Well, This Sucks: Life According to Seth
Chapter Four

May 18, 2007

I've been told before that I whine too much.

Actually, I'm only bringing this up right now because there's this stinging welt on the back of my head, courtesy of Old Quil's fancy walking stick. I ran into him earlier today when he was just sitting all innocuously on his front porch and I was passing by on my way to pick up some milk from the store. Well, one thing led to another, and I think I might have started spilling my guts out to Old Quil, talking about how I shouldn't even have had to be getting milk, it should have been Charlie, since it's thanks to him that Mom's cooking so much now, and fancy recipies like the ones she uses require a lot of milk, and although the throb coming from my cranial area is impairing my memory somewhat, I believe I also starting griping about the way I always catch them making out like a pair of entangled octopi and how I was finding the whole ordeal to be rather scarring, and then Old Quil was all, "I'll give you scarring!" and he hit me upside the head with his stupid stick.

"You whine too much, kid," he said.

"What's that?" I said. "I can't hear you over the tectonic plates shifting in my skull."

"No one likes a whiner. You know what happened last time I caught my grandson moaning about something?"

"You hit him with your walking stick?"

This time I was ready though, and I managed to duck. I heard the wind whistling over my head as the old man's stick sliced the air right above my hair.

"No one likes a smartass, either!"

All this said, Old Quil is still basically the coolest person I know, mind-reading Cullen included. I mean, he calls everyone out on their shit. Everyone. Even Sam. And nobody calls Sam out on his shit. Except Old Quil.

He reminds me of that monkey from the Lion King. The one with the blue butt. Like, he also seems like he's totally old and frail and off his rocker half the time, but when he's not making up weird songs about bananas and feet ointments and shit, he's totally kicking ass in every aspect of the word. I mean, the guy sits on his porch all day. He SEES things. And then he uses it against you. So not only has he got all that old man wisdom on his side, but he's also got the power of observation. And, uh, I don't know ANYONE else in this day and age that can claim the same thing, since everyone's got about a three second memory span. Myself included.

He's also got that "swinging a stick around like a maniac" thing going for him too, like that monkey.

But I guess what I'm trying to say is that when Old Quil tells you something, he means it. And when he backs up his statements with a whack on the head, he really means it. And thus, I am now spiraling into a pit of self-awareness and despair, and I have come to the conclusion that, like always, Old Quil is right. I do whine too much.

But at least I know that I haven't totally lost myself to moral enlightenment, because, as any typical teenager, my response is firm and defiant and totally in-your-face flippant:

You think I give a shit?

Except I definitely didn't say that to Old Quil because, um, do I look stupid?

Later

Don't answer that question.

May 19, 2007

I never realized this, but apparently weddings are big deals.

Well, I mean, I knew that they were important and stuff, but I didn't know that when Sam and Emily announced the date for their wedding that all of La Push would be thrown into a tizzy of planning, planning, and more planning.

This just goes to show the difference between guys and girls. When I looked at the fancy little invitation they sent us, I saw that the wedding was going to be on August 12, and I was like, "Oh, well, that's a while away. Whatever." But take a small stroll around the village, and all you'll hear are the gossipy old ladies going, "August TWELFTH?! Of THIS YEAR?" And then there's this following freak out about how nothing is going to be ready in time, how they can't possibly expect to get good catering at such short notice and OH MY GOD, BLAH BLAH BLAHHHHH.

See, the only other wedding I've been to is Bella and Edward's, and they kind of whipped theirs together like, overnight. So I just assumed that planning weddings was the same as planning a birthday party or something. You get the guest list, you get the decorations, you get the outfits, bada bing, bada boom, just add water, instant wedding!

Apparently not.

