"Day 1: New Journal
So. . . A journal. Helps with 'mental issues'. I don't buy it. But mom threatens to check it at least once a month, so I might as well put something to make her happy.
I guess I'm done for now? Later, paper."
Tweek stared at the so called 'Recycled Paper'. The tips of parchment felt too clean against his palm. Recycled, his ass. The cheap logo. The oh-so-famous branding, followed by a celebrity spokesperson. The only thing recycled was their fucking face. It was on practically everything they sold, from the Vacuums, to the toilet paper, right down to the ratchet ass panties they sold in plastic, rubbery and clear materials that was labeled 'Hand Stitched! Fresh feel, no matter the wash!' As if. The cheap, left angled smile, like he was pleased with some conversation that you're apparently supposed to feel, or a 'good job' notification, as if you needed enough of that, the thumbs up just to follow that pat on the back, and finally, hand placed over the logo like he's actually touching it.
It's called Photoshop, and it's cheap as fuck.
No matter, the young boy still couldn't do a thing but be sold to and marketed on a daily basis. But- Let's not get into how much the world is fucked up, shall we? It's already a disappointment that black men and women are being targeted for no fucking reason other than blatant racism, LGBTQ communicants can't even get a fucking say in the natural way of life that they cannot choose, and get shamed for on a daily basis that doesn't even need to be argued for when it should be a natural right, that the fact the public education system of America is fucking children from every angle, especially up the ass when it comes to grades, and let's not even get started on college tuition. Where he lives, sucks ass. Yeah, he could have it worse, but people wise, it can't get too much worse than this. Ah, America, land of the free, home of the brave.
The young boy was caught in his thoughts and it zoomed in and out, side to side, all that nonsense. But it wasn't his fault. ADHD is a real thing. And it's sure a pain in the ass when Spring Break is over, and you have to get up in only two hours for school tomorrow. And it really is a real thing when you're up at 4 A.M. crying while writing a Fanfiction about fictitious babies you know will not end up good in the end.
At least the drowsiness hit him around now. The calculated hours he would get if he dozed now were around two hours, to two hours, fifteen minutes. 'It's better than one.', he thought. Tweek set his scrabbly ol' notebook down on the ground with a small plunk and drifted his eyes to the T.V., reading the small script below that translated what the characters were saying so it would't wake his dad up with all the jumbled noises and audience laughter. Those shows would be a lot better without the fucking 80 something year ass people laughing at gags that are persistent and aren't even funny anymore. But, sadly, it was entertaining.
Now- What's up with little Tweek Tweek? Besides ADHD, of course? Well, this coffee ruled addict has- of course, of all unfortunates- depression. Nothing too major though! Just the occasional urge to throw himself off a cliff or, just take a knife to his chest from time to time, but nothing too serious. It was all in the norm for him.
But that's not a good norm. And he doesn't exactly know it, but knows it at the same time.
But why does he have it? His mom and dad are both loving, he gets his needs and desires, he's a simple folk in his quiet, little mountain town!
Wrong.
The main cause of all his pain and unsustainable, parched and salty tongue, and undeniable and unearthly shaking is his dad.
But he doesn't abuse him! Heavens, no!
His dad is dead.
September 14th, 2010. Tweek was barely twelve at the time. His mom and him were at home, the little boy aside dearest mother and helping in cooking his favorite- Teriyaki Rice! It made his stomach all grumble-y just thinking about it. Then suddenly there was a call.
His mom picked up the phone and started breathing hysterically, neighbors already bursting in to comfort her. No one would tell the young boy what was happening. What was going on. What any of this was. Police were there. The neighbor kids were there.
What happened?
The words jumbled in his brain. The memory fogged and now present Tweek growled at himself. The text was unclear and childish. Everything was a blur. And that's what was his leading cause in depression.
It wasn't until a few hours later he found out about the car wreck. It was on the 10 o'clock local news. He overheard it from his room and started sobbing massively. His mother didn't want him to find out that way, but when it did, it hit him like that car that killed his dad. (Too soon?)
And to this day, it felt like it was his fault. Maybe, just maybe, if he had bugged his dad enough he wouldn't have left. Maybe if he didn't break his favorite Thomas the Tank Engine train, he wouldn't have insisted on leaving to get him a new one. Maybe if he wasn't born he would be happy with just a simple two person life. No interference.
There were so many ways he could blame himself and be all. . . sad, but. . . He needed sleep, and now was not the time to think about something that happened almost five years back. But he still couldn't help it. But luckily, that cheesy ass T.V. show did.
And there Tweek lay. Eyes daunted to reading text, audio barely up to five, and his whole body, a rock. A time of peace was accepted into his mind.
". . . I have fucking homework. . ."
Yo, yo! First legit FanFic; Really proud of the idea? Idk like or whatever if likey, constructive criticism? Tell me! Later, dweebs!
