I used to think—and I mean really, really think—that my life couldn't get any fucking worse. I mean, come on, the fucking dirt is richer than my folks are and it could probably hold a job down for longer, too. Dirt doesn't do shit but at least it can do it right. . .
I can't do a fucking thing, though.
My grades are below F's—the teachers probably only put those pretty D's on my report cards so that I can get my ass out of their classrooms next year. Makes the folks happy, though—think me some sort of genius 'cause I haven't flunked out like Kevin or got some bitch preggers yet—and they stick each new report on the fridge with the one plastic-letter L magnet we have, just to gloat how much I fucking suck. Which is fitting—L stands for Loser.
I've had every job this piss-hole of a town has to offer, from delivering pizzas on Stan's bike (which I had to fucking borrow every day I worked) to being a janitor at the high school (now that was a blast, I swear those fucking bastards made half those messes on purpose, just to get back at me for somethin') to even doing a little corner work, if you catch my drift. You'd be surprised just how many fucked-up freaks pass through South Park.
Hell, I was surprised just how many of those same damn freaks lived here.
And, because of my reputation as the town-whore, I can't get a girlfriend to save my pitiful life. Tried, trust me, to tell them the reason why, but bitches don't listen if you don't cough up diamonds after every syllable. I got sick of it real quick and haven't bothered with them since.
To sum it all up, and I'm one retarded, broke, lonely bastard who sucks dick every weekend just to get enough money to buy cigarettes to last me through the goddamn week.
'Course, you're probably thinking how that leaves room for the 'couldn't get any worse part', right?
Well, get this, 'cause it's the fucking cherry on my shit-sundae—I'm totally crushing on one of my best friends.
Who's a guy.
And who's totally in love with someone else.
"FUCK IT!" Kyle threw the dice-cup down on the Yahtzee! board with a scowl, arms quickly folding up over his chest.
We're eight and Yahtzee! is the fucking shit of all shits. Pwning your friends with dice and getting to strut around announcing it? Oh, hell yes. We're eating it up—even Cartman, who usually pitches goddamn fits whenever we do something that doesn't involve the words 'Halo' or 'Grand Theft Auto'.
But that may be because he's totally cheating—and winning because of it.
Kyle knows. 'S why he's so pissed. But Stan and I don't really care. We're just havin' fun for fun's sake and it's my goddamn roll and I don't care if Cartman rolled another six-straight Yahtzee. So I pick up the cup and the six dice Kyle abandoned, shake 'em up real good and let 'em roll.
I have no fucking luck, so I get three ones, a two, and a five. I pluck the two and five up and roll again, this time getting another one and a six. The six goes back and I shake, shake, shake until it feels right to let it drop.
It hits the board, the one facing up, but it's got too much momentum and flips over so I get a worthless three.
Cartman snorts, ripping the cup from my hands, and scoops up my pitiful roll while I scribble it down on my score sheet. Well, four points up is better than no points up, right? I'm in last place. Stan's in second and Kyle's in third. Cartman, as I already said, is first, but not by much. One high roll and Stan could wipe his ass outta the game.
Which is just what everyone is kinda hoping for. Especially Kyle, who can't keep from glaring at Cartman as he makes a show of shaking up that stupid dice cup. Then he lets them drop, suddenly, and they dance around the board: six, six, six, six, six.
Kyle screams and gets up, storming from the room. Stan and I share this weird glance thing that I can totally, like, read and I scrambled up to follow him while Stan picks up Cartman's latest Yahtzee!
At first, I don't know where he's headed. The kitchen is dark, reeking of Pledge too, and I can't see a fucking thing. The only thing I hear is Stan telling Cartman that he was gonna win and Cartman's jeering protests.
I'm about to give up when I notice the glass door is half-way open, like someone was in too much of a hurry to close it. I walk to it, hood drawn up, and slip out into the night.
Kyle's sitting in the backyard, cross-legged, back against the only tree rooted there, seemingly looking up at the stars—or, fuck, the grain in the wooden floor of the tree house he and Stan had just built. As I get closer, I notice he's not just looking, he's fucking glaring at whatever he's staring at. Sulking. Pissed.
I take another step and Kyle finally seems to realize he isn't alone. Some of the anger soothes away and he asks a quiet, "Stan?"
I try not to notice, but a burning ache stabs my chest. Like I was impaled by a white-hot iron again but didn't die this time.
'Course he'd want Stan, they were, like, best friends or whatever. Still, it kinda hurts he'd just assume. And I don't say anything. Maybe he'd figure out it was me.
He does— the fucking next intake of breath. He's not the smartest kid in our class just by title alone. He catches shit quick.
". . .Kenny?"
By this time, I'm standing in front of him, so I nod though he doesn't need to be reassured that he's right. Just how many orange-parka wearing kids could he know?
He doesn't say anything to me this time so I take it upon myself to sit down next to him. Kyle doesn't protest though he doesn't exactly look any happier either. Guess that's what I get for not being Stan.
We sit there for a while, Kyle looking up at the sky and me looking over at him, and we don't say anything. We don't even say anything when he scoots closer to me, one skinny-stick of an arm held out to the stars.
". . .see that one," he asks and he should know better—all those stars look alike to me. Tiny, bright and pointless. But I nod for him as if I were staring straight at the one he's talking about. ". . .it's not really a star at all." I frown. It's not? "It's Jupiter."
Jupiter. . .
That's a planet, right?
He starts telling me about Jupiter—about the storms constantly happening on it, to its four moons, to its Roman-god inspired name. When he's done, he points to another star and tells me about it, talking, talking, talking, and cramming my head with shit I didn't think I'll ever need to know.
But I listen and remember every word of it.
And I learn something more than whatever he tells me, that night, beneath the stars I've never cared for—I'm totally head-over heels for him. I almost want to kiss him, but we're eight. . .and that'd just be wrong. . .
Still doesn't help the thought from crossing my mind more than once. . .
In fact, I tried. No shit. I tried to kiss Kyle Broflovski when we were fucking eight—didn't work out, though. . .
Just as I covered Kyle's hand with mine, lowering it so he'd focus on me, Stan came outside, smiling broadly in the dim light of the crescent moon.
"Kicked his ass," he states, striding closer. Kyle moves from me the moment he took that first step and lurches up, going to him with a congratulation and a "fuck yeah!"
That was something else I learned that night: Kyle had the total hots for Stan Marsh.
Go. Fucking. Figure.