Chapter Track: Teenagers by My Chemical Romance

I wish I could sleep like a normal fucking human being. It actually kind of doesn't make sense to me how I am able to function so long on the meager amount of sleep I'm capable of obtaining. This is typically an hour at a time- three on a good day. But I don't sleep every day. You know, it's probably my intake of coffee. It would make sense.

I need coffee because I'm tired all the time because I can't sleep, but I probably can't sleep because of how much coffee I drink.

I think I'm smarter than people give me credit for. No, I think I'm smart in a common sense type of way, not in the logical sort. I still get good grades but I don't think you necessarily have to be smart to get good grades, just listen and complete work. The work shouldn't be hard if you listen.

I don't have many friends at school so listening isn't hard for me. It's not like there's much else to do anyways. Did I say many? I meant I don't have any friends at all. Who wants to hang out with the psycho, twitchy, gay kid? They all probably think one day I'm gonna fly off the handle and kill my family or myself… probably both.

Whatever, I'm way more collected than I appear. I only twitch because of the coffee and I'm much better at controlling it now. Probably from the amount of drugs I take but regardless.

There are so many drugs. I have my prescribed drugs. The type doctors give me for anxiety, my ADHD and my crazy. But then there are drugs that aren't even legal. Those are so much better, in my opinion. They make me feel relaxed and normal, even happy sometimes. I guess the doctor's pills can sometimes do the same thing.

The sun's gonna come up soon.

I throw my legs over the edge of my bunk bed and leap. I tumble and roll. After the fall I lie on the ground and stare at the ceiling. My ceiling is covered in glow in the dark stars. I also drew on it with paint. My room's pretty cool, I think. Too bad no one would ever come over to see it. That's probably for the best. I spent way too long getting it exactly how I wanted it, considering I spend most of my life in here alone. People typically ruin things for me.

I pull myself off the floor and grab my coat. I slip my arms through the sleeves and slip on my battered up converse. There's a hole in the left one from years of wear and they're a faded color of green. They're my only shoes and I always wear them. I wouldn't ask for new ones. These have character.

I grab my thermos of coffee, freshly made, and pull my window open. I grab the ledge outside above my window, place one foot on the sill and lift my weight up. Next I grab the edge of the roof, setting my other foot on the sill. I use both hands on the roof to hoist myself up and throw myself on top of our house.

After I'm settled I have to calm myself down because that shit never gets any less scary. I wipe the little bit of sweat collected on my forehead on the back of my sleeve and let out one last breath. Our house is in the perfect spot to watch the sun come up. If you're on the roof, that is.

It's especially beautiful when you're high. I'm surprisingly not right now. Watching the sunrise in the morning before school just makes me have a better day. Maybe it comforts me to know that the sun came up. Maybe that's why I can't ever sleep.

I glance across the street.

There's a kid wearing a blue sweater and matching hat with a yellow puff on the top and ear flaps. That kid goes to my school. Craig Tucker. He's smoking a cigarette. What's he doing out here so early? That's just fucking weird. I know I'm awake but I'm the psycho kid anyways. Plus, I don't sleep. He's normal so what the hell is that?

He catches me staring and doesn't hesitate to stare directly back. I bet our thoughts are the same: I knew I was weird but what the fuck is that kid doing up at four? But I'm on my roof and he seems to be having a stroll. Odd. But, okay, whatever makes you happy. To each their own or something.

Still, I feel like turning away first means he wins something. Or I feel like that's what he thinks. What the hell?! That's why I'm up at four, because no one else is and I don't have to deal with people and now I have to have a staring contest with some freak who's walking around in the dark, smoking. What the fuck.

He stops walking. His hands are in his pocket and his cigarette hangs out his mouth, ash falling to the pavement. I blink at him. He's gonna make me miss the sunrise. Goddamnit! But still I keep my eyes fixed on his. He probably thinks somebody's scared of him, which is actually kind of humorous. Does he know who I am? I'm the psycho kid. He should be afraid of me.

Psycho kid sitting on his roof at four in the morning. Seems pretty accurate.

