A/N: I don't know if I like the way this turned out. I'm leaning towards no. But anyways, please please please review. :)

I hate it, but I love it. The sense of pure exctacy when I'm under the influence, the painless days and long, crazy nights. I hate the way I became so useless, yet I love the way it makes me feel.

It's sickening.

Really, I'm seventeen years old, and I can't remember the last time I was sober. Fuck, I can't even remember last night. One night, I'll be partying with my friends or out with some random people; the next morning, I don't remember anything at all. I have no explanation to my broken items, the weird situations I find myself in, the random chicks passed out in the living room. But, hey, ten minutes of pondering and there I am, drinking or smoking again.

During the day, I do it just enough to get my by; at night, it's a completely different story.

There are times when I have waken up in the hospital, full of tubes and covered in cuts; and there are also the times when I'm told by my best friend Craig that I had to get my stomach pumped. Sure, it happens to a lot of people, but I can assure you, it happens to me more. The majority of the nurses and psychologists know me by name.

I like to have fun, and I like to party. But I don't like the way I get out of control. I don't like waking up in the hospital with my parents crying by my side. I don't like having no money to do anything else, because I'm too busy feeding my addiction to save money.

My friends all tell me they're worried about me. They tell me that I'm ruining my life, that I need to get out before it kills me... blah, blah, blah. It isn't like I'd never heard it before. They said they'd find a way to make me listen.

So now, here I am. Sitting here in complete boredom, shock, and irritation as my friends nag at me to stop. My own personal intervention.

Really, it isn't any of their business what I do and when I do it. It isn't like they're perfect. They've all made their own mistakes. I bet if they tried this, they'd love it. But then again, maybe they wouldn't. Maybe they like to have control of their lives.

In some ways, I want to stop. But when I'm sober, I feel so powerless, so normal. Maybe in a way, it feels good. But I can't help it, I'm addicted.

I'm honestly shocked with all of them. It isn't like they seriously give a damn about me, yet they all look so concerned. Every single kid I've been friends with since the third grade is here. Some of them have red, puffy eyes; others won't even look at me.

At last, Craig breaks the silence, "Clyde, you're my best friend. You always have been my best friend. How can you sit and do that to yourself? You would have been so great! And you do it because 'it's fun.' Clyde, how could you be so selfish? Do you not see how much this is hurting all of us? I should have stopped you while I could, Clyde, I'm sorry."

Part of me just wants to cry. I mean, that's my best friend, the one that is never phased by anything. He's standing there, not making eye contact with anything, using hand gestures and stumbling over almost every word. However, a different part of me wants to storm off. Why is it any of his business, and why does he care so much? Does he not understand that this is my life and I'll do what I want? However, I do neither. I sit and stare, blank expression and all, at my best friend who is at this point fumbling with a DVD player.

Someone in the corner (I think it's Stan) turns off the light. I don't know what they're planning. I hear laughter and young voices and I can almost swear my heart stopped beating.

On the screen is a video of me and my friends in preschool. It's Craig, Tweek, Kevin, Stan, Kyle, Cartman, Kenny, Butters, and me. We're sitting around, playing with small stuffed animals and toy cars. Most of the children were arguing over who got which toy, or who got to take what home; however, off to the left-hand side of the screen, you could see Craig and I sharing a toy car. We would take turns pushing it around the small track we had made on the ground. We both looked like we were having the time of our lives; laughing, talking, and pretending. Why is he doing this to me?

The next clip is of us before the first day of kindergarten. We were in the living room at my house, looking nervous yet calm at the same time. I was wearing my signature red jacket, and Craig had his navy blue jacket on with his matching blue and yello chullo. Sitting beside us was Craig's Red Racer bag along with my boring brown backpack. Craig looks more relaxed than I do, sitting with his arms crossed and his legs kicked up on the coffee table. I seemed to take notice to this, and with a confused glance I ask him, "Aren't you nervous, Cwaig?" He turns his head to look in my direction, and a grin spreads across his face. "A wittle. But as long as I have my best fwiend there to pway wif me I'll be fine."

Those last words are still ringing in my head as the next clip begins. It's a video shot in what looks like third grade. This time, it's at the hospital. It must be from when Craig and Tweek fought. He's in a medicine-induced coma, but he looks as if he's sleeping. I'm sitting in the chair at the edge of his bed. I look exhausted, to say the least. My brown hair appears shades darker from the grease, the dark circles under my eyes look almost sunken into my face. My clothes are wrinkly and dirty. It looks as if I hadn't slept in days, like I hadn't even left the bedside. It looked as if I would pass out at any moment; yet I remained at Craig's bedside with his books on my lap, talking to him and going through all of the schoolwork he had missed.

My eyes are frozen on the screen. There is a lot of noise, mostly people talking. At the very bottom of the screen, there are the heads of random people. Behind peoples heads, the elementary school's stage is visible. My whole class of eighteen was standing on the stage, wearing graduation caps and gowns, smiling as if there were no tomorrow. I find myself standing next to Craig and Tweek. There is static on the screen, and a second later Craig, Tweek, Kyle, Stan, Kenny and I are standing in the back hallway. We were telling each other crazy stories of the things we'd gotten into in elementary school, and laughed when Stan said we were lucky we survived.

