I wonder if killing yourself is the only thing you can control in your entire life, and that’s why it’s a sin. Because you’re beating God at his own game.
I don’t get on stage and give a social diatribe. I am a performer and an entertainer.
When I heard ‘Dookie’ by Green Day for the first time, it unlocked something in me, like, it’s totally okay that I’m a little bit weird because these guys are a little bit weird. It made me want to pick up an instrument and do that.
I’m attracted to creative people and train wrecks, and there’s no shortage of that in Los Angeles.
He hugged her tight, mixing their tears to be bottled and fermented, so they could be drunk on each other when this was all over.
I think hair is just, like, the most important thing about you.
But you couldn’t touch this kid right now, bullets would have dodged him.
Fall Out Boy never pretended that we were anything but pop-rock.
I’m a little bit of a makeout king. I don’t discriminate too much.
Girls are like apples... the best ones are at the top of the trees. The boys don’t want to reach for the good ones because they are afraid of falling and getting hurt. Instead, they just get the rotten apples that are on the ground that aren’t as good, but easy. So the apples at the top think there is something wrong with them, when, in reality, they are amazing. They just have to wait for the right boy to come along, the one who’s brave enough to climb all the way to the top of the tree...
I love these dudes, but I don’t know what they’re doing with all that facial hair these days. There’s a lot of peach fuzz going on. They called me up to go to a Kanye West concert, and I was like ‘hold on I’ll call Kanye.’ So I called him and they got into the show, and I called Kanye later and said, ‘Yo did you see my dudes from Panic! at the show?’ and he was like ‘Nah they mst not have been dressed like they were from the 1700’s′. But I back them. They have their own unique style, which is cool.
The person you’d take a bullet for is behind the trigger.
I am a corpse bored with my own funeral. I live like a gypsy, only with less gold and maybe more curses.
It’s awful, writing such terrible things about the person you love, but I’ll take a pen and paper over a psychiatrist’s chair any day of the week. This is my therapy.
I’ve got sunsets on the insides of my eyelids.
I’m the first kid to write of hearts, lies, and friends, and I’m sorry my conscience called in sick again. I’ve got arrogance down to a science.
Life is merely a numbers game, a series of odds, and eventually we all lose. To think otherwise is foolish. But if we didn’t, why would anyone ever bother getting out of bed in the morning?
I’m gay above the waist.
My brain has always been my enemy, and I’ve spent much of the past decade warring against it, with therapy and razor blades and bad behavior, with precision-guided prescriptions that targeted specific regions.
Ghost towns filled with sad people who settled for what life offered them. The road unfurls before us. Everything is possible. I feel sick to my stomach.
Sometimes I am willing to believe in anything if it means ignoring the reality of a situation.