He doesn't look fazed or confused as to why I'm staring. He doesn't really look anything. He's just staring back. He takes the cigarette from his mouth and exhales a shit load of smoke before placing it right back where it was. Fuck it. I turn back to the sun and chug my coffee. What a creepy bastard. I missed a lot of the sunrise but at least it came up.

The suns completely in the sky and shining brightly- well, as brightly as it can behind the huge pregnant snow clouds... It's gonna snow today, I think. That's cool. I like snow. I finish my coffee and swing back through my bedroom window.

That kid was really weird. He was cute though, in a mysterious-I-might-dance-around-my-house-naked-when-no-one's-home type of way. I bet he does. What a freak. That's kinda hot...


In third period Eric Cartman licked his finger and stuck it in my ear. Motherfucker. I kicked him in the balls...

And then I had a panic attack.

I don't feel like I can ever be clean again after that. FUCK! What the hell is wrong with him? The teacher told me to go to the nurse so she can give me pills that I didn't take this morning. Fuck that. I leave school to smoke pot. It wouldn't be the first time and it most definitely will not be the last.

I light my joint as soon as the heels of my shoes are off campus. I think I'll head home and grab my scooter. I gotta make sure to not get caught. My mother is home. Not that she'd care. She'd tell me she didn't, at least. But I know my mother worries about me. That doesn't make me feel good.

This weed makes me feel amazing though.

I honestly think South Park is the place for me because I can walk down the street during school hours smoking a blunt. The law enforcement here sucks and there's not enough people for someone to catch me. Someone that cares, at least.

Plus, I'm that psycho kid.

Assholes.

They'd probably be happy that I'm high so I'm relaxed and they know I'm not gonna lose it anytime soon. One more safe day for their kid at school.

Assholes.

I'm not crazy, I'm just not normal. And maybe a bit unstable. And sometimes I twitch. Whatever.

Eric Cartman's spit is in my ear. How could I not die? Sorry, I know that's really off topic but I've been trying so hard to forget that and I can't. I hate that motherfucker! He just purposely tries to set me off! Make me look my most craziest so people can remember that I'm the psycho kid. If anything Cartman is the psycho kid! Look at all the shit he's done in his life! I should've said something about him not having a dad because that sets him off. Everybody knows it. But then he'll actually hit. He'd probably try to kill me and then I'd be trying to kill him. It'd just be South Park's Crazy Kids trying to kill each other because they're fucking crazy!

That's funny.

I laugh.

I'm at my house now. I'd go inside and make something to eat but mother is home. How sad. That's upsetting to my munchies. I could walk to the store but my wallet is in my bag, is in the school still. I left it there. Sometimes I'm an idiot. A lot of the time.

Instead I go to the park.

It's vacant. Most of the time it is. That's good. People make it hard for me to act how I like to act Which is my twisted and slightly pathetic adaptation of normal. I went to counsiling for a really long time, in and out of school. My psychotherapist told me I think too much. He was right but that didn't stop me from doing it. And evidently we quit the counsiling when I finally convinced my mother it was not doing a damn thing to help me and I hated how much of her money she spent on it.

I choose a green swing. Because green is my favorite color. It's a calming color. So it's the color of my room and my hoodie. My favorite hoodie. It's baggy and warm and comfortable. Does it make me look like a hobo? Yeah. Do I care? Nah. It's got character. Especially since I sewed on this little coffee cup. It's horrible and crooked but if it were perfect, I don't think I'd have liked it. My OCD is backwards and all out of whack.

But, then, I'm the psycho kid.

Fucking assholes!

It's absolutely stupid- people, I mean- I will never understand. So I sit here on my green swing- I've decided to name him Steve- and kick my feet because I have no one to push me. Even if I did everyone's at school.

I think I like to make myself sad.

There's a small noise behind me to my right. I identify it as a breaking twig and assume, in the way that my mind has created to try to keep me sane enough to not be noticed in this small town, that it is a small woodland animal. I take a big gulp and slowly glance over my shoulder.

