A/N: This is mostly an introductory chapter. There will be more dialogue/action/general South Park-ish behavior in later chapters. :3
We regret to inform that your book does not meet our current editorial needs or direction. The structural flaws in your manuscript prevent us from making an offer for publication as well as the flat writing and lack of tension in the plot.
Son of a bitch. I grit my teeth and crumple my latest rejection letter into a wad, squeezing it so tightly my knuckles turn white and my fingernails dig sharply into the palm of my hand. The pain doesn't bother me anymore. I don't have the time to act bothered anymore; it's exhausting.
New York City is pain. Anyone who's lived here for as long as I have can tell you that. I was originally very excited to move here for college and get a degree from the prestigious Columbia University- unfortunately, no one told me this excitement would grow into self-hatred. Or pity. I suppose it doesn't really matter which it is; my level of care has gotten so low that I've even allowed my usually (okay, somewhat) spotless studio apartment- being all that my fortuitous career as a copyeditor (and not to mention all my failed novels) can afford me- has been overtaken by a wall, no fortress, of pizza boxes and Chinese takeout boxes stacked so high and so dense that it can probably protect me from nuclear war. Of course, this kind of protection comes with a price, and I'm subsequently honing my cockroach killing skills as a result. I'm no longer the Kyle Broflovski of South Park, a gullible little boy who, in high school, had discovered his aptitude for creative writing and planned out an elaborate future of book signings and constant praise for his inspiring work- Kyle Broflovki, a New York Time's bestselling author, who would drown in fan letters, not month-old leftovers. I'm a different Kyle Broflovski. I smile grimly at the failed prospects of my poetic future and decide that I had come to such a lofty state of mind because I grew up in a fucking redneck mountain town of all places. There are a million young writers whose talent immensely obliterates mine, and that's the cold, hard truth. It's difficult to find solid, original ideas that inspire passionate writing. C'est la vie, I suppose. I don't know how long I sat there, wallowing pathetically in my own miserable thoughts, but it's the buzzing of my phone that rattles me back to reality. It's only a text from Stan, but it still makes me smile.
Hey dude, check out the Facebook thing I made!
Facebook thing? It slowly dawns on me that I haven't even logged onto my Facebook account for at least a week. How times change. I oblige his request and find what I think he must be talking about. I click the notification icon labeled 'Class of 2007: We're real adults now, so let's get drunk to celebrate!' I roll my eyes and punch back a reply to Stan.
You realize I'm still in NY, right?
Despite the fact that Stan lives in Denver now, we've remained super best friends and talk almost everyday. I casually peruse the guest list as well as the wall comments, of which there are only two. I can't help but smirk at Craig's loving comment:
Why the hell would I want to hang out with you assholes?
How typical of him, always calling it like he sees it. There's also a more serious one from Wendy:
Sorry, Stan! Overseas flights are expensive!
Ah yes, that's right. I had forgotten that Wendy lives in England now with her new boyfriend who she met during study abroad in college. No, Stan and Wendy aren't together like many of our classmates expected during middle school and early high school. I, for one, am not really surprised. Marrying your elementary school crush is a lot like saying 'eh, good enough; you'll do.' 'Good enough' for me is never good enough; besides, who wants to be in love with the same person from when they're eight to when they're eighty? My phone buzzes again.
It'll be awesome! It's gonna be in South Park, at my parents house! I scheduled it for the last weekend in November so you have 2 months to get out of any lame work obligations.
The pit of my stomach does a few flips and drops to the ground. South Park. Going back there will be crossing a giant threshold for me. I am usually very staunch in my opinions and my general outlook on the world, and South Park is a place I left for a reason. The future of my sanity hangs delicately on the decision whether or not to return. And I stubbornly refuse to believe otherwise. I'm fine right here where I am, working toward my dream. Despite briefly letting my guard down to experience a flicker of dread and doubt, I am hit with a wave of nostalgia as I scan through the list of invited people, recognizing all of their familiar names. Kenny McCormick. Butters Stotch. Clyde Donovan. Token Black. I'm not shocked to find one name unmistakably missing:
Eric Cartman.
Nobody has seen or heard from him since high school graduation; I'm perfectly happy with this turn of events. In the grand scheme of things, I suppose life has turned out pretty well for me- I'm a future bestselling author living in the greatest city in America while working as a copyeditor, and Fatass is nowhere to be found. He could be shooting it up in an alleyway right now for all I know or care. As if he can read my mind, I get another text from Stan.
I'm trying to find out how to get in touch with Cartman so I can invite him too.
Get in touch with Cartman? I frown. No, he can't do that! I was just reveling in the knowledge that Cartman's probably on a life sentence or he's dead or whatever. Stan must be high or something.
Why the fuck would you invite that Fatass? I type my reply with haste and a stirring anger in the pit of my stomach as I think about the fact that Stan is even considering inviting him. His reply is immediate.
dude calm down i doubt i'll be able to find him his mom even moved out of south park the year we all left for college so i have no idea where to start looking for him
I sigh irritably.
So just forget it, then. Fuck him, dude. He was never really our friend.
It's true. Not a day goes by where I don't think about how lucky I am to finally be rid of that fat, sardonic tumor called Cartman. Cartman, who made my life a living hell for the first eighteen years of our lives.
I know but I just feel bad. Everyone else is gonna be there so it only seems right to invite him.
I hate it when Stan acts like a pussy. I choose not give him tons of crap for it because we've all got our faults, but dude seriously needs to grow a pair. Twenty-three years old, and the balls still haven't dropped. He's my best friend, though, so I have to let it slide. The Cartman thing aside, I think it will be nice to see all my old friends; it's only September so I have time to mull it over a bit and let the whole idea marinate in my brain. Of course, I haven't yet mentioned to Stan the most glaringly overt reason for my skepticism in returning to South Park- my mother.
A/N: Sorry that it's starting out a bit slow. Reviews, comments, and criticisms welcome! Oh, and I used 2007 for their graduating class since I'm writing them as 23 in 2012. =]