You know the kind of story I'm thinking of- boy meets girl, lots of parties, teen drama, lots of school spirit and fabulous local events. Usually, they all live in some glamorous town in some glamorous zip code and they do all these glamorous things there, and even when they get shitfaced at parties or they knock up their girlfriends, they do it with glamour.

It's the epitome of the teenage years, right? You go to school, you go to parties, you go to the beach, you get good grades somehow, even though you spend all of your time at parties or screwing your girlfriend. It's the years you get to cut loose, enter adulthood, look back on fondly and laugh and say "well, we were reckless back then, but that's over now" years later and never regret a moment, all that bullshit. If only if life were really like one of those stupid fucking TV dramas.

I have to wonder, would anyone still watch those shows if they followed real life? You know the kind of story I'm thinking of-boy meets boy, parties where you're never invited, people who couldn't give a shit about the football team, which sucks anyway, living in a city where the last concert you had the chance to see was in fourth grade, and you couldn't make it because you had stomach flu. You live in the asshole of the world, a town no one's ever heard of, and the closest you've been to a beach in your entire life is the ice skating pond just outside town. It's a place where people not only knock up their girlfriends, but they get beaten up for not having one in the first place.

No.

I don't think anyone would want to watch a show about real people and real life. They like that over-dramatic teen drama California crap because it helps distract them from real life. They get real life, real shit, all day long, and they don't want to come home to the same situations they just finished dealing with.

Honestly, I can't blame them. I'm not sure I'd like a show about real life either. Then again, I can't stand those kinds of shows in the first place. Why waste your time watching other people's problems and other people's lives when you have your own knocking at the door? I-

I slammed the blue faux-leather book shut quickly. It was just a hobby, but it was a dangerous one. Writing something like that could get you killed in a town like South Park. A few specific parts especially. It was true, regardless, I thought angrily as I stashed the book between the layers of my creaky spring mattress, dark hair falling in my eyes. Who the fuck was at my door at eleven at night anyway?

Whoever it was knocked again.

"Coming!" I called back down the stairs, carefully running down them. I checked the window to the side of the door to see who it was. Cartman. What the fuck did he fucking want?

I opened the door. Cartman entered without permission, shutting the door behind him. "Hello Craig," he said, "what a lovely evening we are having today, yes?"

I just glared at him. "Cartman," I said, unable to keep anger from my voice, "what the fuck are you doing in my living room?"

I couldn't help but flinch as Cartman wrapped his fat arm around my waist. Cartman didn't seem to notice, but I knew that he had. Cartman seemed to live through every glare and flinch and expression of any discomfort I displayed. Quite frankly, it was terrifying how much attention he'd begun to pay me.

"I repeat," I said, swallowing hard as Cartman's hand traveled down my thigh, "what the fuck are you doing in my living room?"

"Why Craig," he replied coolly, "would you rather we take it upstairs? Well, since you clearly want me so much, I can only oblige you. That's what friends are for, right?"

"I want you to leave, Cartman, not go one step farther into my house. I have a little sister, and she doesn't need to be exposed to your filth. For that matter, neither do I. Oh, and for the record, we're not friends, so get your fat fucking hands off of me."

Again, Cartman ignored me. Craig remained emotionless as a hand snaked into my pocket, it's owner grinning sadistically. It was only a moment too late when I realized exactly what Cartman had been after. He hadn't been intending to harass me, piss me off or violate me, although those were perks, he'd been after the ever-present photograph in the pocket of my faded jeans.

Fuck that fat asshole, I thought, emotionless as ever, as Cartman examined the picture.

Cartman laughed. "Well, fag, looks like I was right. Can't wait to let everyone know." He paused to stare into my eyes with a fierce and cruel intensity. "Wow. That's disgusting, Craig," he said, turning the photo over and reading the jumpy, scrawling message on the back, half of his mouth curled up into some perverted but equally striking version of the Mona Lisa's smile.

"Cartman, just don't. Give it back, and forget about it," I growled, his eyes flashing with anger. "Give that back to me, and get out of my fucking living room. Now."

One again, Cartman ignored me. "Oh, this is really revolting, Craig. I knew you were fags, but I didn't realize how… gay, you were."

"Get out, Cartman."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't hear you, what was that Craig?"

"I said, get out."

Cartman threw up his hands in defeat, the picture still in his hand, his mouth still contorted in that half a Mona Lisa sneer. "Alright, alright, fag. I'm leaving."

