Disclaimer: I do not own South Park; it is the property of Matt Stone and Trey Parker.

"And that, children, is why Kim Kardashian is going to kick Miley Cyrus' ass in the celebrity smack down tonight. Now, can anyone tell me the significance of Kanye's…"

Stan sighed and listened as Mr. Garrison droned on and on about shit nobody cared about. Honestly, did other kids have to deal with learning about irrelevant trash year after year? He was pretty sure that they didn't; it was only in his red-neck mountain town of South Park, Colorado that everyone was completely insane. Or at least stupid. Probably both.

"Psst!"

The black-haired boy glanced sidelong at Red, who was offering a small slip of paper to him. He just rolled his eyes and looked back at the teacher, who had somehow managed to stick with their class all the way to sixth grade. Over the years, the man had gone through about three more existential crises, including a few very, very weird months where he had worn a pink fox fur suit everywhere. Truth be told, Stan had stopped giving a shit about whatever Garrison's new "gender of the week" was ages ago.

"Stan, psst!" Red muttered again, shooting him a glare. "Take the note! It's for you."

He shot back a scowl of his own, and whispered harshly, "What is this, third grade? Fuck off, Red."

"Stan, quit bein' a fuckin' prick and take the God damn note already!" snapped Cartman, who was seated just behind the pair.

Mr. Garrison, who had seemingly just heard the whispered conversation, turned around and placed his hands on his hips. "Is there are problem here? Stanley, Eric, Red? I will not have you three disrupting my class."

"No Mr. Garrison," the three chorused, as they were expected. And as if that solved the matter, the teacher turned back to the board and continued with his topic.

Almost immediately, Cartman picked up where they left off, "Stan, I swear to God, if you keep being a whiny little bitch today, then I'm gonna kick ya in the nuts."

With a frustrated growl, Stan reached over and snatched the note from Red's desk, and angrily unfolded it to scan the contents.

Stan, we need to talk.

-Wendy

The boy glanced behind Red to his on-again off-again—currently on—girlfriend. But Wendy wasn't looking at him, as her eyes were glued on Garrison as she wrote down notes in her binder. Of course, being the A student that she was, she could care less about the stupid shit Garrison spewed out of his mouth. As long as she aced her test, she was happy.

Suddenly feeling sick to his stomach, Stan raised his hand. "Mr. Garrison," he said, staring ahead at the teacher as a churning sensation entered his gut.

Blinking, the teacher turned around to look at the raven-haired boy, surprised at being interrupted yet again. "Yes Stanley, what is it?"

"Can I go to the bathroom?" he asked, already halfway out of his seat.

Shrugging, Garrison said, "Of course, but make sure to come right back." And with that, he turned back to the chalkboard. "Now, who can tell me which celebrity would win in a fight if they were only allowed to…"

Stan didn't hear the rest of the statement, as he was already out the door. He could feel eyes on his back as it swung shut, but he didn't care. He never cared. Shouldering his backpack, Stan sped to the bathroom as quickly as he could, grateful that he didn't run into anyone in the hallway. Upon reaching the boy's room, he checked about and looked under the stalls. Empty.

Locking himself in the largest stall, Stan unzipped his backpack and pulled out a Bud Light he'd stolen from his father that morning. Randy never noticed, as long as Stan was careful about when he took them. Popping the cap off, Stan took a swig of the beer and grimaced. Even after two years of drinking the stuff, he still hated the taste.

Most people thought that he'd gone through a phase when he turned ten—that his Asperger's was just a bull-shit excuse to get some attention. Well, they were all fucking wrong. Truth was, Stan had been drinking constantly ever since that one fateful day when alcohol had been forcefully shoved down his throat. It was the only way he could manage his depression over how shitty everything was. And at the rate he drank, he'd be surprised if his blood hadn't turned to wine.

"Maybe that's how Jesus did it," he muttered dryly, taking another sip of his drink. "He saw how fucking shitty the world is, and decided to keep drinking until it wasn't so shitty anymore."

Of course, no one else knew about his habits. Not his parents, not his sister, hell, not even Kyle knew. Sometimes, Stan thought that Kenny might suspect. The boy had gotten very quiet over the years, but that didn't mean Kenny was stupid—quite the opposite in fact. When Kenny wasn't speaking, he was watching and listening. And Stan guessed that he saw right through pretty much everything. But, if Kenny did know—or suspect—he never tried to confront Stan about it.

Finishing off the last of his beer, Stan sighed and leaned against the inside of the stall. He did not want to go back into that fucking classroom. The raven-haired boy didn't really see the point of even coming to school, when they didn't learn anything relevant. The only thing that kept him going was getting to see the three people he actually cared about—and no, Cartman was not one of them. Kenny, Wendy, and Kyle. That was it. Those were the only people in his life that he could tolerate these days. Well… and his mom. But that was a given, really.

With an exasperated huff, he shoved the empty bottle back into his bag and began to head back to class. He'd dispose of it on the way home.

Plopping back into his seat, he cautioned a glance back at his girlfriend. She had watched him sit down, and now gave him a reserved smile, before turning back to the front. He liked her smiles. They weren't very common, since she usually preferred to frown whenever she got invested in a new cause—or a new fight with fat-ass.

