And Now for Something Completely Different (A Disclaimer): There is no disclaimer. I own everything, and everyone. You, you, and yes, even you. Dance, my puppets, DANCE! MUAHAHAHAHA!

My name is Stanley Michael Marsh, and this is my story. Like every other person my age, I'm just trying to make it through highschool unscathed. But in a town as fucked as mine, that's not very easy to do.

I tell you this because, as my makeshift journal—or diary, whatever you prefer to be called—I think you'll understand. Some days, I need an outlet. And you, you may just be papers strung together by a piece of wire, but I need you.

Oh, god, I'm treating a notebook like a person. I'm as crazy as Tweek...

I have a "girly" tendency, according to my dad, to overthink things. In some aspects, I guess it's true. But this kind of analyzing helps me sometimes. And other times, it just drives me to a state where I can't even sleep at night because I'm too busy replaying conversations and events long past in my head.

I near the end of my last sentence and slam my pen down, feeling an odd sense of fufillment. This is my daily therapy. A series of unsorted anecdotes, written in a plain, red notebook which is posthumously shoved underneath my bed where no one would find it. Well, until today.

Today was just another Sunday in a shitty redneck town—church, then boredom—until my mom stepped in and declared my room was too messy. So, I sat through one serious bitch-fit and a cleansing of underneath my bed, upon where she found my notebook and threw it in the trashcan.

First thing I did once she left was, of course, retrieve it. However, now I'm scrubbing furiously at an elusive slurpee stain, recovering lost artifacts from the space underneath my dresser, and pretending to listen to Kenny, my best friend, bitch on speaker phone.

It's not as bad as it sounds. Kenny's a nice guy, really, but he has a tendency to overreact to his rascist, classist friend's remarks. Then again, the previously mentioned racist, classist friend has no boundaries whatsoever.

Still, this isn't as torturous as I thought it would be. I've found lots of things I thought I would never see again. My eighth grade science fair project, a long-lost drawing of me by Leopold, the residential pussy, and... my fourth grade class picture.

It's kind of weird to look at myself all those years in the past, and even at the kids surrounding me. I'm in the first row, to the left, and right next to me is Kyle.

Just the sight of him leaves a sour taste my mouth. I bite back the melancholy feeling I'm starting to get in the pit of my stomach, and study nine-year-old Kyle.

He's frowning about having to take his hat off. He's always hated his bright red Jewfro with a passion. I've always kind of... liked it.

I remember this picture. His mother had pitched a fit about it, and insisted upon the school that Kyle, or as she called him, "Ki-yole", and all the other fourth-grade students had their pictures retaken because of his expression. I also remember that Kyle was not allowed to go anywhere but school for two months following the picture's retake.

My hat is gone as well, the bright red poofballed cap standing out and clashing horribly with the green cords I wore that day. (I can't believe how gay that sounded...) Still, I'm grinning earnestly through my mop of hair. Cartman, the fat, sociopathic, er, "friend" that I mentioned previously, sits far behind us, as wide as Kyle and I combined. Next to him sits Kenny, his heavily scarred face twisted into a mischevious smile.

"Hey! Stan, what's going on?"

Reality hits me, and I practically jump at the sound of Ken's voice. "Huh? Oh... yeah, nothing. Just found our old fourth grade pictures..."

I look again at the picture and lose my grip on the rag I was scrubbing with. It's been so long... everybody's changed so much.

Kyle, Eric, Kenny, me, Bebe...Wendy.

My ex.

I scowl at the thought of her and flick her right in the face, but she continues to smile saccharinely through the laminated paper. Let's just say that our breakup was a little messy.

"...that time when we put our Sea Men in her coffee?"

It takes a while for my brain to register what Kenny is talking about, but then I remember. "Oh yeah... I hated Ms. Choksondik." I laugh.

"Mhm, same here... " Kenny drifts off, and the distinct warble of his mom is heard in the background. There's a crackling sound, and Kenny replies something.

"..I'm sorry dude, but I gotta go, it's dinnertime. We're having raccoon!" Kenny says cheerfully.

I am glad that we aren't face-to-face, because really, the look of disdain on my face would make Kenny cringe. But I can't expect less from Kenny's family.

I blink several times, then speak.

"Uh... cool. Bye then." I muster, pressing the end button.

I sigh, take one last look at the picture, and attempt to throw it in the wastebasket.

Before I can though, I look once again at myself and Kyle. It just brings a hollow feeling to my stomach, and I toss the picture back where it was, in the now pristine area under my bed.

I keep on working for another hour until my room is perfectly clean, and then comes dinner. I eat silently, ignore any crude comments by my abusive older sister, and am the first to leave the table.

The rest of the night is spent watching cliche sitcoms and reality TV, until I can no longer stand the bitching of a contestant in some dating show and turn it off. Tired and burnt out, I climb into bed, even though I know that I can't fucking sleep.

This has happened for months now. But it's okay.

Because, if I'm lucky, I'll get a little rest in my boring classes tomorrow.

A/N: I'm not too happy with this prologue, but I figured I might as well post it as-is, and if it's too horrid, it goes bye-bye. I made a little movie reference earlier, and if you can name the movie, you get a grand prize of... -drumroll- NOTHING.

Feedback, constructive criticism, etcetera is appreciated. Please don't be too lazy to submit a review. :D (Because really, we've all been there. xD)