American Idiot- The story, chapter 1
I've never wanted to be an American Idiot. You know, the typical people who sits in front of their TV all the time.
But throughout my life, I have noticed that maybe, I am an American Idiot after all...
But I don't wanna be an American Idiot.
The whole nation is controlled by the media. It's not good. All of us will just be in our houses, sitting in front of the TV or the computer, without any purpose.
And when they finally ask their own mind,
What am I doin'? What am I going to do with my life? They don't have any answers.
Not before the program on the telly is over...
"Don't wanna be an American Idiot, one nation controlled by the media, information nate of the stereo, calling out to Idiot America."
"I'm the son of rage and love, the Jesus of Suburbia."
Hi, my name is Jimmy or you can call me "the Jesus of Suburbia". In one way I'm like every other person, and in another way I'm not like everyone else. I hate my fucking life. I want to do something with my life, but not the kind of thing a person want to do with their life. And every person has their ups and downs in their life. But their not bad sins you know. It's not like someone died for your sins in hell. At least I don't think no one has died for my sins in hell... Yet.
"But there's nothing wrong with me, this is how I'm supposed to be, in the land of make believe, that don't believe in me."
And now the fucking television had broken down, and now I have to get it fixed. Or... I'm just sitting here anyway, just sitting on my ass doin' nothing.
I guess I could go for a walk. Mum will probably be back soon, and then she will begin with that endless noggin about getting a life and all that shit.
I'm hiding away the cocaine that I found on the street here one day, hiding it beneath a loose plank on the floor. A very ordinary hiding place, so ordinary that no one will search for anything there.
No, I don't think it's wrong of me to do someone else's cocaine.
" At the centre of the earth in the parking lot of the 7- 11 were I was taught. The motto was just a lie.
It says "home is were your heart is", but what a shame cuse everyone's heart doesn't beat the same. We're beating out of time."
I walk on by. I come to the other end of the city, were the poor people live. A little boy grabs me, looks up at me with his dirty face.
No one really seems to care about these poor children.
But if no one else cares, why should I care?
I take a step backwards, the little boy loose his balance, falls hard to the ground. Some part of me wants to help him up, but still no one else care, so I won't care either. He deserves everything.
"Everyone is so full of shit. Born and raised by hypocrites. Recycled but never saved. From the cradle to the grave
We are the kids of war and peace
From Anaheim to the Middle East
We are the stories and disciples of the Jesus of Suburbia. Land of make believe. And it don't believe in me. I don't care."
My mom aren't listening to me. She's just sitting there with that expression on her face. I hate it.
She probably thinks that I am saying weird things because I'm stoned.
Not even the therapist is listening to me. No one is. Why cant he just answer my question?
Am I retarded?
Or am I just overjoyed?
My best excuse is that I am looking for a better world. So now, its over. Saint Jimmy won't linger here anymore.
I am running into my room, grabbing all my important stuffs, opens the plank, grabs the cocaine, and turns around, to see my mother standing in the door.
" Why are you running away?" she asks me, now is her voice against me too.
" To live and not to breathe, is to dye in tragedy. But to run away is to find what you believe. There are so many lies here. It's a big hurricane. That's why I'm leaving. This is a broken home, mum."
I walks out the front door. She is following me.
" I don't feel any shame I won't apologize when there ain't nowhere you can go. Running away from pain when you've been victimized."
I opens the door to my car and puts my but back the steering wheel.
"You're leaving."
But throughout my life, I have noticed that maybe, I am an American Idiot after all...
But I don't wanna be an American Idiot.
The whole nation is controlled by the media. It's not good. All of us will just be in our houses, sitting in front of the TV or the computer, without any purpose.
And when they finally ask their own mind,
What am I doin'? What am I going to do with my life? They don't have any answers.
Not before the program on the telly is over...
"Don't wanna be an American Idiot, one nation controlled by the media, information nate of the stereo, calling out to Idiot America."
"I'm the son of rage and love, the Jesus of Suburbia."
Hi, my name is Jimmy or you can call me "the Jesus of Suburbia". In one way I'm like every other person, and in another way I'm not like everyone else. I hate my fucking life. I want to do something with my life, but not the kind of thing a person want to do with their life. And every person has their ups and downs in their life. But their not bad sins you know. It's not like someone died for your sins in hell. At least I don't think no one has died for my sins in hell... Yet.
"But there's nothing wrong with me, this is how I'm supposed to be, in the land of make believe, that don't believe in me."
And now the fucking television had broken down, and now I have to get it fixed. Or... I'm just sitting here anyway, just sitting on my ass doin' nothing.
I guess I could go for a walk. Mum will probably be back soon, and then she will begin with that endless noggin about getting a life and all that shit.
I'm hiding away the cocaine that I found on the street here one day, hiding it beneath a loose plank on the floor. A very ordinary hiding place, so ordinary that no one will search for anything there.
No, I don't think it's wrong of me to do someone else's cocaine.
" At the centre of the earth in the parking lot of the 7- 11 were I was taught. The motto was just a lie.
It says "home is were your heart is", but what a shame cuse everyone's heart doesn't beat the same. We're beating out of time."
I walk on by. I come to the other end of the city, were the poor people live. A little boy grabs me, looks up at me with his dirty face.
No one really seems to care about these poor children.
But if no one else cares, why should I care?
I take a step backwards, the little boy loose his balance, falls hard to the ground. Some part of me wants to help him up, but still no one else care, so I won't care either. He deserves everything.
"Everyone is so full of shit. Born and raised by hypocrites. Recycled but never saved. From the cradle to the grave
We are the kids of war and peace
From Anaheim to the Middle East
We are the stories and disciples of the Jesus of Suburbia. Land of make believe. And it don't believe in me. I don't care."
My mom aren't listening to me. She's just sitting there with that expression on her face. I hate it.
She probably thinks that I am saying weird things because I'm stoned.
Not even the therapist is listening to me. No one is. Why cant he just answer my question?
Am I retarded?
Or am I just overjoyed?
My best excuse is that I am looking for a better world. So now, its over. Saint Jimmy won't linger here anymore.
I am running into my room, grabbing all my important stuffs, opens the plank, grabs the cocaine, and turns around, to see my mother standing in the door.
" Why are you running away?" she asks me, now is her voice against me too.
" To live and not to breathe, is to dye in tragedy. But to run away is to find what you believe. There are so many lies here. It's a big hurricane. That's why I'm leaving. This is a broken home, mum."
I walks out the front door. She is following me.
" I don't feel any shame I won't apologize when there ain't nowhere you can go. Running away from pain when you've been victimized."
I opens the door to my car and puts my but back the steering wheel.
"You're leaving."
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