Peroxide (Peterick)

stay in your fucking lane

The earnest crackling of a fire would be a welcomed respite from the massacre of heat occurring outside, but that's not the crackling that erupts from my phone as it's guarded in secrecy so that my friends won't truly understand the extent at which my brain was chewed up and spat out for dead.

So Pete will have to move on without an introduction to Dr. Gabe Saporta, because in all honesty, that's the luckier end of the deal, primarily now that he's tossing my problems in his mind and discovering solutions that would only succeed for his kind of folk, or anyway far from me.

This has all become very boring, ponderous subjects spewed out to perpetuate his doctorate without any substance at all, but Dr. Saporta, being the ostentatious fool that he is, has no idea that what he's doing is unnecessary and grey.

But as they preach, the pride comes before the fall, and after all he's done, I'd rather he fall quite hard, but until he finishes this meeting with me over the telephone, he's never tipping off the building to his fate.

"You know the drill, Patrick," Saporta hums, and I swear there's a leering field of triumph fertilizing his aging face.

"Not this again," I sigh, my hand absently swerving through my peroxide-stained vines of keratin that I've never really taken care of.

"For old times' sake."

"I'm not doing the drill with you, okay?" My timbre is phlegmatic, sculpting venom into the phone line. "I have other issues."

"You always do, don't you?"

A psychologist isn't supposed to be so acidic, principally when referring to his patient that he promises to bolster throughout their time together, but I'm frankly unconvinced that Dr. Saporta even has a degree in psychology, so any argument towards him is automatically invalid, and if he does, in fact, own that esoteric degree, it doesn't show by the way he continuously heckles me.

"Anyway, what's your current problem?"

I debate hanging up, just forgetting about this blight of a man, but my mother would dry up my phone bill by calling me about abandoning the psychologist towards whom she's so well-disposed, and quarreling with her does nothing for my vantage, so I decide against it.

That hassle materializes in the form of my taciturnity, but once it's resolved, my answer spouts from the mouth on which it previously slept. "Pete Wentz."

A bout of cachinnation bursts the speaker, also bursting my stomach with spite, and Dr. Saporta stammers, "A few days ago, you were telling me he was the best thing since sliced bread."

"Yeah, he is, and that's why it's all the more painful when he dies from not medicating himself."

Saporta's deliberation transfers from between him to the receiver, an odd disappointment recoiling in his silence. "You always pick the ones with flaws, Patrick."

This man is utterly obnoxious. As if I can choose who waltzes into my life with the most peculiar entrance I've seen yet, and it just keeps getting better — better, that is, until they ruin my life even more so than it was, and then I adapt myself for more.

Brows wadding, a single sentence lashes out at Dr. Saporta, with cyanide dripping from the end. "Is that my fault?"

A groan is filtered through the radio, unfavorably provoked by my resistance. "Perhaps you should review your choice in friends before indulging in the sanity they grant you."

"So it is my fault."

Fragments of blackout cloud his response-time, eventually punctured by a spear of consciousness. "I'm not saying that."