My name is Kenneth McCormick. I am 14 years old, and I live in the town of South Park, in Colorado. Everyone calls me Kenny, and I always wear my orange parka wherever I go. My family lives in the poor section of town, and my parents are almost always drunk.

Some people would call being born into poverty a curse. I actually think of it as a blessing. Sure, it sucks that all my friends sometimes get all the cool toys and fancy vacations, and I don't. But being poor really teaches you to appreciate what you have, even if it's not much.

Besides, those people don't know shit about curses. But I do. I have a real one.

You see, I can't die.

Well, I guess that's not really true. I can die. In fact, I actually die all the time; that's part of the curse too, I guess. But I don't stay dead for long. Usually, I'm gone for about a day or less. Occasionally, I stay dead long enough to have a funeral (I've had about five or six, by the way). One time, when I was 9, I stayed dead for several months. But eventually, I just wake up in my bed, wearing my parka as usual, like nothing happened.

You probably don't believe me. No one does. Want me to describe Heaven for you? How about Hell? Well, let me tell you, if you want to avoid Hell, talk to Gary Harrison at Park County High School about becoming a Mormon, because they are the only ones who get to Heaven. Personally, I can't stand Mormons, but since I never stick around Heaven (or Hell) for long, I don't bother with it one way or the other.

But that isn't even the worst part of the curse. My friends don't even remember that I always manage to get myself killed, even when it happens right in front of them. Oh, it usually shocks them, and they scream "You bastards!" at no one in particular. But that's it; it's like I don't even matter to them after that. And whenever I eventually come back, it's as if I never died. They just say, "Oh, hey Kenny," as if seeing your friend die were the most natural thing in the world. Friends should be there to help you through your pain. My friends don't even know my pain.

I've tried to tell them, several times. The last time I tried was when I was 9; I shot myself in the head right after begging them to please, please remember this time. But it was the same as always; they just looked at me like I was crazy when I asked if they remembered that I had died. After that, I just gave up.

I don't know exactly where this power comes from; all I know is that I think it has something to do with the Cult of Cthulhu. My parents went to one of their meetings before I was born. But they were (by their own admission) too drunk to remember anything that happened there.

Over the years, I've just grown to accept it. My friends think they know me. They think I'm just someone who has nothing to say, who just sort of hangs out in the background. The truth is that I just don't see the point in life most of the time. Playing baseball sort of loses its appeal when you remember the time a ball hit you in the head and cracked your skull. Sitting around a campfire doesn't sound quite so fun if you're as accident prone as I am. I would probably commit suicide and just end it all if I thought it would do any good. But of course it won't. It never does.