Bonjour. If you are reading this, I assume you are stupid, emotional and cannot handle your own problems. I do not feel sorry for you. I do not care for your worries. I am not here to make you feel better. I am not some fucking self-help-writing bitch. I am writing this for myself. It is a guide for me. You fuck off. I'm not here to lick your fucking pussy.

To be honest with you, I am not sure this will do any good at all. In fact, I know for certain I am only pissing and moaning like a two-bit whore, hoping that The Cocksucking Asshole In the Sky will hear my woes and magically start caring whether my life is miserable or not. As if that fucking rat ever gave a shit about me. Hah fucking hah.

But I will admit it here. I am a bit of a baby sometimes, and I wish to sit here and nurse my wounds a while. And since I do not have any friend to whom I can complain, I will have to make do with you.

(Do not be mistaken. That does not make us friends, bête. Remember that, and do not try to add me on Tumblr or any of that bullshit. The friends I do have have caused me enough trouble. I do not wish for any more.)

I will try to make some sense of it, euh? I will see if life is a shameless whore trying to solicit us all with her seductive lies and big fake tits, or if I can reason with her. It is likely useless. I already know life is a slut, and she gives all of us her filthy diseases. But I will try nonetheless to find a way to understand--non, to dictate a way not to get fucking screwed all the time. Just because I do not want to live in a reality where we are all of us subject to the tyranny of some cunt's whims. I am not some punch line to your cruel jokes, Bitch. I will fuck you right back.

Rule #1: do not think with your dick.

This rule needs a bit of explanation. You see, from the time I was eight years old, I knew God was out to get me, and the world was a piece of shit. Now, obviously because God had it out for me, I had to be on my toes at all times. I could not stand around like a drooling dumbass with my cock in hand like the idiots who surrounded me wherever I went. If I wanted to survive, I could not afford to let my guard down, because otherwise God would poke His miserable, filthy fingers into my life. He would set up His games to me dance like a monkey, just for the sake of it. I had to learn to bite at those poking, Cosmic fingers. Existence is not passive for those upon whom Heaven's gaze does not favorably fall.

Yes, I am sure of it now as I was then: God is a cocksucking faggot, and when He has mood swings, He kicks over our castles like they are towers made of cards. Worse: He does it just because He can.

That is also why He enjoys making me so particularly miserable. Just fucking because. Because he can. That is why I have decided that the best way to spite Him is to die on my own fucking terms, rather than by some celestially orchestrated accident.

Euh, anyway, I grow side-tracked. When one is subject to the whims of a Guy like that, obviously, he cannot allow himself to get distracted. Now, do you know what the biggest distraction of them all is? I will give you a clue, salope. Supposedly (that is, according to my Sky-Faggot-loving maman) The Cunt Himself made the biggest distraction in His own image, so it is no surprise that most often, it sucks. That is correct: other douchebag people. Yes, if God does not get you first, people will fuck you up every time.

That is why, if you want to survive in this world and die on your own terms to spite the Whoremonger In the Heavens, you must not let yourself be tempted. You must not spend your life chasing tail, but more importantly still? You must not let yourself be guided by your emotions. Think of your emotions as a disgusting, veiny boner pointing due North: Straight into Hell. Do not follow it. Trust no one. That just is what God wants you to do, so He can laugh at you.

After Gregory sends you to die, the first thing you do when you come back two weeks later is find him. When you finally do locate the stupid dickhole, you punch him straight in the face.

He looks shocked to see you, but naturally, he is more shocked still when you throw your fist into the side of his jaw. You send him sprawling before he can say a word, and then spit on him for good measure. He stares up at you from his spot on the ground, and you ball your fists tightly as you snarl down at him. You plan to hit him again the moment he gets back to his feet.

"...Christophe?" he touches his jaw and moves it around, likely trying to discern if it is dislocated. You certainly hope so. Bitch.

"Piece of shit," you greet him in return. "You sent me those dumbshit assholes, et they fucking compromised me! Got me killed. I trusted you, putain! ...Remind me not to do that again!"

"...You...You're alive," he notes. Apparently he hasn't quite recovered from that particular revelation. He sits there on the cold ground rubbing his face, but he makes no effort to get up again. You lower your fists for this reason alone.

