprocessed, cancer inducing slop? Yeah, man, go ahead and sign me up for seconds. You know some guy kept a McDonald's cheeseburger in his fridge for twenty years and it didn't rot? Twenty fuckng years. What's in that shit, embalming fluid? I hear you can dip cigarettes in that shit, smoke them, and trip your balls right off of your body.
(Why doesn't she want me?)
Perfect thing to do at a rave, ya know, around a bunch of people you don't know. Especially if you're a girl.
(What's wrong with me?)
Maybe that's not such a great id - VICTIM SHAMING!
Goddamn, fine, whatever, it's not my pussy getting raped. Do what you want. As for the dudes who do that shit...man, how can you get off when the girl doesn't want you? Was he strange for wanting the girl to be into it? Into him?
(Please be into me, Lacy)
Must be. Silly Lemy, he's some kind of gay ass romantic or some shit, fuck that guy. Dumb ass eighties hair, lame headband, little fingerless gloves he wears when he jacks dudes off. What? You wanna kiss a chick and hold her hand and shit? Where's your bike, fag? Going to your boyfriend's house? Brian's my favorite, who's yours?
(Please love me)
What can I say? I am what I am. Can't really change that. I try to be a good dude, I really do, but good dudes finish last. State of nature and shit. Can't fight it: You either adapt and become a fucking prick, or you get eaten alive like a background character in The Walking Dead.
(I love you)
They say everyone looks at their life like it's a movie and they're the main character. Not me. I'm a secondary guy, 'supporting cast.' That's not terrible, I guess, since I'm still on the lot getting paid and eating free catering (hey, man, is that escargot?), its just...you know, it is what it is.
(I want to hold you so bad)
There's skin in my mashed potatoes. Isn't that a pun or something? Like a black fly in your chardonnay? No, wait, that's irony. You know that Alanis Morissette song "Ironic"? Of all the stuff she lists in there - rain on your wedding day, a free ride when you already paid - none of it is actually ironic...so it's a song called "Ironic" that isn't about irony at all...which is ironic! Hahahaha.
(I'm desperate)
Lemy balled his swollen fist and looked up, his face pointed at his father but his eyes on the wall, away from him, away from them all. "Can I be excused?"
Eyes and teeth clenched, Dad nodded. "Yeah." His voice was strained.
Lemy stood up, grabbed his plate, and took it into the kitchen, where he scraped it into the trash then threw it in the sink. He kept his eyes straight ahead as he crossed through the dining room.
When he was gone, Lacy brushed a tear away from her cheek and stole a sidelong glance at her father. Guilt and self-loathing bubbled up in her...then she thought of Lemy when she caught him looking at her: The pain in his eyes, the agony on his face like a death mask. Her stomach turned and she felt like she was going to be sick.
She loved Dad dearly...but not like she loved Lemy. With Dad, it was burning passion, but with Lemy it was...it was different, like a low but warm fire. She could stop thinking about Dad when he wasn't around, but not Lemy.
"Can I be excused too?" Liby asked from her station across the table. Her face was ashen and her voice trembled slightly.
Dad nodded. "Yes."
Liby got up, took her plate into the kitchen, then came out and went upstairs. Lacy scraped her fork across her plate and stared into her dinner much the same way Lemy had stared into his breakfast that morning: Like she was a gypsy reading tea leaves and not liking what they were telling her. What should she do? She didn't want to hurt Dad, but on the other hand she was already hurting Lemy and…
She didn't know; she felt so lost and over her head that she could barely think straight. Suddenly, she was tired - so drained she could barely sit up.
"Can I go too?" she asked lowly.
Dad simply nodded.
She took her plate into the kitchen, threw away her food (barely touched), and sat it in the sink. In her room, she kicked off her shoes and crawled into bed, pulling the covers over her head and blocking out the world. She hugged her knees to her chest and sighed.
When Lemy kissed her back at the park, she felt something...something she'd never known before, something strong and burning; each rake of his tongue against hers sent sparks showering into her center, and when he slipped his hand into her hair, she nearly lost her balance. She felt dizzy and giddy when she kissed Dad, but not like that.
The physical act of kissing her brother - even of making love to him - did not bother her as much as the emotion behind it; she loved her father, but she was not in love with him She was in love with Lemy, and...she didn't know. It wasn't something you could rationalize; she felt deep in her heart that loving Lemy the way she did was wrong, and that...well…like the saying goes, you can't serve two masters. Her heart was firmly in Lemy's hands now, and that was kind of unfair to Dad, wasn't it?
Here's the thing, though: She knew, knew, that she wouldn't be able to hold out for long. Right or wrong, she would go back to Lemy because she was selfish and weak.
Tears welled in her eyes and she wiped them away with the heel of her palm. She really didn't want to hurt her father, but...she very well might end up doing just that.
Across the hall, Liby paced an endless circuit around her room, her hands on her hips and a thoughtful expression on her face; lips pursed, brow knitted, eyes rolled to the side and hazy with distance. Inside, her chest ached and her stomach knotted; every so often, her step would quicken and her breathing would deepen. At the door, closed against the hateful world, she flashed and slapped the frame so hard her palm stung.
