This just isn't working for me.

I squeezed my Motorola Razr so tight in my hand that it left indent marks for weeks.

We're done.

I read and re-read the message on my screen for hours. My dark bangs hung over my left eye, and this time, I didn't flinch my head up to throw the tufts of hair off of my face. I let them hang all night, sulking like the emo boy I was. As I crawled into bed and slid the cold blanket over my 14-year-old heart, I knew one thing was for sure: I had nobody to go to Warped Tour with that summer. Okay, I knew two things were for sure. Not only was I partner-less for Warped Tour, I also just experienced pain that nobody else in the whole world would ever understand.

Boys Like Girls said it best: I used to be love drunk, but now I'm hungover. I'll love you forever, but now it's over.

I didn't go to school the next day. I told Mom I was sick, and once she left for work I took to the streets and started shredding on my skateboard while blasting music from my iPod shuffle. Hitting 180s and 360s while plugged in to Panic! at the Disco's classic album A Fever You Can't Sweat Out always cleared my mind. I went back inside just before Mom returned from work. After yelling at her for not buying the $15 iTunes card I asked for, I stormed into my room and got on my computer. I heard a familiar "ding" and checked to see who just instant messaged me.

Wuts wrong, Chris? xD

Jacob was my best friend. We met at a Never Shout Never concert after sharing our jealousy for Christofer Drew's lusciously conditioned mane of hair.

Jacob always knew when I was said, mostly because I always changed my AIM status to sad pop punk lyrics. This week, it was the classic line by Taking Back Sunday: The truth is you could slit my throat, and with my one last gasping breath, I'd apologize for bleeding on your shirt.

Dude xD . . . Laura dumped me >.>

I couldn't even type the words without hot tears strolling down my face and staining my brand new Brand New shirt from Hot Topic. Mom and Dad kept asking why I said "brand new" twice when referring to the shirt, but I didn't bother correcting them. They were just posers.

R u srs???? o.O

If only Jacob could have seen me at that moment. On the keyboard, I kept my cool, but inside, I wanted to mosh until my heart stopped beating. I wanted to join the Black Parade and never come back.

Ya . . . lmao.

Behind that "lmao" was smudged male eyeliner and disheveled blond highlights. I needed hope. I needed to have my faith restored. Falling to my knees, I looked up at the Pete Wentz poster taped to my bedroom door. He looked as elegant as always. Some prayed with their rosary; I prayed with my "I <3 Boobies" bracelet, asking my questionably heterosexual hero what I should do in my time of need.

Minutes passed and between my God and I stood the cold reality of silence. I used it to reflect, for soul to meet body, but before I could reach an epiphany, a treacherous voice plagued the airwaves.

"Chris! It's time for dinner! And I better not see that stupid black makeup on your face when you come down here!"

I sighed. Dad was a conformist; he never knew pain like I did - the pain of unanswered text messages and my removal from my ex-girlfriend's Top 8 on MySpace. I figured as soon as I turned 18, I would leave their house, Guitar Hero controller on my back, and hitchhike from mall to mall. But before I could do that, I had no choice but to listen to the stupid people who gave birth to me.

Dragging my lifeless legs to the kitchen table, I groaned at the sight of dinner: pancakes with a smiley face made out of bananas. Who the hell eats breakfast for dinner? So stupid, like, so stupid.

"You seemed so upset this morning," said Mom, bringing a plate of even more pancakes onto the dinner table. "So I wanted to make your favorite: pancakes."

Pancakes.

"Hm," I thought to myself, scratching the peach fuzz growing underneath my chin.

"What?" asked Dad.

"Nothing!" I snapped. "Jesus Christ, can I think to myself for once?"

Pancakes. The word was floating around my head in "Courier New" font. That was when I had an idea. I needed to be cheered up. And what always cheered me up? Pancakes.

"Hey," said Dad, stuffing a forkful of pancakes in his mouth. "Eat your food."

I didn't want this homemade trash produced by the hands of a conformist. What I needed was something genuine, something as a real as my pain . . . I needed IHOP pancakes. "I'm sick of this," I said, pushing the plate away from me. "You guys treat me like such shit, and I'm tired of being a slave to your corporate-worshipping lives."

I stormed out of the house, but as I felt around my skinny jeans held up by my studded belt, I realized I had no money on me. I opened the door again and poked my head inside. "I need $20."

Jacob and I penny boarded all the way down the street to our local IHOP. The greeter at the front looked just like me - jet black hair with a dash of blonde, dark circles around our eyes created by our makeup and sleepless nights spent playing air guitar to Attack! Attack! The greeter was a girl, but nonetheless we were one in the same, and I knew I could trust her.

"Table for two?" she sarcastically asked, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

I was home.

"Yeah, whatever," I mumbled, darting my eyes the other way.

As we took our seats, she slapped the menus down on the table. I didn't even look at the menu; I knew exactly what I wanted: a stack of pancakes with a smiley face made out of bananas.

The waitress came to greet us, but Jacob and I skipped all pleasantries and got down to ordering our food. After 20 minutes of silently texting each other on our phones, Jacob and I had stacks of pancakes in front of us. As I took my butterknife and fork and cut into the pillow-like delicacy that was my pancake, I felt rejoice. Popping the square cloud into my mouth, I heard the sound of bells (synthetically produced by a keyboard, of course) ringing in my head. I popped every bite into my mouth one-by-one, and for once in my cursed life, I was smiling.

IHOP always satisfies you, no matter how old you are, what fad you're into, or what mood you're in.