Disclaimer: South Park and all characters belong to Trey Parker and Matt Stone.

"Come on, just tell me what's the matter. Please, you can trust me. I'm not going to tell anyone."

Not going to tell anyone! That's a laugh. As if I'm going to give a shit whether you tell anyone or not. No one cares, no one has been caring, and no one will care; it's like a page torn from a shitty elementary school grammar workbook.

Nina runs, Nina has been running, Nina will run. Today, yesterday, and tomorrow, all packaged neatly in one sentence. If only grammar was remotely related to reality, then living might not be such a pain in the ass.

I take death into my lungs and expel, flicking ash from the end of my cigarette like the good little clichéd mess I am. I've seen a hundred clones of my angsty ass on every troubled kid brochure, every movie that has to do with "letting go", every fucking novel that dramatizes whatever problems a kid's got.

Seriously, it's like a person can't even have problems in peace anymore – it's always "I understand", or "I get that a lot". Why? 'Cause you read the latest book on Oprah's "I Recommend This Book Because It is Life-Changing and Shit" list?

"Why are you so shut off? I promise, promise not to say a thing. Seriously, I'm worried about you!"

Worried as in how you were worried about the class rabbit. Like how you're worried about getting into heaven, sweet little hypocrite that you are. I don't mind; I like hypocrites. I have to, seeing as I'm a damn good one.

Look at me, the problem child.

"Please, Kenny. Just say something."

Miss, all I'm good for is something to talk about at the dinner table. I can hear it now: the clink of cheap fake affordable silverware on equally affordable plates, quiet chewing, awkward pauses and stops of conversation. And my name, somehow slipped in the middle of all this during a daily exchange of news.

Hey Dad, remember when I was telling you about Kenny?

Yes, of course I do, son.

Well, he got suspended again for being high in class. Mr. Mackey came into class to talk to us about it and everything.

Well, the McCormick's were always deadbeats. It's the white trash way. Now eat your peas.

I smirk at the imaginary conversation. At what is imaginary now but is an honest-to-God prophesy that has probably happened a million times before.

She takes my smile the wrong way, and huffs. Wendy has always been easily offended.

"Fine, then! Do what you want! I just came here because of Stan anyway!"

See? What did I tell you? Miss Hypocrite. As if you were seriously worried about me. I toast her back with another cigarette as she storms away. It seems like an occasion worth celebrating with a fresh one.

I'm left in peace for a little while. Then I stand, stretch, and hightail the fuck out of there before school is let out and I see everyone I really don't want to see.

Maybe I'll go and visit Stan-and-Kyle for a little while. I know where they'll be, if Stan's not on another date with Wendy. And Stan's house is only four houses up from mine.

Cartman is an option, but not a favorable one. He still hasn't grown out of his megalomania, although I never expected him to. A Cartman that isn't a selfish, manipulative, psychopathic bastard isn't really Cartman at all. Besides, he's probably with Butters anyway, and I fucking hate Butters.

So that leaves Craig and his gang, or Raisins. Raisins is becoming increasingly more appealing, since I'm still a little annoyed at Stan for siccing Wendy on me and Cartman was never a real choice anyway. And the last time I spoke to Craig was when I asked him for another cigarette.

While I'm thinking, I search my pockets for another cig and come up empty, which decides me. To Craig's it is, then.

When I trudge up Craig's driveway, school has officially been out for an hour. I try ringing the doorbell, but when Craig's mom comes to the door and says no, Craig isn't home yet, he's at that Token's house, I know they won't be back for a while. So I leave.

While I'm walking home, Wendy pops in my head again and I shake angrily to get her out. Jesus, seeing her every time I come to school is –in my sincere opinion – more than enough of crazy ambitious career women for an entire lifetime. But then thoughts of Craig come to replace the ones about Wendy and that's hardly any better, because it gets me thinking about things I've been chain-smoking to forget.

I'm an extra. Unneeded in anyone's lives except when they need one more person for a game, some comic relief, advice, a free ear to complain to. I mean nothing to anyone and fucking God I should be used to it by now. Except that it's not something you can get used to.

I fucking hate everyone because they don't actually give a shit about me. Which is why I try not to give a shit about them; I observe and see and don't really give a crap. This strategy works – is working – until some nosy bitch like Wendy comes and gets me thinking about how I hate everyone again. It's a never ending cycle.

I'm familiar with cycles. All white trash are. Drink Pabst Blue Ribbon, get drunk, have sex, give birth to illegitimate kids, set up a meth lab, drink some more. It's our mantra. It's my future.

I slip inside the house, avoiding all the beer bottles so the noise wouldn't wake any deadbeats that might be lying around. When I get to my room, I turn the lock and make sure it's dead quiet before taking off the orange hoodie and slipping under the covers.

I want peace, quiet, to be away from everyone for a little while. And since dying is just like living, I guess sleeping is the only thing that'll help. I'm all set to drift into oblivion when my phone buzzes.

Getting high stark pond come if you want.

I didn't even need to check the sender information to know it was from Token – only he and Cartman had iPhones, which meant only they used legitimate capitalization and grammar in texts.

And if Token was using, then it meant Craig, Clyde, and maybe Jimmy were there too. Jesus. I get what Token is trying to do here, but seriously. I'm not a fucking errand boy. If Craig likes being the unemotional bastard he is, then by all means, let him be an unemotional bastard. Why bring drama into his life when he's so adamantly rejecting it.

Just because Craig Tucker has a thing for Tweek Tweak and isn't admitting it doesn't mean it's the end of the world. Even if he is being a bigger douche than usual to make up for it. There's no reason why I have to bring Tweek Tweak over with me to humor Token tonight.

There's no question that Token's calling me over so I can bring Tweak without making Craig suspicious. God knows I've brought stranger people with me before, and on any other day I would have done it without a second thought.

But contrary to what public opinion might be, I don't get a sick, masochistic joy from being used

I'm about to throw the phone down when another hurried text comes through. Token must have somehow sensed what I'm thinking because his next text is very, very simple.

Johnny walker.

That fucking genius mastermind.

I get up, shrug on my hoodie, and figure that if I'm going to sink into oblivion tonight, it might as well be on weed and alcohol that are probably more expensive than my house. With Token there, the quality of the weed might be beyond outstanding and well into high-class, Tony Montoya territory. It made my heart hammer just thinking about it. Besides, if Token wants to play nanny, then it's up to me to play matchmaker, isn't it?

I send him a quick reply and run out the door. It's time to head for Tweak Bro.'s.