At that thought, he leaned back to look at Cartman. The brown haired boy was in a heated discussion with Token. And from the smirk on Cartman's face and the glare on Token's, Stan guessed that the fat boy was making some racist comments. Again.

Something small struck the back of his head, and Stan blinked and turned around to see what had hit him. Another small, rolled up ball of paper hit his cheek before bouncing to the floor, and Stan raised his brows at Kyle.

The red-head hastily scribbled something down on a bit of paper, crumpled it up, and tossed it over to his best friend. Stan caught the ball, unfurled it, and silently read the words his friend had scrawled.

Are you feeling alright? You seemed sick earlier.

Stan furrowed his brows and returned his gaze to Kyle, who was giving him a concerned look. In his mind, he cast about frantically for a reply. After all, it wasn't as if he could tell his best friend that his buzz had been wearing off. Finally, he remembered the other note that he'd gotten that day in class, and quickly scrawled something on the back of the slip Kyle had tossed to him.

I think Wendy wants to break up. Again.

He shoved the note back to Kyle, who scanned it and then gave Stan a sympathetic look. After that, the two didn't really talk much throughout the rest of class. After all, what could they say? Stan knew that Kyle didn't see why he continued to go out with Wendy anymore. It was plain to everyone that the couple were never going to work out. They were just too different, and not in a good way. The two boys had argued about it on three separate occasions, neither ever willing to budge an inch on the matter.

The truth was, Stan was beginning to think that Kyle—and everyone else for that matter—was right. But every time Stan said that it was the last time he was ever going to date her, he always ended up falling into the same situation again. She would eventually come back to him, bat her eyes, and ask him out on a date. And he would always say yes. Why? Stability, perhaps? He knew she was a safe bet, as he knew where he stood with her. They would have fun for a few weeks, they'd break up, he'd become a depressed pussy for about a week, finally get over her, and then she'd ask him out again. It was a cycle that continually repeated itself. It was something he knew. And perhaps that was what attracted him, when so many other things in his life were uncertain. Especially since, to be quite honest, Stan didn't really harbor any romantic feelings for his first crush. At least, not anymore. There were no more fireworks when they kissed. It was just two people pressing their lips together. So why did he stay with her? Why did he choose to let himself be snared in this never-ending rut?

"Stan. Stanley. STANLEY!"

"Huh, what?" the raven-haired boy looked back toward the front as kids behind him snickered.

"Were you even paying attention?" Mr. Garrison drawled, crossing his arms over his chest.

And now was the point where he would lie, make up some story to appease Garrison, find out that was what the teacher had been talking about, and get off scott free. That was what everyone—even Garrison—expected him to do. So it must have surprised them all, even himself a bit, when he said, "No."

"Oh really? Then what was I just talking abou-… what?" asked the man, completely startled.

Stan propped his chin on his hand and stared at the teacher with his cobalt blue eyes. "No, I was not paying attention."

"Well! Well… that's what I thought," said Garrison, a bit unsurely. "You just… you pay attention, Stanley, or I'll give you detention." He turned back to the board then, expecting that to be the end of the conversation.

"If I tell you I won't, can I have detention now?" Stan countered. He wasn't sure why he was tempting the issue. Did he want to get in trouble? No. But he did need something to happen. He needed to get out of this damn rut.

"I… excuse me?" the teacher gasped, whirling about to stare at the black-haired boy. Stan could feel the eyes of everyone in the classroom on him. He knew they were all thinking that he must have gone mad.

Tucking a strand of dark hair stuck to his forehead back into his hat, he replied, "I really don't give a rat's ass about stupid celebrity bullshit." Well, now I can guarantee that I'll be seeing my parents in the principal's office, he thought. "Can't we learn about whatever normal kids learn about, like math or history or something? I bet Clyde still doesn't know what five times two is," he added, smirking wickedly.

At that, Clyde scowled at Stan, "Hey don't drag me into this! And it's seven, for your information." That caused everyone to burst out laughing, and Stan to cross his arms over his chest victoriously. Perhaps he wouldn't be so bold if it weren't for the alcohol clouding his judgement, but it was too late to take the words back now.

Mr. Garrison, whose face had turned a light pinkish shade at this point, yelled, "Alright Mr. Smart-ass, why don't you just walk on over to the Principal's office, and tell her what you did?!"

Stan gave him an annoyed look, but gathered his things. He paused at the exit though, and turned back to face the class. Well, I've already made a complete jackass of myself. In for a dime, in for a dollar, he thought. "Oh, Wendy?"

Wendy, who had been blushing shamefully at her boyfriend's outburst, struggled with herself for a moment before forcing herself to face him. "Yes, Stan?" she quipped, her voice steely as she stared at him.

"I think it might be best if we see other people." And with that, he stalked out of the classroom, leaving a chorus of "Oooohs" behind him.

I have absolutely no idea where I'm going with this story. I just know that it's been partially forming in my mind ever since the episode "You're Getting Old…" So please bear with me.

*Edit: I wrote this first chapter years and years ago, before PC Principal was a thing. As such, consider pretty much everything after "Ass Burgers" to be non-canon in this story-line, unless I say otherwise.