AN: The companion fic to this will be posted soon.
Thanks to- Parapaxis, rosy2lee2, Aimee is Awesome, MindlesslyStaringAtYou, lizoftheinfinite, and Chocobollo.
Love to everyone, and enjoy!

"Well, you and Butters were certainly chatty today." Wendy looks at me like I've grown a third head.

Heh heh, head.

"Yeah, so?" she questions.

"Nothing, nothing." I answer, hands up defensively. She looks me over before realizing what I'm implying.

"I'll bash your mother fucking head in." she threatens, and when she has those dark eyes set on me I can't help but shiver slightly. Damn, she's creepy.

~o~o~

"So how was your day?" I flip her off. She flips me back off.

"Fine."

"I heard the Jewish boy is back."

"Yeah."

"Well, isn't that something?"

"Sure."

"Jesus Craig, do you have to be such an emotionless bitch?" she half-yells.

"Yeah." I answer and trudge up the stairs to my room. She screeches something back up but I ignore her. Bitch.

Actually, I love my mom.

Fuck off.

Flip on the TV and fall on the couch. Any guesses as to what is on? None?

Law and Order.

Bet you thought it was Red Racer, huh? Well, it got canceled. And they didn't put it on DVD. I was a sad sap that month.

~o~o~

The next day...

"Er, Cly- Craig! Craig, over here, man!" Stan is waving me over. How strange.

I don't jog/run/sprint over to him; I take a leisurely stroll that just so happens to intersect with his path.

Whatever.

Even I'm not immune to the power of the Stan Marsh.

Fuck off.

"Yes?" my voice comes in an almost hiss. Ooh, I'm fucking Voldemort now, aren't I?

"Oh, uh, Kyle told me that you guys are sitting next to each other in your English language arts class." he says with a smile. His right hand comes behind his neck to scratch his head while his eyes squint. Yes, yes, he can feel my hatred and contempt for his lame ass.

I mean, I don't really hate him, but he's just so weak.

Deadpanning, I deliver the final blow.

"And?"

"O-oh, nothing. I just, um, yeah. Would you like his number or something?"

"No." Keep the answers short and sweet.

"But don't you guys uh, need to talk? And stuff?" Jesus Christ on a tricycle.

"No." I just want to get away from this idiot...

He recites the number from memory with no hesitation, scribbling it down on a scrap piece of paper. My God, they must be fucking each other. He hands it to me.

I throw it away on my way out.