Status: Discontinued
Have Kids, Then We'll Talk
*** Wentz: It's Better When You're Young
If you want to get to know me, then you’re going to have to have to take a number because Richard “Dick” Wentz’s cell phone is vibrating more than yours, honey. A million and ten people text me on an hourly basis, inviting me to boozed-up bashes and toned down dinners. I’ll be sitting on the toilet, and someone will text me a to2ly fukn hilariOus picture of some kid in my sixth hour class then ask if I can get my dad to sign her tits.
When you’ve got a fucking music legend father, it’s really hard to blend into the crowd. Privacy means next to nothing and Daddy Dearest writes half of my blog entries for me.
So, rather than just live the life of a normal 16-year-old male who masturbates to skinemax and the bra sections in the department store catalogs - I fucking take life to the fullest. (Yeah, I masturbate to chicks on DVD, not cable.)
After all, we’re all going to die anyway.
Regardless, even with impending death hanging over my head… no, everyone’s head, it’s important to live life to the fullest and max out daddy’s credit card before he realizes what happened to his sock full of money in his box with the weed stash that he never smokes.
It’s the least he can do, really, to provide me with a couple grand a week. I mean, he’s shoved every instrument on me since I was nine and locked me in the highest room of the tallest tower until I perfected it. Hell, he even home schooled me for a month or so when I refused to learn the acoustic bass (chicks don’t care if you can play acoustic, it’s all about ripping the electric).
Even through all the force, all the arguments we’ve gotten into, I can honestly say that I love my dad. A lot. He’s my idol, you know? The kind that I can look up to and say “Hey, there’s a swell guy who knows what’s going on. I’m going to be like him!”
He’ll be ecstatic when I come home with a good report and no Chlamydia. His face will plainly say “thank god you’re not a whore like your mother” and he will clap me on the back while shoving me towards my bass.
That’s dad’s goal: for me to be the exact opposite of the woman I’ve never met nor even heard. The sole female who could have had a role in my childhood. He says that because he stayed, that he’s the good parent and I should be like him. My every move and ambition should match his when he was my age. I should grow up as Pete Wentz Jr. in a band called Fall In Male.
I even look enough like him with a mouth big enough to inhale half of Manhattan's pollution and bad hair since the day I was born. Well, thanks to one of the lord’s most beautiful creation - hair gel and dye - it’s not that terrible anymore.
Even though dad wants me to become the miniature of him, I’ll take his route when I want to. Right now, I’m young, I’m reckless and I’ve got unlimited cash flow.
Who wants some Smirnoff? It’s on Papa Pete Wentz tonight, dude.
When you’ve got a fucking music legend father, it’s really hard to blend into the crowd. Privacy means next to nothing and Daddy Dearest writes half of my blog entries for me.
So, rather than just live the life of a normal 16-year-old male who masturbates to skinemax and the bra sections in the department store catalogs - I fucking take life to the fullest. (Yeah, I masturbate to chicks on DVD, not cable.)
After all, we’re all going to die anyway.
Regardless, even with impending death hanging over my head… no, everyone’s head, it’s important to live life to the fullest and max out daddy’s credit card before he realizes what happened to his sock full of money in his box with the weed stash that he never smokes.
It’s the least he can do, really, to provide me with a couple grand a week. I mean, he’s shoved every instrument on me since I was nine and locked me in the highest room of the tallest tower until I perfected it. Hell, he even home schooled me for a month or so when I refused to learn the acoustic bass (chicks don’t care if you can play acoustic, it’s all about ripping the electric).
Even through all the force, all the arguments we’ve gotten into, I can honestly say that I love my dad. A lot. He’s my idol, you know? The kind that I can look up to and say “Hey, there’s a swell guy who knows what’s going on. I’m going to be like him!”
He’ll be ecstatic when I come home with a good report and no Chlamydia. His face will plainly say “thank god you’re not a whore like your mother” and he will clap me on the back while shoving me towards my bass.
That’s dad’s goal: for me to be the exact opposite of the woman I’ve never met nor even heard. The sole female who could have had a role in my childhood. He says that because he stayed, that he’s the good parent and I should be like him. My every move and ambition should match his when he was my age. I should grow up as Pete Wentz Jr. in a band called Fall In Male.
I even look enough like him with a mouth big enough to inhale half of Manhattan's pollution and bad hair since the day I was born. Well, thanks to one of the lord’s most beautiful creation - hair gel and dye - it’s not that terrible anymore.
Even though dad wants me to become the miniature of him, I’ll take his route when I want to. Right now, I’m young, I’m reckless and I’ve got unlimited cash flow.
Who wants some Smirnoff? It’s on Papa Pete Wentz tonight, dude.