It's not an animal. I'm startled to find Wendy. Her dark hair is pulled into a ponytail and she's wearing a heavy pink winter coat, her yellow skirt is peaking out under it and then she has purple polka dot leggings with fuzzy brown snow boots. "Hey, Tweek," she greets me with a half-hearted smile. Why is Wendy Testaburger skipping school? Maybe my weed is laced and I'm tripping. I would test this by reaching out to see if my hand goes through her but she's out of my reach and I'm too lazy anyway. Wendy, real or not, places herself on the blue swing next to me.

I blink at her a while. If it is Wendy she knows I'm high, I still have my blunt (no longer lit however) and I know Wendy does not condone the use of illegal drugs, no matter what your age but especially if you're a minor. Fuck Wendy, man. I'm not in the mood for her shitty hippy bullshit.

Wendy glances at me. "Can I have some of that?" she asks, pointing a lazy finger at my hands. She's pointing to my blunt. That doesn't make any sense. None of this makes any sense. I nod slowly. If Wendy can successfully hold my joint then she is real and that is mind-fucking-blowing. I hand it to her along with my lighter. Wendy fumbles a lot, leading me to believe this is her first time smoking- anything.

I feel the need to help her out and give her a little guidance. "Hold it to your mouth and I'll light it for you," I tell her. She gives me a look that I can't identify and scares me but the blunt didn't fall to the ground so this is Wendy. This is a real person, unless I really have lost my marbles, but I'm trying to stay positive so this is a real person. She holds the blunt between her lips and I try lighting it again for her, using one hand to shield the flame from the cool breeze. "Just inhale," I say not sure if I'm helping or just being annoying. I'm too high to care.

Wendy does a good job. She holds it for a while and when she releases she doesn't even cough until like a minute later. We swing and smoke together. I don't know if Wendy will feel anything because this may be her first time but for me I'm soaring. I close my eyes and even though the air is thin my lungs are full and my hair whips my face and wraps around my cheeks.

I let Wendy finish off the blunt because I remember I have to go back to school after this and that's not smart. It wouldn't really matter, I guess but I don't want to do that. I'd pass out at school and that's not okay. I spare a glance at Wendy and she's got her eyes closed too and she swings higher than me. She feels something. That's good; I don't want to waste my bud.

"It's good?" I ask her. She simply nods and hums "So, Wendy," I start, slowing the pace of my swinging, "why are you out here? We're in like, third period."

Wendy's eyes open and she looks at me. Her eyes are dark, a feature I wish I possessed. Dark eyes are harder to read. She proves this theory for me. Her eyes shoot to the ground and she shrugs. "I got tired. I wanted to leave. I just- I needed a break," she finishes. Her eyes dart back to me, "You won't tell, right? I mean, you're out here too so you can't!"

I shrug, "It's really none of my business anyway." Wendy nods in an appreciative manner and kicks her feet in the sand. "I don't really care," I conclude. I haven't talked to anyone like this in a long time. It feels nice. I didn't think Wendy would turn out to be one of those people to talk to me like a human being, oppose to a wild animal. I don't really know Wendy. I judged her though, but I didn't think she'd be like this. It feels like it's been an hour that we've been swinging, but it's probably only been twenty minutes and she hasn't said one word about how smoking damages your lungs or something about pollution and dying whales.

I wonder what's got her under, but sort of don't actually care at the same time. Was it insensitive to tell her that though? How am I supposed to know how to act around a girl? Fuck it, she can grow a spine. I have my own problems to worry about. I sure don't need hers to add to that weight. "I like that you don't care," she says. "People who care are... annoying," she says this in a way where I feel like someone said this to her about her. "I wanna stop caring too," she tells me, "but it's not in my nature. I just can't."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I admit. I am still high and Wendy's speaking some pretty deep seeping words. I need her to slow down. Maybe she's not as affected as I thought- or maybe she's a philosophical stoner. "But I think you should just be yourself. I know it sounds cliché, but it's worked for me so far- wait... no, it actually hasn't, really." I blink in thought. "But I don't give a fuck about people and that doesn't work for me so maybe you should just do your 'care' thing."

