Everything Is Going To Be Okay

I made a mixtape about being an average teenager and I wrote a short story based of the lyrics from the songs.

Track List:
Coming Clean by Green Day
Waste by Foster the People
The Motivation Proclamation by Good Charlotte
When Keeping It Real Goes Wrong by The Wonder Years
Spark Fires by the Story So Far
You Don't Understand Me by The Raconteurs
The Last Lie I Told by Saves The Day
Fear Of Sleep by The Strokes


1. Saturday, November 10


     I don’t even know why I’m doing this but I guess I’ll give it a try.

     This morning I woke up, sweating, phone in hand, trying to call someone in my sleep. I was having a nightmare I guess. I was lost and I couldn’t find my way, but when I tried to call Veronica for help the buttons on my phone wouldn’t work. Actually these past two weeks I’ve been waking up all sweaty, forced out of some nightmare by my own subconscious. Needless to say I haven’t been getting very much rest.

     Yesterday my Mom asked me what the matter was. The fact that she even noticed anything was wrong could’ve been due to her being a psychiatrist, she felt her mother senses or the fact that I kinda fell asleep standing up in the kitchen while I was waiting for my tea water to boil.

     After I was done explaining the whole nightmare thing, she told me to keep a journal. She says it’ll help relieve stress and that should stop the nightmares. What the hell? She’ll never understand, I mean does that even count as a prescription? I could’ve thought of that on my own. If this is what my mom tells all her patients, I don’t why she gets paid the amount she does. I didn’t even get any meds out of her. Not even ones I could try to sell for some extra cash, cash that I’d probably spend on a different type of drug but whatever.

     Anyway, that’s why I’m writing in this stupid notebook. Me. A seventeen year old high school senior boy just strung out on confusion. I guess I’m just trying to figure it out. This so called stress and mess of a life that I lead in boring old suburbia. A life full of general nothingness, save for a few friends, a few girls and some pop punk shows. That and I always have a lot of free time at work, so why not write, it’s not like I have homework anymore.

     I work at my Mom’s psychiatry office, which is really just a small rented out space in a practically deserted strip mall, between East China Inn and the Community Thrift Store. I answer phone calls, sitting at a desk for a few hours every day after school. My view is 4 outdated lobby chairs, a bunch of old Time magazines and two generic paintings of nature scenes with roses or daisies, I don’t know. All I know is that I hate those paintings more than anything. The fake serenity is so forced that it makes me want to throw up reality all over it or something. Reality is nothing like cheap portrayals of flower fields in the summer.

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