Sometimes people come over looking for Sam (um, yeah, what would he be doing here?), since I guess he's got this habit of disappearing whenever Emily's got people over their house for planning. According to an unnamed source, he hides out at Jared's a lot and spends most of his time in the fetal position, muttering about napkin colors and rice and bedazzled jackets. Then again, my unnamed source actually happens to be Kim Maverick, and it's possible she's just upset that Sam's cutting into her time with her boyfriend, so I don't know about the whole fetal position thing. The manic muttering I believe.

Meanwhile, Leah's still weirdly passive about this whole thing, and I'm still really confused by her reaction. I mean, she's not exactly happy about the whole thing, but she's being unexpectedly cooperative, always popping over Emily's for dress fittings and stuff. It's weird.

As cousin to the bride, Sam invited me to be part of the bridal party, and I'm so far out of the loop that I immediately told him that if he thought I was going to be a bridesmaid he could fuck with someone more gullible, to which he responded, "Seth, almost-cousin of mine, honestly, being part of the bridal party means the groom and the groomsmen too, not just the women."

Well, I recovered from my bout of stupidity easily enough, but told him, "So long as I'm paired with a hot girl and not my sister, then sure, I'll be a groomsman or part of the bridal party or whatever."

"Glad you're honored to have such an important role on my special day," he said sourly, and gave me such a powerful clap on the back that I literally bucked forward a few steps. How many years of being a shape-shifting wolf man and he still doesn't know his own strength?

I warned, "Hot girl, Sam."

"Do you know Em's friend Theresa?"

Before she moved to the Rez full-time to live with Sam, Emily had lived in Seattle with my aunt and uncle who preferred the big city atmosphere. It was a personal choice of theirs, whatever, I don't actually give a crap, but I've never actually met a lot of Emily's friends from the city because she usually visits them there instead of vice versa.

"No. Is she hot?"

Sam started backing away, holding up his hands defensively. "Can't answer that. Ask Em."

I'm definitely not about to march up to Emily and be all, "Hey, is your friend hot?" because you just don't do things like that, so I'm giving Sam the benefit of the doubt on this one. I'm not really sure what sort of hell I get to look forward to, being a groomsman and all, but I heard there's limo stuff involved, and everyone knows that limos mean alcohol for all, so that's a plus.

Mom says that their lives would be so much easier if they just had a traditional Quileute wedding, but I think Emily is looking at this as her one and only chance to break out or something. She's always been a rather domestic kind of girl, content and happy in La Push despite her big city upbringing, so my guess is that this wedding is going to be her last hurrah or something.

Whatever. I don't care if Sam and Emily want to get married on mules while descending into the Grand Canyon. As long as Theresa's hot.

May 20, 2007

"Hey, Seth, so, change of plans," Sam said to me when I crossed paths with him on my way to Second Beach today. "Em and I have decided that we'd rather get married on mules while descending into the Grand Canyon. I'll make sure you get a really smokin' mule to hitch a ride on, though."

Okay, I'm totally kidding.

But seriously, wouldn't that be funny? Those gossipy ladies would shit bricks.

May 23, 2007

WHY DOES EVERYONE SCORE GIRLS EXCEPT ME?

Theresa, bridesmaid of the future, does not count, mostly because I won't be one hundred percent sure that I CAN score her (or will want to) until the wedding, which isn't until August, as any idiot who passes through La Push would know. Because even if she is worth scoring, the question still remains whether or not she goes for tall guys with mops of black hair, and hands and feet that are disproportionate to the rest of his body.

I dunno. Some girls might find that sort of freakishness endearing. Maybe.

But I digress.

So, since last Wednesday, when Embry came bearing news about meeting the "laidback and easygoing" Caroline, he's gone back to visit her not once, not twice, but THREE FREAKING TIMES since then. And only a week has passed!

As of yesterday, they are officially a couple, and unless my eyes have suddenly failed me, I definitely spied a hickey or two on his neck. Then again, it's not like he went through any great lengths to hide them from the rest of us guys. Embry is like that. He's all quiet and thoughtful and pensive all the time, one of the shyest of the bunch, but that's because his actions speak about eight thousand times louder than his words. He's one of those people that prefers to show rather than tell, and uh, he's not so shy when it comes to showing.