Of course Lacy likes Lemy. Why wouldn't she? I thought, I honestly thought, I could have Lemy to myself, but, ha, this is the Loud family, you get nothing for your own.
Share him.
She didn't want to share him!
You share Dad.
That was different; for all the things they did together, she wasn't in love with her father. She didn't see herself marrying him or having his children. She could see marrying Lemy, though; it was vague and indistinct, as though seen through smoke and shadows, but, yes, she could see it. Sharing a man you love is fine...but a man you're in love with? That made her feel strange...almost panicky. If she dwelled on it, she'd lose her composure and start to cry again; she shoved away her emotions and took a step back. Look at it coolly, rationally, as Mystery Girl and not Liby Loud.
Deep breath.
Alright. In the words of Joe Friday: Just the facts, ma'am.
She and Lacy liked the same boy...the fact that he was their brother was entirely irrelevant save that they all lived under the same roof. Lacy claimed to really like him, and if she felt anywhere near what Liby herself felt, she wasn't going to give up and walk away. Oh, you love him too, sis? Well, to avoid family strife, I concede. Ha, fat chance. There was going to be acrimony, jealousy, and maybe even blows. Maybe...maybe she should back down.
That thought stopped her dead in her tracks. She didn't want to, though. Goddamn it, she wanted Lemy.
But she also didn't want to fight her sister.
Lemy isn't worth fighting for?
No! He is! But Lacy's my sister and...it's just a bad scene. We're not the closest, but I love her and I really don't want to destroy our relationship.
The risk is worth the reward.
Was it?
She called up a vision of Lemy's face, and her heartbeat sped up.
The responsible thing to do would be to talk to Lacy and see if maybe they could work something out. Lacy was wracked with guilt because she felt like she was cheating on Dad; Liby didn't feel the same way, so she had that in her favor.
She perked up.
That's right. She really liked Lemy but she was hung up on their father, which she, Liby, could use to her advantage. She hoped Lacy would let Lemy go on her own, but if she needed a little help, well...Liby wasn't above providing it.
Lemy hung in the balance, after all, and Mystery Girl, if not Liby Loud, was something of a consequentialist: The ends justify the means.
She started to pace again, and to plan.
Lemy put the joint between his lips, lit it, and inhaled; his lungs pinched and the back of his throat tickled. He thought of the killer from Scary Movie; that scene where he stops slashing teenagers long enough to smoke bud with a bunch of stones. He takes a big hit and lets it out. This is some good shit. He chuckled sardonically. That's the power of weed, man; stop a serial killer in his tracks.
He blew out a plume and got up. At his dresser, he grabbed a leatherbound CD booklet and flipped through the pages, the joint jutting from his mouth; he puffed like a college professor on a pipe. Today we discuss the merits and demerits of Judas Priest, AC/DC, Metallica, and Slipknot.
Now that's a class he'd pay attention in. They have those, don't they? He absently scratched his chest as he took another puff. He thought so; they have a lot of weird ass college classes these days. The only problem is, once you get your degree, what the fuck are you going to do with it? Hang it on the fridge in your mom's basement? Cuz, brother, that's where you're gonna wind up living. Ooooh, liberal arts degree, uh, I'm so cool. Yeah, I'll have a side of fries with that, and super size me, huh?
You ever see that movie? They call it a documentary but he read someone it was full of shit. Not surprising, everyone's got an agenda. Notice that? Catholics, democrats, fan fiction writers...even not having an agenda is kind of an agenda. Agenda, agenda, agenda. Doesn't make sense anymore, does it?
Wincing against smoke that stung his eyes, he slipped a disc from one of the holders, went back over to the bed, and sat. Too bad the Zenith doesn't have a CD port, he thought as he reached over and picked up his boombox. Surely you can add one, but he'd never done that before, and it sounded like it'd be a real pain in the ass.
I'm doing it. Why not, I got nothing else going on. No teams, no clubs, no gangs - man, I suck. I should join the Bloods or something. Lemy Loud, street name Snowflake.
He dropped the CD in and closed the lid, then pressed PLAY.
Yep. Snowflake.
Music started to filter from the speaker. Electric guitar. Heh. Maybe it's the weed talking, but you can really hear the electricity. He snickered. Yeah, man, this soup is really soupy. Durrr.
They're gonna clean up your looks
With all the lies in the books
To make a citizen out of you
My Chemical Romance. Kind of a...guilty pleasure. This song, at least; he didn't know any of their other shit. He always thought they were some kind of gay ass emo band, but he heard this one on the radio and oh, shit, that's not bad.
Because they sleep with a gun
And keep an eye on you, son
So they can watch all the things you do
He pinched the burning end of the joint and dropped it onto the desk. Don't wanna fall asleep, man, I just wanna...I just wanna think.
