And yet, the only exciting life is the imaginary one.

—Virginia Woolf

Tweek's point of view:

Clyde's girlfriend was an apprentice mastermind. She'd been creating this theory since our first meeting and decided to reveal it to me, although she'd had to get me out of the apartment—or at least away from Craig—before doing so, and to do that, she'd peeked into his room early in the morning to invite me to the store. I wasn't sure if forcing me to tag along was just convenient for her since she honestly had to pick up a few things or if taking me grocery shopping was a just jab at my sexuality. It was interesting nonetheless, this bizarre, idiotic idea she's been harboring over. But of course I didn't know this at first.

"What are we getting at the store?" I asked, scrutinizing her hold on the steering wheel as well as the speedometer. I never used to be so lenient when it came to who I got in a car with. Kenny had gone through lengths just to get me to sit in his truck when he'd first gotten it and even then I'd waited until he'd had a year of driving under his belt. Those poor twelve months were crammed together with his other notches: the virginities he's taken and the fucks he's participated in.

Noticing my worrisome speculation, Pretty Lady waited until we stopped at a red light to retrieve the list from her pocket. As I read it over, I saw regular things like: apples, hot pockets, and tylenol. All of these I assumed were in her handwriting, because beneath her list was another one in what I knew to be Craig's and what I guessed was Clyde's. They were things like: douche, laxatives, balloons, and alcohol—you know the kind I like bitch. I smiled at the list and then at her and her mock-grumpy expression

"I think your boyfriend's trying to tell you something," I teased, referring to the requested douche.

"Yeah," she agreed. "That he's actually a woman."

That hadn't been quite what I was going for but it was still funny. "Do they usually do this? Write down stupid things for you to get?"

She nodded strongly. "Oh, yeah. All the time. Token's the only one mature enough not to partake."

The two best friends' behavior was endearing to me. "What else do they do?"

"Everything." The brunette girl rolled her eyes, turning the corner onto a populated street. "They barge in while I'm showering to shave. They dickslap me when they're wasted. They lock me out and moon me from the window. Both of them are just terrible roommates. You're so lucky that you still live with your parents."

My smile cracked because that wasn't true at all. "You're lucky you're independent." Helpless, unsure, and feeble wasn't a productive way of living.

Pouting, she said, "Craig's room is open if you want to move in."

I tried to smile again to take the edge off my sour mood except it didn't really work. She had no idea how effective that would be if she were literally offering a spot in their home. Being away from South Park, away from my parents who cared too much that it was suffocating, spending time with Craig, and experiencing something outside of the only thing that I was used to—security, reliability, my parents making all of my decisions for me—it was good.

These visits would teach me something and I would learn from them and when I told this to my psychiatrist, Dr. Norris, I wanted him to say to me yes, yes you are right, Tweek because I've never been right about anything outside of grades for school and coffee taste tests. This was a decision that I had made and I wanted it to be time for me to grow up.

"You know he's obsessed with you, right?" Pretty Lady asked as she entered the parking lot of the local grocery store. It was relatively busy, a few cars moseying down full isles in search for a spot.

There was a flutter in my chest as though my heart had been replaced by birds, and insects, and flying squirrels. "No he's not," I objected.

Her smile was knowing. "There was a time where all he drew was his guinea pig." Stripe. But that I could understand. He'd loved Stripe more than anything. "He's a very simple person. I think he likes having you around because now all he has to do is draw you."

"Do you think that may be why I like him?" I wondered. "Because he doesn't hide anything and there's not much to him?" We were opposites, him and I. Craig Tucker was Craig Tucker while Tweek Tweak was a labyrinth of sharp turns, dead ends, and no finish. There was too much of me; I had excess amounts of everything a person could ever have. The only thing I had a shortage of was sanity.

"No." Her voice was soft as she contradicted me. She parked the car and removed the keys but we had yet to get out. "You like him because sometimes that's the way things happen."

"Is that what you told yourself when Clyde screwed with your head?" Because screwing around was the only way I could describe what was happening to me. There was no place in my mind where Craig didn't live.

A lilting hum thinned out the silence before her answer. "Clyde and I are different from you and Craig. We didn't have to discover the things we already knew. It was an easy process for us."

"Why—" She got out of the car and I wondered if it was a sign that I should keep my mouth shut, but I was curious.

So after I'd followed her and we were on our way into the store, I asked, "Why are you talking about him like he likes me? You're making it sound like we're meant to be together or something." It's getting my hopes up and you need to stop it.