"Oui," you tell him, stiffly. Then you sharpen your glower. "...No thanks to you, twat."

Gregory has the grace to, finally, look a little sorry about that. He wipes your spittle from his cheek and nods.

"You've every right to be angry, of course—"

"You are damn right I do, you fucking asslicker!" You explode again, and bend to grab him by the lapels and shake him, hard. "You did not even come looking for me afterwards! What kind of a partner are you? Do you call yourself my fucking friend, euh? Non? Where is your so-called honor? You did not come for me! You left me to die like a dog with those stupid fucking incompetents!"

You hide the note of hurt in your voice under a menacing growl. Gregory's flinch satisfies you enough. You drop him, and he has the good sense to stay down rather than rise to your fury.

"...I...Christophe, I didn't know what I'd find!" Gregory tries to defend himself. He blots his sleeve to the dribble of blood at the side of his mouth. "I-I didn't want to see—"

"--The body?" You finish for him. You start forward again, because really, you could just fucking kill him. His admission doesn't appease you at all. His obvious attempt to swallow down his terror of you does not help either. He snivels and inches back from you and your harsh tone. You wonder how you ever thought he was your equal—your superior even, (though you'd never admitted that).

Now you know the truth. Gregory is a bitch. It stings, because Gregory the fearless leader couldn't stomach the thought of your dead body, but you know: if the situations were reversed, you never would've given up looking until you'd laid eyes on his. You would accept his death no other way, not until you had irrefutable proof. You do not give up so easily, especially not on him. But when you look him sprawled there in the cannot help but to see. His eyes narrowed into a defensive squint, one hand reaching behind him in search of something to use as a weapon....fuck, Gregory is afraid, even now.

"Coward," you mutter. You used to have faith in him and nothing else. "What if I'd only been injured? What if those pissant little boys you sent me were lying? What if I'd lain there bleeding, waiting? What if you could have helped? Euh?"

He has no answer to any of this. He stops crawling away from you, and his expression blanks. Neither of you says anything for a moment or two.

"...I'm sorry, Mole." He can't be bothered to defend himself. You sneer to hide your disappointment that he doesn't even try. You're not sure if the the fact that he doesn't makes things worse or better, in the end.

So you just sneer and kick dirt on him. You remove the watch from your wrist. The face says The Third Act: The Ticking Clock, and it hasn't worked right since you visited Hell. It was a gift from Gregory. Some fucking good it did you. You drop it to the ground and crush it with the heel of your boot. Then you hawk up a particularly nasty gob and spit it right on Gregory's pretty face—once more for good measure.

"Do not ever fucking speak to me again, bête."

You stomp away without looking back. Fucking asshole.

He doesn't listen to you, of course. He never does.

Gregory finds you about three days later, throwing rocks at stray cats. It's one of the many ways you like to calm yourself. You are not fond of furry things that bite.

"I'm fairly certain that constitutes animal cruelty, Ducky."

You don't even turn your head to look at him. "Non. If I threw them at you, then that would be animal cruelty, salope."

He sighs and removes a pocket handkerchief from his trousers. He uses it to clean off the spot on the dumpster lid beside you. 'What a stuffy little prick!' you think as you watch him in your peripherals. Though it's hardly a new thought; you constantly think that Gregory is a fucking twat. Ugh. And he is not going away, it seems.

Without being invited, Gregory hoists himself up and takes a seat next to you, confirming your fears. He is like a genital wart that will require powerful antibiotics before he stops oozing unpleasantly in your vicinity. You do not give any further sign that you notice him there, but nor does he say anything for awhile. You hope he'll take your icy silence as a hint, but the dense douche king seems intent on not doing so. He sits there stalwartly, waiting for you to acknowledge him.

Instead, you lob a pebble at a nearby cat. This particular cat has a disdainful look about her. You instinctively dislike her long white hair and blue eyes. When you toss the stone in her direction, she startles, stares at you. You throw another, and try harder to hit her this time. Looking offended, she hisses, and then bolts off, feet sliding around in her mad, terrified dash to escape the rock-pelting. You toss another. You miss this time as well, but the clatter against the dumpster opposite you makes her jump into the air mid-flight. She dives under a fence to get away from you, and you chuckle at that. Cats are such fucking pussies.

