“Cause I’m a place, a mountain
a sweet little dude
wont ever catch me in the nude
yea-aaahh-oo!”

Bronx pushed his choppy black (vintage, dad, totally vintage! It’s ironic!) emo bangs away from his thirteen year old forehead, glaring expectantly at his parents. His extremely lame parents who were holding hands and beaming like total loserfaces. “So, what’d you think?” he asked in his best Disaffected Voice of Casualness as he pulled at the strap of his lameass bartskull fender, lifting it over his head and placing it carefully in the stand to avoid uncle Patty choking his ass (again). Nobody ever believed him when he said Uncle Pat was old Chicago Mafia, dad said that was because Patrick only tried to kill the people he loved. Mom said it was because Patty-Pat wasn’t big on public displays of emotion. Bronx Mowgli Wentz’s parents were lunatics. His middle name was seriously Mowgli, what the actual fuck.

“Dude, that was awesome!” Pete yelled, bouncing up on his toes excitedly and then adding a fistpump on the way down like seriously the lamest human being ever. Ashlee grinned widely and ruffled Bronx’s hair. “Thank fuck you got my super singer genes!” she yelled, and Pete helpfully added “And my jeans!”. Bronx slapped his palms flat over his ears and padded towards the kitchen with his parents hanging off him in the clingiest family hug ever (not counting Raven Way’s family, because seriously Gerard was like made of tentacles, Raven could whine about it forever and after that time with the skirt and the play about feminism Bronx totally believed her) to go make a PB&J sandwich. Without using his hands. Because he was pretty sure his mom was mumbling something dirty in his dad’s ear, while they were still sandwiching him. Seriously, his life was the hardest of all possible lives, he was so sure.