Heh. I'm a fucking mess. Daddy issues like a woman...fucking self-pity, oh boo hoo no one loves me. I gotta stop that shit. It's getting old...giving me a headache. I don't like feeling this way. Does anyone? I mean...if you do, you're not serious, you know? Like Lupa. She has this...air...you know, like she revels in being dour. I don't. It's a fucking prison on planet bullshit.
No, joking aside, it kind of feels like I'm in prison or something.
Because the drugs never work
They're gonna give you a smirk
'Cause they got methods of keepin' you clean
Yeah, maybe I have legit reasons to be upset, but I can't let it get to me like I did at dinner. Hahahahaha. I'm laughing because that's the suck thing about incest. The girl you like is also your sister, so you got two different relationship dynamics going on, and if she breaks your heart, you can't go home and get away from her; you see her at the table, in the living room, on the way to the can. She's always there, you know, a constant reminder of whatever went down.
They gonna rip up your heads
Your aspirations to shreds
Another cog in the murder machine
I realize how fucked up it is...you know, the incest shit...but, I don't know, I guess it's so ingrained in me that I can't be any other way. I'm attracted to my sisters and I love all of them as sisters and more. They don't love me back. That's just my curse and I have to fucking deal with it. It's not their fault: If someone doesn't love you, they don't love you, there's not shit you can do about it except move on. And I want to, I really do; this fucking being angry and depressed shit isn't fair to me and it's not fair to them. It's not healthy either.
They said all
Teenagers scare
The living shit out of me
They could care less
As long as someone'll bleed
I do feel unloved, and maybe I have reason to, and maybe I don't; maybe I'm taking it too far. My sisters hug me, my Mom hugs me, I kind of know that they love me, but...I just...I see the way they look at Dad, the fucking 'shimmering adoration' in their eyes and...that's love to me. Like I consider that love. They all look at him that way; my sisters, my aunts, and I just...I want it too; I want to look into their eyes and see how much they love me instead of guessing or simply being told Oh, I love you. I wanna see it, man, I wanna feel it in their touch and their kisses, I...I also wanna fuck them. Hahahahaha. No use denying it, I'm a horny fucking virgin.
So darken your clothes
Or strike a violent pose
Maybe they'll leave you alone
But not me
I'm more than that, but it's, uhhh, it's a big part of it, too. Kind of like wires all entwined. Red, blue, yellow. That kind of thing.
Maybe.
I don't fucking know, man, I just know I need to get my head right and stop doing this to myself. And it is me. I take responsibility. Nothing can really bother you unless you let it. Check it: Fag. Ugly word right, but when you look at it, it's just a bunch of symbols put together that, like, we've empowered. Yeah, there's...there's umph or whatever behind it, but only because people did that. Same thing with virgin loser. It's the thought behind it, not the words, and…
The boys and girls in the clique
The awful names that they stick
You're never gonna fit in much, kid
Lemy cocked his head to the side, his train of thought de-fucking-railed. Man, I'm stoned. Where was I? Something about racist words and letting it bother you or something. I don't know, maybe I'm full of shit, I just think the power lies within us, you know, and nothing out there can hurt us unless we allow it to. I let a thing hurt me. I LET. That virgin loser shit...I gave it power, and I gave Lacy power when she kissed me and then shoved me away like garbage. I could have shrugged and walked away, but I let it inside.
Why did she kiss me? Does she feel something for me? I don't know. They say moments carry you away or something, so maybe the moment carried her away? Maybe she felt bad, like, as a sister for her brother, and she thought a kiss would help me and liked it herself or didn't like it, and had to run away?
But if you're troubled and hurt
What you got under your shirt
Will make them pay for the things that they did
I dunno, you can drive yourself crazy overthinking shit. I'm not gonna do that anymore. Yeah, man, I hurt, but life doesn't stop. Break your heart or break your head, the world keeps on spinning and feeling sorry for yourself isn't gonna do you any favors. You just gotta deal. I'm not the only one who hurts. Hell, I think everyone does to one degree or another, and they do it. They go to work, they come...they come home, they marry and have kids while still loving that chick they dated in college or nursing broken dreams. From what I've seen, that's called being an adult.
They said all
Teenagers scare
The living shit out of me
They could care less
As long as someone'll bleed
Sounds like it sucks, huh? Well, man, so does the weather when it rains, what'cha gonna do? Call into work, sit inside, and cry down the front of your shirt? You can't do that. You have to keep on because nothing ever stops until you stop. Stopping is appealing sometimes but I'm not gonna stop over some dumb, petty, fucking teenager drama. Oh, she kissed me and then...blah blah blah...other guy. Hahahahaha. Yeah, man, you got it hard, huh? How'd that math test go? Someone else wore the same South Pole suit as you? Golllll-eeee, here come the four horsemen.
So darken your clothes
Or strike a violent pose
Maybe they'll leave you alone
But not me
I'm a bitch and a crybaby and a piece of shit, but I'm working on it because I don't want to be.
I wanna be…
...this hurts to say…
...I wanna be like my Dad.
And not just because my sisters love and fuck him. He, like...something tells me he earned it. And I want to earn it too.
I want to earn love.