So, yesterday was my sixteenth birthday. A landmark! Kyle and Stan gave me food. Cartman gave me nothing. And my parents got me this gay spiral bound journal, the sort that you get for a buck-fifty up at the drug store. But I might as well use it, right? I can practice sketching the female form in the margins.
The party was most enjoyable. Dad let me have some beer. I made out with the bus stop sign. I do not remember this, intoxicated as I was, but Kyle took a picture. My ever-so-caring-and-loving-and-what-would-I-do-without-them friends thought it was hysterical.
Stan actually laughed so hard he threw up. I hadn't known it was possible.
I also, reportedly, tried to rob an 8-10. And failed. Spectacularly. I say 'reportedly,' because Kyle has no pictures. And I know my friends. Can't trust anything they say.
I admit I can see myself trying to rob an 8-10, however. Because they have STRAWBERRY CINNAMON BUNS AND OH MY GOD IT IS THE FOOD OF THE GODS. My life was dark and empty before Strawberry Cinnamon Buns. And now I hunger for them. Constantly.
Passed out on Cartman's front step. He apparently thought I'd died. Don't now HOW he could have come to that conclusion. When I came to, I found that he was trying to sell my body to one of those places where they teach students how to cut up dead people. And Cartman, being the GRAND and TERRIFIC friend he is, didn't try to bash my head in. He then didn't proceed to case me around the place, hollering that he wasn't going to let me screw him out of money.
Long story sort, Cartman killed me, and I spent the rest of my birthday in hell. Damien made me watch Sex and the City. Which could have stood to have a lot more sex and a lot less city, let me tell you. Damien kept snuggling up to me no matter how far I scooted over on the couch. I actually fell off the edge of the armrest onto the floor several times. When yet another plight befell the blond ho, Damien cried big fat emo tears and his mascara ran. Then he buried his face into my chest and asked me to hold him.
I swear, if I weren't already dead, I'd have shot myself.
When I came back this morning, I found out Kyle and Stan are fighting. Which means Cartman is now their best friend. WHY, I wonder, do they always pick Cartman as their best friend when they have a fight? My theory is that they subconsciously pick the worst person possible so that they can realize how much they miss each other sooner and get over their sissy little argument. Or maybe, deep down, they actually are nice guys, and don't want to subject me to their constant bitching and whining and moaning.
What are they fighting about, you might ask? A jacket. They share so many clothes, they can't remember who owns this stupid jacket. I swear those guys are one drunken make out away from being boyfriends.
Oh, and Cartman told me that by the time I stopped struggling and expired, my body was so mangled the body-choppers didn't want it. And he says that now I owe him a body. So now Cartman is going to spend all his time trying to kill me. Oh joy.
Glimpsed the love of my life today. Oh, Henrietta, my shapely Goddess. If only you would realize the unbreakable bound we share. She will surely recognize my feelings now that I have crossed the threshold into sixteen-dom.
She put her cigarette out in my eye. It's love! In all capital letters! LOVE, I tell you!
So now I'm going to the hospital. I think I'll meet up with Mole afterward. We'll go scare kids off the playground and steal the swings for our own private use.