TopHatGirl: Why hello there. Missed me? Yup, this chapter is written by me, TopHatGirl. By now, you've probably met the fabulous ecrounox's work , my cowriter in all of this, who's playing Ike in our wonderful story.

After touring in the hippie run place that is California, Ike and I furiously sent in applications for financial aid, scholarships, and anything that can get us in. We wrote about 20 essays combined for various colleges and toured just as many. These trips would usually end, exhausted, in a motel room surviving on coffee and bagels.

So when we both got the acceptance letter to University of San Francisco, it was worth it. It was a private school, quite pricey, and resided in one of the most expensive cities in California, but, they could maybe make it work.

"We could make it work, right?" Ike asked dubiously as we sat at the diner, reading over the letters.

"Yeah. I could write with the campus magazine and get paid for each article, and you could probably get a job, right?"

"Sure. There's this opening for teaching pee wee soccer," Ike said, stirring his coffee. I stuck out my tongue in distaste.

"Ugh. Children," he grumbled.

"I could get away from my parents..." Ike said dreamily, and got that far off look in his eyes.

"We could rent a cheap apartment."

"If we rent an apartment, we'd probably have to get some roommates to pay for it."

"Fuck. I hate people."

"What about me?" Ike asked with those huge orbs of eyes of his. I rolled my own eyes.

"Pending," I said.

Ike snorted. "Bullshit."

"You know, I could just change my mind about us going to college together..."

"And you'll lose about half of the budget," Ike pointed out, grinning. "Face it, you're stuck with me."

"For better of for worse," I muttered. I cleared my throat. "You sure you want to major in Psychology?"

"Sure as...I don't know, something that's sure?"

"I think the term is 'sure as sugar', Ike."

"Really? That's lame." he sipped his coffee. "What about you? You kept stressing for months if you were going to be a math engineer. Now suddenly you want to major in Creative Writing."

"What of it?" I asked, slightly defensive.

"Sorry, just asking."

I sighed, then relaxed my shoulders. "Sorry. I mean, I thought that I would really like all of the equations and shit. But Calculus kind of sucked, and I never was passionate about it." I really am passionate about writing. All of my old gothic friends liked writing, sure. But they just had empty stanzas of pain and sorrow. They hadn't actually felt pain and sorrow though. Technically, I hadn't either, but at least I didn't pretend I did. I wrote about confusion, finding stuff out, and generally being okay.

"Mum, I'll be okay," I told my mother. She wiped her eye with a handkerchief, hugging her 'baby boy' one last time.

"Charlie..." she coos.

"Yeah, Mum?" I asked.

"I know for the past few years, you've hated me. Probably you're entire life. I just want you to know that I love you. No matter what you wear, who you love, or who you choose to hate. You're my son, and as your mother, I deserve to care for you."

"You're getting kind of cheesy, Mum," I said, sighing.

"I don't care." She crumpled up her handkerchief. "Can...can I at least have a hug before I go?"

I rolled my eyes, and dutifully embrace her in a hug. She wiped her eyes, and I flipped her off, making my way down the driveway. Pulling out, I took one last glance at my home of 18 years, Mom lingering in the door frame.

She'll be fine, I lied to myself, shoulders relaxing just a bit. Pulling up in front of the Broflovski residence tensed me up again, though. Ike bounds out, suitcases slung over his shoulder, and hopped in the car, through the freakin' window. I learned that he does this to emphasize that he's fit too, and to feel less pathetic in front of me. Obliging to this, I always roll the window down.

How he manages to squeeze his body through it, I will probably never know.

I'm okay with that.

"Let's get the hell out of here," Ike demanded, shoving his shit in the backseat.

"Yes, sir," I joked, and revved the engine up, speeding down the street. Ike unfolded those oversized black sunglasses of his, and put them on carefully. "Those make you look really gay," I remark,

He flipped me off.

Oh, I have taught him the ways of the middle finger.

We approached the You Are Now Leaving South Park sign, and I sighed. "I am so extremely happy right now."

"Never look back?" Ike inquired, peering at me with covered eyes.

I turned to him, ignoring the driving hazards, and said, "Only to spit on it, babe."

Ike got that hilarious blush on his cheeks whenever I call him "babe". I hate using any nicknames that show affection, but really I just love watching him be embarrassed.

"California, here we come," he muttered under his breath.

Oh, yeah.

California should be scared shitless. We're in town.

BREAK.

For the first few hours, Ike decides that he loves to torture me. He turns it to every shitty pop station that is available in the dry towns we're passing through. Avril Lavigne, Bruno Mars, Gwen Stefani, anybody.

"I will fucking tear out that radio with bloody fingernails and toss it out the window, Ike," I warned him. He made a move to turn the volume up, and I slammed a fist down on his fingers.

"Ah!" he mock-cried, pulling back his hand like a hurt puppy. "You're so mean!"

"Did I ever tell you how much I hate you?" I asked through gritted teeth.

"Everyday, Shift. Every. Day."

"Good, I thought you didn't get the message."

"You should be nicer to me, for one thing..." he launched into a long ass lecture about how much I depend on him, and I begin to zone in and out of the damn thing, focusing on the scenery. Taking long gulps of various energy drinks and coffee cups, a flash of orange distracts my sight, as well as the orange's stuck out thumb.

"What the-" I began. Ike followed my line of vision, and jolted out of his seat.

"IS THAT KENNY MCCORMICK?"