A/N: Just something I thought of. No slash, just Kenny angst. I don't own South Park blah, blah, blah. BEWARE: This contains a high level of animosity towards the Roman Catholic faith. If you are very sensitive about the subject DON'T READ!!!!

Fucking confession.

I hate fucking confession.

"It's actually called Reconciliation.", is what Stan would be telling me right now. I don't see why it has a proper name, the principal is the same: you confess all the things you've done wrong (or at least wrong in their eyes) to a complete stranger who has a "special relationship with God" and then beg for forgiveness, which he grants on the condition you say a few prayers and promise to change. You know what I call it Stan? Bullshit.

I still go through with it though, for my parents. They like to believe that I still care. They like to believe that I believe. It makes them happy, believing that there's a God, believing that if we're good little people we go to a place of eternal happiness, believing there is any kind of justice in the world. So I go through with it just for them. I go through with the lie.

I've been through a lot of shit in my life. Too much shit to just be thirteen years old. It seems so unreal to me, all the crap me and my friends put up with. The supernatural, celebrities, the DEVIL. All the shit in my life is also the shit in theirs, but there is still one thing that I deal with all the time that they can't even comprehend. Death.

Ever since I was born, Death has been my best friend. He waits for me, watches me, follows me. I die, whether it's in my sleep or in the classroom, then reappear, no questions asked. It's amazing...or so it seemed.

I used to strut around, bragging to the other kids that I could all kinds of stuff and not worry about dieing, because I would just come back again. I bragged until I was about eight, when I realized dieing over and over was just plain creepy. It grew tiresome, having the lifespan of a fly, so I tried to avoid Death. He still came for me, though, like the clingy friend who won't go away. When I was twelve, the "revelation" happened. The single idea that would change my so-called life, and view on it, forever.

I was sitting in church with my family. As usual, we were in the front pew on the right-hand side of the crucifix. I stared up at it while the preacher went on about something or other when it hit me...there is no God. I had tried to do good things in the little amount of time God gave me to do so, I had tried to ignore the fact everyone else had a lifetime to earn a spot in Heaven and I had only 24 hours, I tried so hard to be a good person. What did I get? Jack squat. Either God gets really bored and this is his sick way of getting kicks or there is no God. I chose to go with the later.

Every time I died, I went nowhere. I told my friends different, because that's what made them happy. I didn't want to tell them that life ends up nowhere, because I knew that would make them feel terrible and worthless. So I just tell them I go to purgatory, because that's something they can understand.

Here is the real kicker: I still feel nervous and guilty when I go to confession. I have no idea why. It's how I felt ever since I was little. It was intimidating, because I really thought the priest would make me all better with the power of the Holy Spirit. I don't believe any of that shit anymore, so why do I still feel it?

When I started listing my "sins" last confession I realized something. I, myself, have met Jesus Christ, son of God. I have also met Satan and his son. If there wasn't a God, then how is it possible that these people exist? I didn't want to believe it at first. This "greater being" who I was raised to believe was all good and would give me salvation, actually was playing with me. He actually was killing me over and over and over again just for fun. He was watching millions of human beings, his own image, suffer from stuff they shouldn't have to, and not doing a fucking thing about it. How could he do that?

So, every weekend I'm forced back into the "holy house of prayer" with this huge question hanging over my head which no priest could answer because they don't know a fucking thing. As I begin to list my sins, I wonder if he's laughing at all of us.

This is why I hate confession.