"Christophe," Gregory chastises you. "No need to be senselessly cruel. You're torturing the poor creature."

You shrug. You do not care for the opinions of one pussy about how to treat another.

"...Can't we talk, Love?" Gregory says with obvious frustration. "I know I've made mistakes. I'm willing to admit it readily. Won't you even hear my apology? Please, Christophe; don't be stubborn, just this once!"

Words are meaningless. People say the most with their actions. And Gregory fucking abandoned you. He left you behind like an ugly, forgotten sweater at the lost-and-found. You trusted him, and he let you down. You should have known better. You doomed yourself the moment you decided any of the worthless faggots on God's playground were worth any of your time.

You're not about to waste your breath trying to explain to him that he cannot repair the damage to your friendship with a lot of empty air. You were torn apart by goddamn rabid guard dogs. You no longer believe in the healing power of forgiveness and friendship. Friendship doesn't help you when you're fucking bleeding to death. This isn't the damn Powerpuff Girls, where you jerk each other off, jizz sparkles into each others' mouths, and everything is sunshine and rainbows.

Gregory can go lick a whore's wet, STI riddled vag for all you care. You're not playing this bullshit game with him where you pretend you don't know who he really is now, and he pretends you mean anything to him. Clearly, he doesn't care, so you resolve not to, either. This is not a game. This is real life, with real consequences, and you're not going to dig your own grave a second time because you didn't take your lesson. Fuck that. Gregory may do better in school with his fucking 4.0, but you've always had him beat in street smarts.

You don't need to get shafted twice for you to learn. Gregory has made his loyalties clear, and they are to himself and no one else. You would rather work alone then deal with his bullshit; good, you are better off alone in any case.

"...Look, Christophe," Gregory interrupts the long, silent streak—wherein you glare at him fit to melt his stupid, pretty face off. "I know I made a mess of it. I know I don't deserve a chance to make it up to you. But if this is goodbye, I..."

He holds out a hand to you, palm turned-over and fingers closed around something at the center.

"Then I want to say you are the bravest, most loyal partner I could have asked for, and it was an honor serving by your side."

In spite of yourself, he has your attention now. You look at him and narrow your eyes suspiciously at his fist.

"What is it?" you ask. You try to sound as bored and indifferent as possible.

Then he smiles, and the bastard can't hide the tiny victorious glint in his eyes. It makes you want to shove him right off the dumpster. ...You resist only because of the compliment before. You slide your gaze over to him, not turning your head, just your eyes. You wait for him to go on. You are indeed brave, and loyal, and a far more competent and reliable associate than Gregory. And he ought to acknowledge it; it is about fucking time.

Instead, he opens his hand up, and sitting on his outstretched, leather-gloved palm is a gold wristwatch.

"It's mine," he explains, which you already knew, obviously. He only wears the damn thing every day.

"It was my father's," Gregory blathers on, "he gave it to me for my fifth birthday, before shipping me off to Yardale. He told me I was becoming a man, and a man ought to wear a proper wristwatch."

Finally, you smile without intending to do so, but only because you happen to agree with Gregory's father's advice wholeheartedly. It is very important to wear a wristwatch. Hmm, it seems Gregory's father is somewhat intelligent. ...You wonder why the quality did not transfer to his poor, idiot son.

"I see," you lean back on your palms, drawling as if he's said nothing of particular interest. "What does this have to do with me, euh? You had better not be trying to make some faggy metaphor for friendship or some bullshit. I will piss on you."

Gregory winces, because he knows you are not kidding.

"Why...I want you to have the watch as a parting gift." Gregory tells you, as if this is obvious. You turn to stare at him in surprise. You have never owned a single thing of value in your life--outside of your shovel. And that is something of sentimental, and practical, value to you alone. The watch is precious to Gregory for his own reasons, but on top of that, it is probably more objectively worth more than all your belongings combined.

He pushes it closer to you, but you don't dare take it. There is a pang in your heart. It is probably caused by the nicotine from your cigarettes, wearing a hole in your arteries or (whatever fucked up bullshit happens to your lungs when you smoke that they tried to teach you in your Health class. You're not sure because you slept through most of that class). Or it is the place where your mother tried to stab you with the clothes hanger, which will never quite heal. Either way, you're sure the unpleasant sensation would stop if Gregory would not be such an idiot.

