Twenty One Pilots Stressed Out With Lyrics

I'm burning with a 104-degree fever in the middle of the night. I groggily reach out, wanting my boyfriend, Joshua Sanders, to get me a glass of water, only to feel cold sheets. I unlock my phone out of sheer habit, and the first thing I see is Joshua's message, pinned at the top of the list, sent three hours ago. "Lynnie just had her heart broken, so I'm going to keep her company. I left the antipyretics on the nightstand. Remember to take it when you wake up." I force my weak body out of bed, pour myself a glass of water, and take the medicine. However, the words on the box clearly read, "Menstrual pain relief." To make matters worse, it's the brand his childhood sweetheart, Lynn Nelson, always takes. I calmly set the medicine back in its original place and take a cab to the hospital on my own. It's time for this five-year high fever called "love" to finally break.

After my song was cut short at karaoke, I found myself back at the song selection machine. I just had to wait for 28 more songs until it would finally be my turn again. The next song was called "The Answer". My boyfriend, John Aldama, and my best friend, Selena Summers, gave each other a look of mild disdain but decided to sing the duet to prevent an awkward silence. Their voices, one cool and one sweet, complemented each other perfectly. Ever since high school, they'd been neck and neck on the honor roll, always vying for first and second place. Even after joining a top-tier company, they'd constantly bicker over projects. Even years after graduation, the people in our high school group chat were still "shipping" their "love-hate dynamic". No matter how hard I tried, I always remained the forgotten third person, an overlooked backdrop. Listening to them sing, I suddenly felt so tired. I no longer felt like singing the song that I had to wait endlessly for. I quietly deleted the song I'd selected and sent a confirmation to the email that asked me to be relocated abroad for work.

I become a firefighter after getting abandoned by my ex-wife, who's a domestic abuser. At first, I think my fiancee, the heroic Captain Cassadee Flack, will be my salvation. But at the blazing scene, the warehouse explodes for the second time due to the scorching temperature. What makes things worse is that the oxygen in my tank will deplete soon. I reach out to Cassadee for help, only to witness her passing the last spare oxygen tank to Colin Halfpenny, the teammate standing next to her. "This is Colin's first time entering a blazing scene. He's terrified, whereas you have enough experience under your belt to deal with this situation. You should hang on for a while longer." I'm choking on so much thick smoke to the point that I almost suffocate from it. Angered, I point at the blinking red light on the control panel. "If I keep suffering from the lack of oxygen, my brain will eventually die! This is the standard procedure of a rescue mission!" Cassadee wears an impatient look. "Why are you being this petty? I promised Colin's dad, who sacrificed himself for me, that I'd take good care of Colin! Can't you be more empathetic? "I thought you could endure pain the best! Back then, you didn't even let out a groan when your ex-wife broke your rib! How is it possible that you can't endure such a small difficulty in this mission? "I finally understand what kind of person you actually are! Someone who's grown up in nothing but pain and misery is bound to be selfish!" I no longer utter a single word to Cassadee. Instead, I use all of my strength to press the emergency SOS button on my helmet. "Command center, please send help immediately. The on-site commander has demonstrated severe misjudgment in handling the situation. I request compulsory intervention."

After I announced my exit from the music industry, the public response was overwhelmingly positive. The only person who voiced his objection was my girlfriend's rumored lover, the up-and-coming songwriter Lucas Zacker. He put on a show of sincerity in front of a crowd of reporters. "It's all a misunderstanding. Matthew is an irreplaceable talent in the music industry. I sincerely hope he returns to the stage." I shut off my phone and turned a blind eye to his public plea. In my past life, one of my songs had been identical to his supposedly original single. As such, netizens accused me of plagiarism, cursing me and wishing death upon my family. Frustrated, I posted the entire creation process online, but it couldn't stand up to the timeline. His new song had been released ten minutes ahead of mine. Just because of the ten-minute difference, netizens sent me photoshopped mourning portraits of myself and even went so far as to come to my house and vandalize it with paint. The relentless cyberbullying went on for years, and it drove me into a deep depression. My parents exhausted their life savings trying to clear my name, only for crazed fans to set our house on fire, causing my parents to burn to death. In the end, when his song won an award, I jumped off a building. But who would have guessed that when I opened my eyes again, I was reborn on the very day the new song was set to release.

Have you ever been confused by what you've been feeling? Precisely, a sense of hatred and strangely tucked away a concern?

I can hear the voices of every organ in the human body. In my three years of practicing medicine, I've never misdiagnosed a single patient. For instance, a young man with wobbly legs comes in for a consultation, suspecting he has a terminal illness. His kidneys, however, start cursing up a storm. "You're juggling eight girlfriends at the same time. Even a workhorse on a farm doesn't get worked this hard!" I try my best not to laugh, prescribe him some supplements, and casually suggest he learn a little time management. Then, a well-dressed white-collar professional walks in and tells me she's experiencing heart palpitations and dizziness and insists that she must have congenital heart disease. Her heart immediately protests loudly in my ear. "You drink three iced Americanos a day! I'm about to burst out of your ribcage and start doing calisthenics!" I smile and prescribe her some chamomile tea. Less than half a month later, she returns with a healthy, rosy complexion to present me with a banner of appreciation. From that moment on, I earn the nickname "the Human X-Ray". … One afternoon, a woman walks in with a listless-looking boy. Maeve Brown looks sick with worry. "Dr. Young, please take a look at him! Lennon has been suffering from headaches, and he has already taken several days off school due to them." However, his brain is practically throwing a party in my ear. "Hell yeah, I successfully skipped class! I'm going to grind ranked matches all night long!" I smile as I diagnose him with malingering, and Lennon White goes home with a flushed face. Ten days later, Maeve and Hubert White burst into my office. This time, Lennon's complexion is pallid. Bracing himself against the doorframe, his body sways uncontrollably. Initially, I assume he's putting on another performance. However, the moment I hear the voices emanating from within his body, my mind goes blank. I immediately push him out of the room and dial 911. "I'd rather treat a dog with this condition than treat you!"