"Aren't you?" Grabbing a cart, she started in the direction of the produce. I followed quickly after her, lost in the spacious entrance of this store I've never explored.

"Sometimes I think that I'm supposed to be with him," I admitted. She nodded her head as though she understood, or maybe because she believed me. "B-But that he's not supposed to be with me. Does that make sense?"

Pretty Lady nodded again. "That makes sense, but it's not true." My brows knit together. It wasn't fair that she was speaking about this like she knew how everything would play out. "How long have you liked him?"

I sighed before muttering, "About eight years."

She stopped at a mountain of apples and began picking the largest ones. "Craig's just the same way except he's still trying to figure it out. He's introverted like that. You know he's always known who you were. Back in South Park, I mean. So you're not some crush who just wants to be acknowledged." Placing her chosen apples in a bag and then the basket, she filtered through the oranges next. "It's always been in his head whether he knew it or not, his fondness towards you. But Craig's a very self-satisfying person. To him, he comes first before anyone else. He's satisfied the fuck out of himself, though."

As I listened to her explain Craig in ways I never thought of him, she pointed at her list, hinting that I should find a good package of grapes. Doing this, I asked her what she'd meant and kept one ear toward her at all times and made sure to catch everything she said. "What I mean is that now that he's got himself all figured out, there's enough room for his little inkling about you to grow."

None of this was acceptable. The way she just put everything made me—God, I felt optimistic. My cheeks burned, my heart thundered, I was light on my feet, this fruit looked delicious, and there was a giddiness in my stomach. "Y-You think?"

"Yep!" She sounded excited, plucking the grapes from my hands with an offhand comment that I'd picked well. "I've been living with this apathetic prick for two years. I know when he's interested, trust me. And his interest is all over you."

Even if it didn't make the most sense, I liked what she had to say. That's what led me to my confession. "He kissed me."

And for her to disregard me by saying, "Oh, I know. I was there."

My lips turned up. "Not every time," I murmured, hoping she'd catch my quiet tone.

The cart and her stopped halfway to the bread. "Not every time?" She repeated, looking back at me. I nodded my head. "How many have I missed?"

"J-Just a few." It wasn't that she was surprised by my confession. I think it was more along the lines of how she hadn't expected it to—I guess for it happen so soon.

The smile that lit up her face was near blinding. "Just as I suspected! I knew he wouldn't have been able to hold out for so long." She started toward the bread again and just as before, I followed like her shadow.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, watching as she inspected the bread for the warmest loaf.

"Oh, nothing," she tutted, placing one in her basket. Bringing the cart around, she began pushing it toward the dairy. I'd seen milk and orange juice on her list earlier.

"No, wait," I objected. "You c-can't just not tell me."

All she did was point toward the see-through doors and said, "Pick some. Whichever you want. I'm trying to get Clyde to lose some weight, so get something preferably healthy."

At a loss with nothing else to do, I grabbed a carton of soy milk and another of one percent. When she came back, I put my foot in front of one of the wheels of the cart so she couldn't push away. "Tell me what you meant."

Her grin was devious. "I told you it was nothing. Craig's just proving my Tweek and Craig Theory."

I blanched, allowing her to swerve around my shoe. Her Tweek and Craig Theory? "What the hell is that?" I cried, chasing after her as she sped up to a brisk walk.

"It's just this thing that I've had going for a while. An idea of sorts." She grabbed a few tapioca pudding cups and put them in the basket. "I've been watching how Craig reacts to you when you're here and when you're gone. He's obsessed with you no matter where you are, I swear." Down another isle she grabbed some granola bars with vanilla and strawberry yogurt lining their bottoms. "If you ever get the chance, look at his sketchbooks. You're the only thing that's in them." I—I am? "Your eyes and lips in particular. So him kissing you was expected if you know what I mean."

No, I didn't know what she meant because I couldn't seem to climb over the fact that Craig liked to draw my eyes and lips. There was no preparation I could've forgone to better comprehend what this meant.

Did he find those attributes of mine attractive? Were they his favorite things about me? He thought about them, that much was clear. He remembered my lips and drew them because he liked them. How many times had he looked at my eyes and known that he'd draw them exactly like that later? What compelled him to look at these things and deem them likable? What was it about them that attracted his attention? Because they weren't supposed to be anything special. Not to him at least.

These sketchbooks, though. I wanted to see them.