A/N: for all you kids not in the know, Jonesing means to have a strong need, desire, or craving for something. That something is usually chemical. Its origins are from the opiate culture. Opiate meaning opium meaning drugs, which are bad, so stay away. Confwuzzled - Billy! Gordon! They're perfect. Except not, because Billy is a tool (you'll see). SD! – lemon... lime… meh. No hot boi-boi loving this chappie. Head rush on caffeine with steroids, ei? That's not my drug of choice. In fact... I don't have a drug of choice. Yep. Been clean since February 2003, when I had an allergic reaction to a penicillin/codeine cocktail for my wisdom teeth. Go me. hopelesslydevoted12 – yay! I'm absolutely happy you love it. Though, you might not like me for this next part.

A/N2: Billy-boy, what am I going to do with you? Erg... read on. Flames are only accepted if you fill out the proper forms. Because happiness lost its wonder in 1992. EmoAngst! Also, I apologize that everything is moving so fast. I tried to slow it down, but this beast is running out of control.

School of FUCKING UP (edited version would read: school of funking up, but no, this story is not about that hepcat movement called funk)

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.

I didn't know. Yes. I didn't. If you build it, they will come. If you supply them, they will make that biggest mistake of their lives and regret it and hate you forever the next day.

I realize that over all the years that I have known Gordon, I never really knew him. I've worked with him, and talked to him by accident, and made him run to the 7/11 when we were out of motivation. But I never cared what he was thinking about. I've sat in backrooms before with him for entire nights and have left unconsciously realizing that I'd never said a single word to him. I didn't know what he was feeling, if he was sad, happy, or angry. He was just another trivial person in my life, the one that did electronics for the band. That might make me sound like the biggest prick in the world, but that's just how it was. I only saw him as that dorky guy who sometimes let me borrow five bucks.

And last I heard, Gordon was straight.

I'm staring into dilated pupils. We move closer again until all that I can see of his eyes is a blur. I let myself drift and feel Gordon's warmness, his loveliness. He rolls his tongue around in my mouth, and tastes like tapioca, and I press my body up against his.

Gordon's French kissing another boy on the roof of a Motel 6. He's sooo straight right now. This all makes so much sense. It's cold fusion on the Kuiper cliff. Fuck. I'm thinking, whatdidIjustdo? He is Gordon and I am Billy. We do not Chex Mix.

He says, to me, he says, "Oh, fuuuckkk."

The butterflies aren't just in my stomach. They're trapped all inside me and fluttering with tiny gossamer wings. I instinctively pull Gordon a little closer and he sighs, wrapping his other arm around my waist. I untangle my hands from his, and push them down down down his body. Like Leif Erickson discovering America, like Magellan in the South Pacific, I'm exploring his contours with my fingertips and finding he's the same but different.

This is the biggest mindfuck in the world. I've met a boy that I maybe like, but can't get with him because one, we're on X, and two, I'm about to go into rehab and maybe maybe maybe I don't want to do this to him.

Do what?

Not only fuck Gordon up, but down and sideways. Make him like (like) me. Make him think that maybe we can be together, even though it's only sex, and impossible, because he's Gordon straight-and-narrow (though maybe not so much anymore) and I'm Billy the-

wait.

Be together? Sharing emotions, long walks on the beach, holding hands type-together?

Hot, hot burning skin. I'm on fire but not really. His body is my ADD. (Fuck Freddy, he only ever cared about the message not the meaning.)

This is too much. This is not me, with him, Gordon, on the roof. This is too much to believe because of just one kiss. It is dark and more than cold and fuck and what was I thinking dot dot dot question mark. I'm thinking just one more kiss, one more hit, and I'm out of here, to rehab maybe. I'm gasping for breath. This is too hard. Nothing should ever be this hard. I'm mentally tearing the petals off a flower... I love him. I love him not.

I don't even know him.

"I can't do this, right now." I don't even have the energy to manufacture tears.