Sixth grade year, Craig's room. There's no way he actually put this on there. But, of course, there it is. Craig, Tweek, and I were standing on Craig's bed wearing pants at least five sizes too large, imitation Gucci sunglasses, hightop nikes, and plastic 'bling.' It was just another one of those crazy nights where we stayed up far too late and drank way too much caffine. Craig, standing in the center, was smirking in a way that you could see his gum-wrapper grills. And, of course, right on cue, background music started and we began imitating 'thugs.' I mean, what kind of thug doesn't have books and a guniea pig in their room? This is the last thing I thought would ever make me sad.

The next clip was shot after our eighth grade graduation. Me, Craig, and a few other guys from school went out for pizza at Shakey's. There was, as usual, Cartman's racist jokes and Kyle's angry retorts. There wasn't much going on, but a few words got stuck in my mind. "You guys, I couldn't have made it here without you." Everyone eyeballs Stan, who is standing in the corner of the room, watery eyes and sad face.

Freshman year, Craig, Kevin, and I were at a debate. We had all joined the debate team after realizing how good at arguing we were. The rest of the guys gave us shit, saying that we were going to turn into some of the ugly kids and calling us nerds. But we didn't care, because at least we still had the other two, and we were doing what we wanted to do. We were using some big words and sayings that I can no longer comprehend.

Screen static.

Later in the same year, at one of Bebe's parties. Before the camera focused, I could hear Craig telling someone to stop. He sounded pretty worried. When the camera's focus was finally right, you could make out a few figures in a dark room. There were four people up front, on a couch. Bebe, Red, Token, and I were on the couch, smoking something out of a pipe. Craig never has liked drugs, so he was obviously worrying about me. He was standing on the right end of the couch, behind me, trying to drag me from the couch and telling me that I need to go home. I was so far gone that I just laughed. I think I was beyond the point of walking. Finally, Craig is shown with me over his shoulder, walking towards the door. I was struggling, trying to get down, but Craig wouldn't let me. The door is slammed and the camera pans back towards a group of partying teenagers.

The next thing that shows on the screen scares me. It's me. I'm lying on a white bed, unconscious. There is the sound of sirens, along with smart-people talk. I look lifeless; there is blood on my face, and my clothes are mangled. I don't remember what happened to me. Then I hear a voice, "We're sorry, we don't think he's going to make it, Mr. Tucker." The camera is now facing my best friend. Holy shit. Is he crying? Craig Tucker, crying? It seems so impossible. "But... but... he has to!" Another voice sternly says, "Sir, you're going to have to put the camera away."

In the next shot, there is a hospital. However, instead of a very distraught third grade Clyde next to the bed, there is a very lifeless, teenaged Clyde lying in the bed. There are what seems like hundreds of tubes surrounding me, sticking into my body. I'm wearing a white gown, and my skin looks almost transparent. My hair is greasy, my face is sunken and thin, my bones seem to be showing through my skin. On the bedside, Craig is staring at the floor. He isn't moving much at all, except for him fumbling with his fingers. He doesn't look good at all. But slowly, people begin to fill the room. Almost all of my classmates are standing around the small room. A high-pitched voice, one that I believe to be Wendy Testaburger's, says, "Craig, I know you're worried about him, but you really should go home for a while." He snaps out of his trance, and with an angered expression, he spits, "I'm not leaving my best friend to die here."

Next shot, it's my welcome home party. I can barely remember it. There is a banner hanging above my living room doorway that reads, "Welcome home, Clyde." All of my classmates are in the room, smiling at me and making small talk. Craig and I are having a conversation, although I'm not sure what we're talking about. I seem to be doing fine, but that's before I went to the bathroom. After my return from the bathroom, I look scary. My eyes are bloodshot, and I'm laughing at nothing. I can hardly walk. Craig looks hurt, almost on the verge of tears.

Several photos show on the screen, one after another of me messed up on whatever it was that night. In one picture, I'm a happy looking, chubby teenager. In the next, my eyes are bloodshot and I seem to have lost weight. Throughout the pictures, my hair and skin get more and more disgusting as I get thinner and thinner. Several hospital shots and photos of me unconscious flash across the screen.

The montage stops, and I'm left speechless. If I'm dreaming, this is a nightmare; and even if I'm not, this is the worst nightmare I've ever had. I turn and see that all of my classmates are either in tears or are on the verge of it, even Cartman has a single tear on his cheek. Craig looks at me and sighs. "I want my best friend back," are the only words he can manage to say before he begins sobbing uncontrollably.

I stand up and head for the door. Everyone stares as I cross the room, confused and broken looks across their faces. I open the door, face full of tears. They don't understand what it's like to be an addict. They don't realize that it's not easy to change. None of them understand me.

But for Craig's sake, and the others, I'm going to do this. I'll go get whatever help I can get, and I'll be back to normal. It'll take time, but Clyde Donovan is coming back. I'll no longer be the empty shell of a once happy person, I'll be back to that little boy with a real smile and the best friends that anyone can have.

I can't take back my past, but I can change my future.

I flash a smile to my friends, and nod towards Craig. I don't need to say words, he knows what I'm saying. I quietly speak two words, "Thank you." And I swear, in all my years I've known him, that was the happiest I've ever seen Craig Tucker.