(A/N: This is a story I wrote based on the album by Green Day. This chapter is kind of more like an intro, I couldn’t think of much to write about the first song. So yeah, I’m basically adding a chapter for each song on the album (or at least trying to), some might be written in a different style than others, depending on the song, but I’m still not completely sure what I’m going to do. Thanks for reading and please R&R!!!-----I’ve been trying to revise this story, nothing really big, just fixing mistakes and making improvements. Let me know what you think.)

1: American Idiot

And sing along to the age of paranoia

He lay on his bed, surrounded by silence but drowning in the overwhelming noise of his own thoughts. His head pounded with rage and frustration, at himself, at his life, at his country, at everything that had ever pissed him off. He was stuck in a place that he hated, in all senses, and there was nothing he could do about it. If only he wasn’t such a complete idiot, if only every one weren’t such idiots.

He got up abruptly, picking up his guitar to let the frustration in his thoughts explode into music.

Playing a song he’d made up a while before, he wasn’t quite sure what it meant, but he knew that it meant something. The sounds of his musical creation pounded through his veins, all of what he felt was right there. He could hear it; he could feel it.

He heard some noise over his strumming, and stopped to hear what it was. A familiar enraged voice boomed at him to “turn off that damn screeching.” The guitar fell silent, the player practically unaware that he had stopped playing.

Voices poured through his mind, screaming, yelling, crying voices from different memories of his pathetic life, all of them mocking his existence. The sound of hysteria.

Temporarily brought back to reality, he reaching for some paper and a pen from the stack of junk on his unused desk. He started to write franticly, not thinking, just letting all of his thoughts pour onto the paper. The ink stained the paper heavily with the force of his angry words, and the smell of smoke and whiskey from downstairs fed his rage further.

His train of thought finally done, he looked back at the scribble on the paper, it wasn’t even written on the lines but he knew what it said.

He started to play again, louder, mouthing the words with it and pausing every now and then to scribble out and re-write words. He was so caught up in the music, that he didn’t even hear the pounding foot steps that almost broke through the stairs as they made there way to his room.