"Not with that picture you're not, you fat fuck. I'm not that stupid."

Cartman paused. "What's wrong, Craig? You afraid I'm going to use this picture," he waved it for emphasis, "to publicly humiliate you and your stupid boyfriend? Oh, you're very smart, Craig, even for a girl."

"Just leave him out of this," I growled, ignoring Cartman's other jibes. "Embarrass me, out me, whatever you want, just leave him out of it."

"Oh, you're so heroic, Craig." He put his free hand on the dark-haired boy's chest, grasping his torn and ancient Red Racer t-shirt and pulling me down slightly so that our faces were almost touching. "But it just so happens that what I want is to make you suffer."

"What the fuck is your problem? Why me?" I slapped away the fat hand grasping his shirt. "Keep your hands off me, and stay the fuck away from Tweek, do you hear me, fatass?"

Cartman only tucked the photograph into the pocket of his plus sized pants. "Let's see, why Craig, why Craig… hmmm… I don't know. Maybe I'm just bored."

"That doesn't answer my question, you fat asshole."

"Well, Craig," Cartman replied, yawning and opening the door to leave, the picture still in his pocket, "maybe I don't have to answer faggots. And maybe I don't need reasons. I'm fucking Eric Cartman, you fag bitch, and I do what I want." He stopped, standing on the threshold. "Go ahead and cry if you want," he added, a touch of hope in his voice.

"I'm not going to fucking cry, Cartman. I'm going to beat the shit out of your fat fucking ass unless you get out this instant."

"There, there, go ahead and cry."

"I'm never going to cry, fatass. Just get the fuck out of here," I seized the door knob, "and leave Tweek the fuck out of this." I slammed the door shut in Cartman's face, hoping I hadn't woken Ruby up, stormed up the stairs and threw himself onto his bed, eyes stinging and cheeks burning.

There was a distinct emptiness in his pocket where the picture had been for so many months. It felt like betrayal to let Cartman get away with it. It was humiliating and it was terrible, but I could only get angry. I could never cry. There were some things in life more important than a few flesh wounds, and I'd take them all if it meant Tweek would be spared them. Tweek was so shaky anyway, I was afraid that any impact or real stress would just shake him apart, and I couldn't afford that. Tweek held me together as much as I held Tweek together. They were like one of those cheap jigsaw puzzle balls you got for a quarter in a dispenser at any convenience store. All the different pieces fit together just right to hold together, and they would all fall apart completely if you pulled away just one.

I sat up. "You're so motherfucking lucky, Stripe," I said angrily. "You don't have to deal with bitch ass mother fuckers like Eric Cartman."

Stripe chirped.

"Yeah, I know, you're probably hungry again, and you're not interested in my fucking problems."

Stripe chirped again, clinging to the bars of her cage, tiny whiskered nose twitching. I sighed dejectedly as I poured sunflower seeds into Stripe's cage. She squeaked happily. Sunflower seeds were a treat she didn't usually get in quite so large a quantity. Yes, I spoiled the fat little guinea pig horribly, but she usually got a blend. Only now, I was too distracted and too angry to care about the right servings. Stripe had mixed feelings about when me was in moods like this. On the one paw, I talked to her a lot and I didn't pay attention to how much food I was giving her, but on the other, I was all angry-sad and I spent a lot of time cursing and scribbling in his book and barely held her at all.

I smiled softly as Stripe took a sunflower seed in her small, pink paws and began to nibble it happily. "I wish we could trade places sometimes, Stripe, but then I think that I wouldn't wish my life away for nothing. I wouldn't wish Eric Cartman on you, and I wouldn't wish for a life without Tweek."

Stripe paused from her munching. It seemed like a good time to console her boy, but the seeds were very tempting. In the end, she held her tiny paw out and touched the boy's hand softly before returning to her seeds.

"Thanks, Stripe. Sometimes it seems like you're the only one who really gets me." I paused, laying down on his side, facing her cage. "Not that there's all that much to get, really."

Stripe squeaked in disagreement.

I grinned. "Glad to know your opinion, pig." I slipped open the cage door and pet her soft caramel and white fur gently before closing it again. "G'night, Stripe."

Stripe purred a goodnight in return, and I flicked off the beside lamp, launching the room into darkness, and nestling beneath a faded Red Racer comforter, the empty space in his pocket still burning a hole into his thigh.