Okay, I definitely didn't mean that the way it sounded.

He's boastful in a really quiet way, all right?

The point I'm trying to get at here is that my teenage hormones have been a-raging for quite some time now, and they're about to go on the warpath if I don't get some action soon.

I haven't had an actual girlfriend since my freshman year of school, and that sad truth can be owed to the fact that my life sort of turned into an action movie at that point, and the heroes in all the action movies never get to score girls until the end. It's like payback for all of their ass kicking or something. Shoot up some bad guys, put the stopper on a Russian conspiracy or two, save the Prime Minister of Australia, and then, finally, grab some hot woman in a bikini around the waist and shove some tongue down her throat.

Except, OH YEAH, the action part is over, and I still haven't gotten my tongue-tastic happily ever after.

Collin, who is basically the pack therapist, couldn't help but notice that I was not "as happy for Embry as the occasion called for."

He and I were walking home from the Blacks' house after having one of our monthy/weekly/wheneverly dinner get-togethers. Leah was still there, being all mature and conversing with the adults, which is not something I've never hated myself enough to do, so I didn't mind the company at first. He jogged to catch up with me, scrawny little guy, and then immediately made his analysis (which I was quick to reject, the nosy little fucker).

"Just because I'm not openly sighing about it like all the women are doesn't mean that I'm not happy for Embry," I explained, purposely walking a little faster. Collin, who is probably an entire foot shorter than me, worked double time to catch up.

"But you looked visibly upset," he pressed, nimbly stepping over a few scattered branches on the dirt walkway. "You're jealous, Seth."

"Okay, that," I said, "that is ridiculous. A terrible assumption to make."

I'm not really sure why I ever bother lying. I've always had this issue about not being able to keep my feelings to myself, so whenever I'm mad or ecstatic or sad or in this case, jealous, everybody and their brother knows about it. So the fact that Collin can no longer look into my mind makes absolutely no difference. All he has to do is look into my face, and he knows. God, I bet even Embry knows, which is just embarrassing, and shit, I bet next time he sees me he'll know that I'm embarrassed over being so transparently jealous and…shit. Just shit.

Collin called me out. "It's written all over your face. Let's just be honest here, okay?"

"Yeah, okay."

"It's all right, though. You're just sexually frustrated, and that's nothing to be embarrassed over."

I looked over at him so quickly that I practically gave myself whiplash. "WHAT?!" I roared, affronted. Several birds in nearby trees took flight, ruffling their feathers at me in irritation. I continued, "How old are you, kid?" even though I know perfectly well that he's fourteen. I also couldn't help tossing in the "kid," since that's what everyone calls me and I might have been on a bit of a power trip being the older one for once. Then I felt bad, because it must really suck being stuck at fourteen years old for basically forever, or actually thirteen, since that's how ridiculously young both he and Brady were when they first phased. Premature phasing or something. Not that being technically fifteen forever is any better.

Whatever. Chronologically, I am sixteen, and Collin is fourteen, which means that he has no right to be talking to me about my sexual frustrations or whatever he wants to call them.

"Seth, please calm down," he said, using his best therapist voice, and I should have been feeling like I wanted to punch him, but instead I sucked some fresh, evening air into my lungs and relaxed. "It's okay. I know what you're going through."

My nose pinched as I looked down at him. When I was thirteen, I hadn't even gone through the p-word yet, so the chances that he, at his frozen state of thirteen, had gone through it seemed slim.

"The hell you know what I'm going through." But I was still calm.

"Eternally thirteen," he acknowledged, gesturing his hands as if to encompass his entire being. "But physically? Fully mature."

And then…then I looked at Collin. Like, really looked at him.

AND IT FREAKED ME THE FUCK OUT.