She nods like she understands but I wonder if she really does. "This place sucks."

"Preach," I smooth my hair back and away from my face, fed up with being tickled.

"We should hang out more," Wendy decides. "Where are you going now?"

I shrug, "I'm hungry but I don't have any money or food."

"And if we go to a business they'll rat us out." I hadn't thought of this but she's right. There's no way Wendy is high but her eyes glow red. We contemplate food for a good give minutes before losing focus and talking about an old karate movie we both used to watch when we were little. After a while, I deem Wendy a decent person and not in a sense that she gives to charity and helps people in need because everyone already fucking knows that, it doesn't mean she isn't annoying- but she isn't. Wendy is decent. And that's a lot coming from me, I think. We walk back to school.

Wendy promises me a bag of chips she has stored in her locker and we discuss the possibility of hanging out again soon, though I'm very apprehensive, but she did offer me food and anyone who gives me food is good in my book.

We get to school just in time for the bell for fourth and part ways. We missed lunch but she did give me the chips, I feel forever in her debt. She somewhat satisfied my munchies and for that she is a hero. And I'm on with the rest of my boring ass day.


Kenny McCormick fascinates me because despite being probably almost just as weird as me, he is considered normal, attractive, even. Maybe it's because he's attractive that people over look his weirdness. But then that means I'm ugly. No. We're probably just different weirds. I'm a weird introvert but he'll go out and make friends. And they get to know his weird.

I've never thought of myself as ugly. I know I'm not. I'm just weird and also I don't try to flaunt my best feature (which, if you ask me, is my ass, without question). I wear baggy clothes and rarely cut and or brush my hair. It's probably a defense mechanism. Like a porcupine's needles keep away predators. They see the spikes and walk away. People see my hair and they walk away. I think if I wanted to I could look equally, if not better than Kenny. Maybe. In a way.

We're the same so I'd have to! Blonde hair and blue eyes (though, mine do lean more towards the green side… irrelevant). He may be a bit more muscular but I'm not lanky. I'm not built either. I'm just kind of, nothing. That's cool though. Nothing gets people to leave me alone- for the most part.

I know Kenny's just as fucked up as I am because I caught him on numerous occasions being 'the psycho kid'. First was way back in elementary, probably. I went to the park, usually barren, and he was on top of one of the pavilions, hanging off the edge upside down. I'd have asked him what the fuck he was doing, because it was also late- not morning yet, but dark- but he kind of scared the shit out of me. I was way twitchier back then. I think now I've started to fake being as twitchy as I was. Also a defense mechanism.

Humanity scares me.

I'm high.

I'm hungry.

School is absolutely miserable. I finished this assignment five minutes into class. We've been going over this shit every day, I better understand it! Everyone in here should be able to do this while high, backwards, on fire. But, regardless of us being in this unit for a month and our teacher guiding us- them- through it, Kevin answers incorrectly. Again.

I could just about lose my shit.

I stand, attracting, virtually, no one's attention. I walk over to the work basket and dump my papers into it, glancing at everyone who is pretending I don't exist. My book bag slips off my shoulder, I re-adjust. My teacher dares to glance at me and my activities. When I get to the door I give her a nice salute before leaving the room.

I pass by the library. Through the huge window I see a blue hat with three little yellow puffballs and the hat itself is attached to a boy. A Craig Tucker.

I grimace. Gross.

Now that I think about it, Craig could be a 'psycho kid' with me and Kenny. Despite being a loner, (See: Craig in library during class (He's always fucking in there. Also, he goes for walks at four in the morning (That's when the freaks come out (everybody knows this))) people always are around him.

I can't say it's because he's attractive like Kenny because he's really not.

Craig looks like he started the awkward stage of puberty and then it never ended. I guess it could be seen as cute, but only to a creeper like me. He's absolutely not an extrovert so I don't get it. Maybe it's who he hangs out with.