He goes limp against me, and I push Gordon away physically, emotionally. Don't treat him like a person. Treat him like Christmas presents gone three days stale.

What the hell is wrong with me? Do I want to start a fight? Do I want to get us both worked up and uncontrollable? Gordon says nothing, and I'm screaming. I can feel the exhaustion/survival method kicking in.

Maybe I pushed him too hard, too far, too fast. Or maybe he just kept falling like the Roman Empire. Because when I look at Gordon again without lust blinding my eyes, his glasses are smashed and blood-angst-waterfall-death is streaming from his nose. Or maybe I didn't even push him, but punched him, and called him a fag, and ran away from certain kiss.

The logic?

Yeah. That's what I did. Because that would explain why he's not chasing after me. That would explain the lost feelings, and how I got so far away so fast from his body.

Dewey doesn't have to know. Gordon doesn't have to know. Billy doesn't have to think.

What the HELL is wrong?

I don't remember how I got down the stairs. I remember opening the fire door on the sixth floor, and suddenly I'm on the bottom. Maybe I fell. I hurt. But I don't hurt like that. Maybe I feel. Like Gordon is fuck -he called me beautiful- fucking him, fuck me I don't need this.

I'm jonesing. That's it. Jonesing for chemical dependency and a solution. Gordon was too Easy, capital E, capital lie. Chicago is too far away. Dewey is too close. He's suffocating me with near-ness and we aren't even on the same block.

The neon exit sign is right there, above the door. There's no fire/safety alarm. I think back to the supply closet I saw yesterday near my room. Nobody would see if I decided to steal. I could totally monopolize the sandpaper linen towel business by Wednesday if I wanted to. But there's no time to stop and contemplate about my hopeless future now. There's that H-word. Hope.

Hope death.

I don't have time for rationality. I'm completely screwed either way. Rehab or the glamorous life-of-a-junkie? I don't even play an instrument so that wouldn't even be sexy, like Kurt Cobain suicide sexy.

"Billy? What the...?"

Someone is grabbing me. Grabbing touch touch--no. Go away, go'way.

Enter guitar solo.

Hahahahaha, it's him of course, Zack Moody-ham. All the girls love his pouty smile and that silly unibrow. In twenty years he'll have a beer belly and a day job teaching remedial English to a bunch of stoner kids. Hoping that maybe he can make a difference like Dewey did to a select few of us. (Me? No, I was like this before he came, I think.) But Zack has been too much of a pansy to say anything to me as of yet. Maybe I'm being an asshole. Maybe... I don't care. Zack is so low on my list, he's slumming with my opinion of the typical American Dream. Is that a girl on his arm? Traci, I had thought better. Of her. I believed she'd whore her way up to at least Frankie.

It's a proven fact that on my face, a smile is more aesthetically pleasing that a frown.

"What's wrong with your face?" Traci giggles and wobbles a little, like she's almost drunk.

I lay on the charm. "Nothing, dear-ling. Good show tonight, then? Clobber anyone's feet with those pumps?"

She shows off her five inch platform stilettos to me, rolling up her skirt ever so slightly. I pretend to be mildly aroused even though we all know I'm queerer than a two dollar bill.

Zack's eyes are rolling around in his head and he has got passion red lipstick on his collar. He's so shit-faced. Or I think he is, Zack's eyes are all red and that only happens when he's been crying or is drunk. And what would this Pretty Boy be so upset about? It is all so fucking cliché. Breathe in stereotypes. I live it.

He says to me like he's making a big fucking statement, "Didn't expect to find you here, Billy."

Traci licks his neck, claiming her man.

Katie know where you are, I want to ask. Or who you're with?

"That's for sure."

"I thought you said you never wanted to set foot in a Motel Six again," Zack goes.

"Things change," I go. Traci laughs, bearing her teeth to me. When did she loose those braces or her innocence?