The kid is not…well dammit, he's not a KID! See, to me, before he first phased, he'd always been "the little one." You know? He was young, small, and therefore would always be young and small in my mind because that's how human brains work. But when I looked at him earlier today through the borrowed eyes of a stranger, I suddenly saw what I'd been blind to for over a year.

Tiny or not, he's still got the face of an older guy: strong jaw, stubble, next-to-invisible crinkles around the eyes… And that's when it hit me.

Someone's life sucks more than mine.

Whoa.

That deserves like, all caps and twenty-six exclamation points.

SOMEONE'S LIFE SUCKS MORE THAN MINE!!

Imagine it: all of La Push thinks of you as some dinky little preteen or whatever, but really, you've got the body of a twenty-year-old. I can't even begin to wrap my mind around the fuckery that is Collin's life. Brady's too, for that matter. I remember how quickly I seemed to grow when my wolfy genes caught up with me, and seriously wasn't cool. I was growing so fast that I would literally spend some days curled up in bed in pain. My bones couldn't handle it. But to think…Collin and Brady must have undergone the dreaded p-word in like...two days' time.

And sure, it sounds cool at first. I mean, dude, voice cracking and awkwardness shortened down to only two days! But I s'pose there's a reason it's all dragged out, you know? It must have been seriously messed up. I mean, going from "Ew. Cooties" to "HOLY SHIT WHEN DID I GET HAIR DOWN THERE AND OH MY GOD ALL I CAN THINK ABOUT IS VAGINAS!"

Fucked. Up.

And what's worse, everyone still thinks you're just a kid. So you're always going to be a kid in everyone's eyes, girls included (hell, girls especially), and so you're never going to get some. Ever. For the REST OF YOUR ETERNAL LIFE.

Then again, I might be alone in that particular fate, but let's not get into that.

Oh, hell. Let's get into that.

"What you need to do," said the newly-transformed-in-my-eyes Collin, "is find a way to vent out these frustrations of yours. Everyone's imprinting or finding a special girl, and it just feels like you're surrounded by commitment and love and, hell, you're only sixteen, you don't know if you can deal with all of that."

The dirt ground crushed under the light treads of our feet as I stared at him in absolute silence. How is it that this boy-man-thing understands my own brain better than I do myself? Did he read a manual? And if so, where can I get it, pleaseandthankyou?

I finally asked, "And what do you propose, O wise one?"

"I propose," he breathed, "that you find some hot bitches and get your freak on."

Man-journal, I wish I was kidding.

But those are the words that honest to God came out of Collin Tulain's mouth.

And I stared. I stared, and I stared, and I stared.

"Come again?" My voice cracked.

He shrugged. "Hot bitches. Get your freak on. No commitment, no love, just plain ol' teenage sin and debauchery. It works like a charm."

"How do you know?"

He looked up at me, his black eyes positively gleaming despite the dim dusk that was settling around us. "Oh, trust me, Seth. I know."

HO. LY. FUCK.

So again, I pose the question: WHY DOES EVERYONE SCORE GIRLS EXCEPT ME?

I saw his eyes, and there was no lie in them. So even freakish part-boy part-man part-wolf things can find "hot bitches," but I, the loveable and irascible and awesome-in-every-way-possible Seth Clearwater, can't?

Life is…

I am a black hole.

I am where all good things come to die.

A/N: My first update from college! (Actually, I had 80 percent of this written before I moved in, but whatever. BE PROUD OF ME.)

Oh, and I totally would have put 26 exclamation points at that one part, but apparently this site doesn't allow any more than two (communists!). So yeah. That affect was ruined. Just imagine it, because there are definitely 26 of 'em on the file saved to my computer, so I promise they're there. Just...look real hard or something.

I can't thank all of you enough for reading and leaving such wonderful reviews. You make me all warm and fuzzy inside. I mean, heck, I'm still shocked that people actually seem to enjoy reading this plotless whine-fest. Forreal.

If I haven't responded to your review yet, take no offense. I'm getting around to it, I promise. My feedback to your feedback will be coming soon. :)