Our Shared Madness

1: Disloyal Order of Water Buffaloes

I quite literally fell out of bed. I'd passed out on the couch last night, or at least I think that's how it went down. Patrick and I had been doing rounds, celebrating our last album's success: Infinity on High.

Poor, poor Patrick. His low tolerance inspired me to drink more. I aimed to be as drunk as he was. I think I succeeded.

I love and hate being drunk. You never know what I'm going to do. I'm completely unpredictable and extremely happy. Everyone stares and thinks I'm crazy. What they don't know, is my craziness makes me both relatable and successful. I'm shameless and clever.

While being drunk, your conscious flies away for a little while. You can roam free for a while. You call things as you see them without worrying if you're wrong or right. It makes you feel better about yourself, and it leads to addictions. You drink, do drugs, and other dangerous things to make you remember the feeling of being weightless. You want to remember the times that your conscious leaves you.

My reflection is flashed before me. It's a big slap in the face. Hair is flying out in every direction. There's a white, flaky line going down my face. I'm a mess. That happy feeling I had last night is gone. All I feel is...empty. There's holes where stress, depression, and insomnia has ripped me apart.

My weaknesses have drawn me so far, specifically in 2004 when I overdosed on Ativan. I was tired of my head being so loud. I wanted to start over or not be here at all. Maybe Fall Out Boy didn't become famous. Maybe we were never a band. Maybe I wouldn't have these disorders.

I was stupid to think that suicide would solve my problems. I was saved because I wanted to be. I'm the opposite of perfect.

As I shuffle into the kitchen, I ponder imperfection. We all have flaws. Every single living human has insecurities and we are all, constantly, comparing them to other people's. Occasionally we'll clean ourselves up, just to fuck ourselves up all over again.

People dress up for society, painting themselves up in makeup to hide their blemishes. They play perfect, proclaiming to everyone. The only people they're fooling is themselves.

Perfect people can't sing about tragedy. They've never experienced real tragedy. They're just complaining.

So be imperfect, I thought, looking down into my coffee cup. Boycott love. Screw up a few times. Experience one night stands. Be the weirdest version of you you can be. Let people give you weird looks. Then, you know you're doing it right.

I smile stupidly to myself and pour my coffee into a mug and pull a jacket over my arms. I don't even fix my hair before I'm out the door. I walk out onto the street with a new confidence.

Eventually, I make it to Patrick's doorstep. His fingers press deeply into his temples. He's stuck on a hangover. I can't even feel mine.

He squints at the sun and lifts an eyebrow, "What's wrong with your hair?"

I chuckle, "I have a song idea..."