Dear Fall Out Boy,

It’s me, one of your long-time listeners. You might remember me as the one of your many fans who downloaded all of your songs in sixth grade on her parents' desktop computer via Limewire. Your songs are still awesome fifteen years later, by the way, and I’ll always be your biggest fan. However, there’s been a grievance I’d like to bring to your attention, and brings me to the reason I’m writing you this letter. I’m in a bit of trouble due to a misunderstanding dating back fifteen years.

You see, it recently came to my attention, startlingly, that I may have been singing the wrong lyrics to your very popular song, “Sugar, We’re Goin’ Down,” number eight on Billboard’s Top 100 in 2005, all these years. I was in the car with my boyfriend, Jeremy, who lowered the volume (an egregious attack that required a separate conversation—can you imagine having the gall to turn down blasting music that your girlfriend is singing to at the top of her lungs and expose her vulnerable, terrible voice? I digress) when he looked at me and said “What did you just sing?”

Now, I’ll admit. I knew the words that I was singing were not in fact “words.” They were more like syllables strung together to the tune of your song that I had accepted to be the lyrics. Please note that I am not blaming you for this error, not at all. I just assumed that this was more of an “I Am the Walrus” situation and investigated no further. But imagine my horror when I discovered that the words “a mig a mufflin a ted toast, a midga ma lonely guitar” were actually, in fact, “I’m just a notch in your bedpost, but you’re just a line in a song.” Wow. An impeccable line I learned, unfortunately, too late.

But my awful boyfriend, Jeremy, thought it was so funny that he repeated my misheard lines to all of my friends from middle school in a group text. Like, “We’re going down, down and I’m eating some mounds,” or “Lie in the grass, next to my Mamma Mia.” I mean, if pressed, I could have guessed ABBA had no place in this song, but again, I was twelve when this song was released.

And, mind you, I have some pretty thick skin, but I spent my middle school career carefully curating an impossibly cool image of myself that is still very fragile, and knowing all of the words to pop-punk songs was absolutely crucial to this part of my identity (along with the Avril-inspired pink streak in my hair). Having this image suddenly shattered and exposed, I’m currently on the run to begin a new life.

I can’t tell you from where, but I’ve acquired a new passport, ID, and hair color (that was actually just from the Rite Aid down the street), and am en route to begin a new life in a location that I can’t disclose. Thank you for reading this letter to inform you that, while I’m still an enormous fan, if you could just contact my awful now-ex-boyfriend Jeremy and my friends from middle school (emails enclosed) to let them know that I’m actually STILL the coolest fan you’ve ever had, I would really appreciate it.

[Redacted for Identity Protection]