Life is lame.

In hindsight, I'm not really that down about it. It's kind of all right to not be able to die. I mean, I don't have to care about what I eat, how much I drink, how much I smoke. In times like these, I like lying in the middle of my room staring at the ceiling, and I hold the smoke in my lungs until I feel like my eyes could budge out of my face. I usually let it out though, wheezing as the black smoke puffs out clouds and wisps up towards the ceiling.

It's always around the corner, down the street or sitting on my roof. If death is a dude or something, I picture him as a reaper looking guy with sunglasses and a skateboard. His scythe has shitty hotrod flames on the blade and his robes look like my old ass parka, probably black on black and holes all over it. Yeah, grade A douche nozzle.

Like chasing the fucking dragon, he's there. Even now, probably poking at my heart and teasing me. Now, I don't want to die. Right now. I have shit to do still, but I don't like having the option for some reason taken away from me. And I'm not immortal, like I age and shit but I can't just drop dead permanently. It's dumb.

Death at five in the afternoon on a Sunday would've be something. Not that it would hinder me in anyway, nothing to do. No word from anyone.

I mean, until my laptop pinged from under my bed. I rolled over and for a second I just laid there with my face buried in the old sheets. What if it was Cartman bitching about something? What if he would bitch about Kyle or Stan, or Wendy; or bitching about Stan bitching about football? Or even to bitch about Kyle bitching about Stan bitching about football and then bitch about Wendy?

Just a game of Tele-bitch that always ends at ole' Kenny McCormick.

I reached down and pulled it out, ha-ha. Pulled it out.

I got the laptop as a gift from Kyle one birthday years ago, sort of as a means of keeping me in conversation outside of hanging out due to me being a little below the poverty line. Comfortably, mind you.

My Skype app opened up and I was greeted with a single word message from a familiar face.

-Dick

I grinned, it was good to see Craig as cheery as usual.

-u want? ;D

-Fuck off. What r u doin

-thinkin bout dying and shit. The good kind not like emo shit

-u r an emo bitch. Call

I scrolled over and clicked the camera button and the app starts the call. After a few rings, I see the sunny disposition of Craig Tucker come into view. He held what I am to believe were two furry moving dicks.

"Sup, asshole," I greeted, chuckling at the immediate middle finger pushed into my screen. "What, nothing to do either?"

Craig shrugged, eyeing his pets. "I scored some weed, hung out with Token and Clyde, and now I'm hiding away from society."

"You are the most depressing camgirl," I joked, "at least tell me one of those rats are about to be shoved in a tube."

"I'm going to shove you in a fucking box," Tucker glared into the camera, "Don't fetishize my gerbils, dipshit. You wonder why you're fucking banned from my place."

"Also because your dad's an asshole," I told him, met with another shrug. "Come on, Craig! When you gonna strip for me?"

"Why the hell would I do that?"

I grinned, "You show me yours, I'll show you mine?"

Craig rolled his eyes, getting up to place his gerbils back in their cage before returning back to his computer. "I-along with half the student body-has seen your dick, Ken. And if that's what you got to trade with, I'm afraid I'm closed for business."

I mock pouted, moving to lie on my stomach and crossing my arms under my chin. "You're a tease."

"A tease," Craig echoed, leaning back to stretch. He was built much like you'd expect us lazy smoking teens to be, meat where it mattered, muscle where it counted, and the skin complexion as well as attitude of the abrasive side of a sponge. However, Craig was taller and larger than me. I was pretty skinny and not as much hair as him.

"Craig, what do you think about Cast."

Craig eyed the screen, rolling it over in his head. "For like a name? Eh, it's alright."

Kenny sneered, rolling over onto his back and no longer facing the screen. "Fuck, man. We suck at coming up with this shit."

"I mean, we don't really need to name it anything special," he said as his eyes scanning the screen, they flashed with the loading of the music app. Scrolling over different songs before clicking one by random and hitting shuffle.

As the song began with a reverb effect, I reached under my bed again and pulled out an old shoebox and lifted the lid to snag my pipe. A sandwich bag of weed rolled up besides it, as well as a scratched up grinder. Its lid cover with a shitty skull and crossbones I drew with sharpie in freshmen year.

Craig rolled his eyes, pulling open his desk drawer and retrieving an e-cigarette. He only smoked them in his house to get away with it from his family, doesn't make it any less lame. I loaded a bowl I got another message on Skype, seeing it was from of all people at this time-Kyle Broflovski.

"Uh-oh," I chuckled.

"Is it the jew?" Craig mumbled probably sifting through guitar catalogs or lyrics.

"Ah, yes! The Jew," I snickered, holding the pipe in one and hand and answering the message with another. I was surprised Kyle talked to me so much; he and Stan had come out a few weeks prior to a classic Testaburger break up and had been extremely irritating. Not to me, I thought the whole thing was pretty cute. Irritating, was a word sprung up from word of mouth.

Anyway, he would usually come for advice. Not for the relationship overall, I'm no love guru, but for the nitty-gritty of it. I laughed to myself remembering the night he told me he wanted to go down on Stan and had no idea how to go about it.

"It's like 5:45, the fuck does he want now," Craig said, a majority of his attention absent.

"Says here, 'Kenny. Help, he's coming'."

Craig reeled back, "Ew."

"Pfffft! Ha, no," I laughed, "I think he mean's Stan is going over. And they may or may not engage in some horizontal/vertical."

"Again-ew," Craig wrinkled his nose. "I don't want to picture those two fucking."

I grinned, replying to Kyle's message asking what he needed help with. "Kyle's red curls loose and sweaty, swinging with every thrust-"

"I swear to fuck," Craig warned.

"Stan's muscular football body tensing up-"

"McCormick," Craig was glaring into the camera, his stupid face tense and pointing a finger. "I will hang up, walk over and beat your ass."

"Mmmph! Is that a threat or a promise?"

And with that, our little call ended as a blip sounded returning me to the main screen. I lay back laughing at the ceiling; fucking Craig was such a prude sourpuss.

Whatever, we'd see each the next morning and everything would be fine while we worked on our band shit and tried not to kill everybody. I turned back to see Kyle's reply.

-I think hes rlly into us actually doin it and Idk what to say or do or if i rlly wanna helphelphelp!

Fucking Kyle was such a baby, in like an innocent cute kind of way though I guess. I typed out that he should just go with the motions and do what feels right, to just touch Stan. Just fucking take that jock by the jock and see what they like. Vague enough to seem legitimate enough, and informative enough that he responds with a 'thank you' and 'ttyl'.

Good, I thought. Finally brining my pipe to my lips. The week had wrapped up nicely, and that next Monday would kick off another one. Hopefully with Craig and I coming up with a name, getting more songs together, Kyle and Stan fucking on the reg, and Cartman shutting up.

I figured know my luck, probably not.