Token managed to climb the social ladder over the years. His popularity really went through the roof when one year in middle school he got dreads. The girls fucking lost it. He's probably had sex with our entire grade's girl population, twice. And if I'm correct he's currently working through the juniors. Him, being rich combo-ed with Clyde's outrageous ability to throw a party and boom, our sophomore Gods. I kid you not.

Somehow, Craig is friends with them. They're always surrounded by people, Craig's always surrounded by people.

Craig, awkwardly tall, luckily athletic to balance out, still has braces from middle school due to severely fucked up teeth and heavy teasing. He got them late because I don't think his parents had the money before and had to save up, but I don't know this for sure. I know his jeans are too short for his legs because he's always wearing those fucking boots. His face looks rough.

What's he always thinking about? He must think. He never talks or smiles. He doesn't really show any emotion other than a scowl. He must think about something. Maybe he thinks about nothing. Sometimes I zone out for hours and when I wake up, I can't even remember what I was thinking about or if I was at all, for that matter.

But I greatly believe Craig Tucker thinks about crazy shit. I couldn't see it before because he was always around people, pretending to be normal and I never caught him hanging upside down at the park.

But I did catch him taking a stroll at four in the morning. Fucking closeted-freak bastard.

I'm intrigued.

That's no good. I'm gonna go to our smoker's alley. I don't smoke. That's fucking gross but I like the company of our school's smokers.

As I come around the corner I see orange, undoubtedly Kenny. He wears that jacket every day. I, sometimes, think it may be all the wardrobe he owns. Possible.

He glances at me. What I like about Kenny- besides him being a 'psycho kid''- is he can also read minds. Hell yeah, that's creepy as fuck but knowing that he knows what I'm thinking almost makes me feel like we're friends. As sad as that sounds. And he acknowledges me as a person unlike most of this town, who instead treat me like a wild animal with rabies that they're too scared to get too close to. Kenny understands because he's psycho and can read my mind.

Once I'm close enough he holds up an open pack of cigarettes from his squatting position. I shake my head to his offer. I wouldn't even have taken one if I did smoke. I'm not sure how Kenny managed to even get those cigarettes, let alone when he'll be able to get another pack. Maybe he has more money than I know. Whatever, I don't smoke.

He sits and smokes and I just watch him. Kenny's hair is almost as long as mine, though I'm certain for different reasons. His family can't afford haircuts. I like to pull my hair out. If it were short, I'd start to go bald. However, the hair on the left side of my head is significantly shorter than the right side and this gives me anxiety.

I wonder if Kenny knows about Craig. I mean, he must he's psychic. But I'm also pretty good at calling out 'The Crazies' but I just found out about him. I'd ask but I never really talk. I wouldn't know how to start.

"Rough day?" Kenny asks, startling me. I just stare down at him. "You left class and you're high," he explains. I don't ask how he knows I'm high. He's a fucking mind reader, plus a fucking junkie too.

I shrug. Did he start talking because I wanted to talk to him? He must have. Kenny never would have otherwise. Not that he wouldn't talk to me he just knows I wouldn't answer. "What's on your mind?"

Perfect, not even awkward at all! I applaud Kenny and his magically mind reading capabilities, topped with his superb social skills. Good one, McCormick. I note this for future reference. "You know Craig?"

"Tucker?" he questions. I nod. "I know of him," Kenny says, eyeing me. I won't look at him. He can read minds. Looking at him would give me away, whatever, giving myself away means. I don't even know what I'd be hiding. "Why?"

"He's interesting," I say. "What do y- you think about him?"

Kenny shrugs, "He's weird- rude too." I nod. Kenny doesn't have much else to say about Craig which is also irritating. I actually fucking talked to him so I thought I could get something out of Kenny that I didn't already fucking know. He can read minds, for fuck sake. "Sometimes I see him riding his penny board around town really late at night, but usually like, in town around shops. It's weird."

"You talked to him?"