"Things certainly do," Zack says forcefully. He's pretending we're fucking conversing like thing are normal and he's not feeling up a brain-dead skank that isn't the girl he's been dating for three years. "We gotta talk sometime, man."

Aren't we now? "No, we don't." I cross my arms, all antisocial punk-rock. But plaid makes me puke.

"Dewey told me what was going on with you and-"

Traci tugs on his sleeve, whining, "-Zacky, let's go."

He kind of glares at her. "Quit pulling on my arm." Zack makes it up to her with a quick peck on Traci's pale cheek. "Go on up to the room without me. I'll catch up."

Traci nearly falls over trying to untangle herself from Zack. "Oh, Billy Baby," she goes, rummaging through her bubblegum pink bag. "Someone gave this folder to me earlier. I don't remember who it's from or who it's to. Could you take it?" I relieve Traci from the burden of remembering, and she hugs me. Traci traipses through the door I had just Exited.

Zack just looks at me for a while. I don't need this either. I hate that he's presuming. I hate that he thinks he can make a difference right HERE and right NOW. When he had the chance before but didn't do anything and let me fall fall fall... but it was all my fault anyway.

"Don't you want to know why I'm here?" He goes. Zack is such a fucking saint. Can somebody give him a fucking medal?

I actually consider it for a moment. "Well, no. I really just want you to leave, so then I can leave, and we won't have to keep spreading the bullshitting around."

"You don't want me here?"

"I don't want me here," I go.

"What do you have to do that's so fucking important?"

I need to skip town. Get away. Go where I don't know anyone, and Zack can eat man-cock for giving me that look. I turn to leave, but he grabs me by my arm, and pulls me back. I twist my arm around, but he still won't let go.

"Lay off, Zack," I seethe. "Leave me the hell alone."

"Christ Billy. Can't you just deal? You fucked up. Get over it. It's simple: get clean, look care of yourself. Quit making Dewey worry so much about you. He's such a mess right now, and I don't even understand how he can put up with being around you. It's so pathetic when you act like this. It's not mysterious or romantic or whatever you're thinking."

Oh yeah, that's it. I'm taking up all of his precious Dewey-time. Zack gets so bitter when he's not the center of attention. He's more of an attention whore than Traci, the actual whore. I don't understand how he can even stand to be in the same room with her.

"Darling, you can suck it." I give Zack a two-handed shove and he goes flying back against the building.

"Fucking asshole! Don't call me darling." Zack yells high-pitched, like a girl or like he's in horrible pain. He scrapes his body off the wall.

"I'll fill your mouth, guy," I pant after him, "I'm so fucking hard for you right now, Zacky-baby. Suck my sperm and come like a dirty little whore that I–"

Zack screams, jumps on top of me and pins me to the ground. He pounds my face in with his fists. I can't move my arms to protect myself because his legs are squishing my elbows. And I can't breathe because his knees are digging into my chest. I yell as loud as I can and try to push him off, but he's bigger and always gets the girls. My eyes blur, and I need to retch. This is the kind fight I've always wanted to be in, but only on the other end I realize now. Zack keeps punching me and spits in my face, maybe not realizing it, but probably doing it on purpose.

I let him beat the living shit out of me.

"It's all your fucking fault. I hate you. I hate you so much. Why can't you just leave us alone?"

I am trying to imagine that I am viewing myself, my life, as the home audience. I just can't wait to meet my sober alter-ego. This is my small-screen TV look at new mediums. What is my life, politics or entertainment? What would I say about the character Billy? He is an ugly person and his pores are humongous? That's he's useless? A bitch? Owes a buck twenty-five in library fines?

The diseased one. Bringer of pain (look at Gordon), injustice (look at Dewey), and suffering (ala the rest of the world).

Zack departs like monarch butterflies, migrating to their sanctuary in Mexico for the winter. He's blurring. I can barely focus on anything important anymore. I just can't wait to go to sleep. It's been so long since I've had a dream.

Nahh nahh nana nahhhhh.

Guitar solo fades to soft weeping.