Kenny shakes his head. "I don't think he saw me. It was weird. I didn't want to disturb him," he says. "Plus, I was in no place to judge. I was up too. I can't ever sleep." Me neither. "So, definitely weird." Should I tell him about how I saw him this morning? What if he doesn't care? "Interesting?" Kenny repeats what I said from earlier, taking a long drag. "What does that mean?" What does it sound like, Kenny?! I fucking want his ass, duh! Kenny knows exactly what it means. He can read people like books, so as soon as Craig's name came out of my mouth he knew.

I shrug. "He's weird, like you said- rude too," I say. "I'm gonna go." Kenny waves.

Craig Tucker: what a weirdo.


When I get home my mother's in the kitchen. I think she's making dinner. I discard my book bag and start for the stairs. "Tweek," she calls. I roll my eyes but stop. "Can you come here?"

I trudge into the kitchen and raise an eyebrow at my mother's back. "Yeah?" My mother turns towards me with a mother look on her face. I groan, "Yes, mother?"

She sighs, tucking some hair behind her ear. "I was just wondering how school was."

"Um, the same it's been every day for the last eleven years." Her eyes narrow. "I didn't freak out and kill anybody," I say.

"Tweek," my mother uses her warning tone.

"What?" I ask. "That's all you care about- if I attracted attention to myself. I didn't." My mother doesn't need to know about the Cartman thing and frankly I'm trying to forget it anyways. If she did, it'd be this whole huge thing and it's not a huge thing and if there's one thing my mother hates, it's attracting attention. Which sucks for her since I'm her son and we live in such a small town.

My mother continues to cook but I know she's not done with me. "Have you tried to make friends?" she asks. "Do you even try anymore?"

"I used to," I say, picking at my nails, as I become restless. "High school kids just... don't get me."

My mom stops what she's doing and approaches me. She places her hand on my cheek. "I just want you to be happy."

"I'd be happy if you guys bought me a ukulele." Her hand drops. "I'm serious," I tell her.

"Tweek, you're too isolated. It worries me."

"I have you and dad. I'm not isolated, mother." I tell her. She goes back to cooking, not acknowledging my comment so I continue, "I'm at school around assholes every day, mom! I'm not isolated." I tell her.

"Tweek, language!"

"English. Is there another one you know?"

She sucks her teeth, "You're spoiled."

"Thanks," I say, sarcastically. "Whose fault is it?"

"So you don't want a ukulele?" She glances over her shoulder.

"I'll be in my room." I walk away and start ascending the stairs.

"Dinner will be done soon."

I think my parents know I'm not as crazy as everyone thinks me to be. But I also think they know I'm nothing like normal. And they don't know what to do about it because we've tried therapy, I refused to take my pills, I have no friends, and I think they know I do a lot of drugs. So they worry and blame themselves. It fucking sucks.

They don't ever say anything about what I do because they know how hard it is for me to be happy. They also don't want to flat out say it's okay so they just ignore it. I guess, pretend like they don't know.

I'm so grateful for my mother. Despite her hating the attention attractor that I am, she's always there to bail me out, comfort me, and clean up the mess. My dad is supportive- or he says he is often, but he says I need more self-control, otherwise I might mess up majorly in public and then they'll take me away and he and mom can't do anything about it anyway. He's right and I appreciate his bluntness. Mom tries to sugar coat everything all the time. He's always there afterwards though to give me a real lecture that makes me feel like shit and reevaluate everything I know.

I don't want to think about this anymore.

So I climb up my bunk bed and flop down on it. Under it is a desk with my laptop and shit. My room's pretty cool, I think. The walls are covered in dream catchers, band posters, and ugly sketches. Hanging from the ceiling I have Chinese lanterns of all colors, along with wind chimes.

It probably looks like a crazy kid's room, no matter how much I think it's just really freaking awesome. My bed sheets are sailor moon and they don't match my rug. My rug's fuzzy and colorful. It takes up most of my floor, which is hard wood. That's why I have the rug. I'm always dropping shit, so the rug keeps everything from breaking. If it gets dirty, we can wash it. That soothes my soul.

I feel a nap coming on. Good, I don't think I've slept since last week. I let my eyes close and sleep engulf my body.