"You can't give that to me," you insist, brows digging down. "Stupide. I can't wear a gold wristwatch. I am not some prissy poodle. I have no use for that."

You scowl down at you lap stubbornly. You know what he is trying to do. He is trying to buy you back with fancy gifts. Well, he can shove his pretty watch straight up his ass. You are not for sale.

Seeing your reaction, Gregory sighs and rolls up his own sleeve then. Aha. A contingency; of course. You've never known Gregory to be without a backup plan. You wonder what he's cooked up this time, but you're not going to fall for it. He cannot fool you. You are too familiar with his manipulative, moron, coward, pussy-faggot ways.

"I just thought, it's only fair, you know?" He says, quietly. "...Seeing as I took yours."

Outplayed in spite of all your resolution to resist him, you feel yourself give way in an instant. Sure enough, your watch is around his wrist. The plastic is cracked, making it a little bit hard to read the face, and it's far too cheap an accessory for a boy who wears $200 leather gloves and personally-tailored slacks. But somehow, he got it working again. The numbers on the military-style clock display show what appears to be the correct time. You wonder how long he spent tinkering with the stupid, worthless thing to make it right again.

You blink at him. To your thorough horror, your heart gives another painful little squeeze from between your ribs, and you vow to give up smoking. This is such bullshit. You are going to have a fucking heart attack before you are ten years old.

You are a sore loser, so you lean over, quick as a flash, push him off the dumpster. He falls off with a surprised little shriek, and you snort with satisfaction at the offended little splutter he makes when he hits the ground. He curses at you, and you fling a pebble at him.

It thunks against his head, and he calls you a bloody tosser and wonders out loud why he bothers with you at all. You are obviously a mannerless ingrate, and he doesn't have to put up with your constant bad behavior, thank-you-very-much!

You throw another pebble at him from your pile. This time it misses when he ducks. He glares at you, thoroughly ruffled, dirt in his hair from his spill. He gets up and puts his back to you, making to flounce off in a self-righteous huff.

"Give me the watch, m'ange," you demand from your perch to stop him before he gets away. "...The gold one. You can keep the piece of shit you wasted your time repairing."

He halts in his tracks to look at you over his shoulder. And the smile he gives you is so grateful you'd think you just offered him the fucking United Kingdoms of Oceania.

Pussy. You toss another rock.

Rule #2: Don't get grounded, not for anyone.

A little trivia about me, euh? Hey, fuck you; this is my guide. I will fill it with whatever nonsense I want to. If you do not like it, you can just take your complaints and jam them up into your stretched-out cunt. America is a terrible, dirty country, but we do have freedom of speech here. I can say what I want.

Oi! Cunt. Country. A country is just a place full of cunts. Hah! I am clever!

Anyway. I enjoy zombie shit. I personally think I would do very well in an apocalypse of the undead. Particularly, I very much enjoy the classic funny zombie movie Zombieland (I like funny, and I like zombie, so this movie is perfection to me. If you disagree, you are a douche, and I do not want to talk to you), as well as the book it was based on.

Rule number 17 for surviving in Zombieland is "don't be a hero." The pussy narrator "Columbus" later rescinds this rule, and changes his mind. But he is weak and, (as I have already warned you not to do), he thinks with his dick. Bon, clean out your ears, listen to me, and remember well, mon cher. I do not talk for nothing.

What I am trying to say is that you do not have to listen to Columbus' advice all the time, because his judgement is occasionally impaired. This is so with this rule, as he changes his mind so he can rescue some dumb bint and get laid. Pathetic. Do not be fooled by his loser-talk; I am clearly better.

In any case, the advice before he turns into a weepy, boner-first baby is also my advice, in my own guide. Never sacrifice yourself for others' sakes. I have done it, and believe me when I tell you that it was not worth it. I don't care what bitches you know; they will not be grateful enough. No matter what they feel in the end, you will be dead or miserable or both. If you want to survive, fuck them—they are on their own. They will not repay the favor when it is their turn. There is no reason, then, that you should be the martyr among us. We are all of us selfish douchebags. Embrace it.

Another unfortunate thing you can take my word on is that dying sucks a fucking donkey's dick. Hell is also bullshit. They have too many dumb tourist luaus, and the Antichrist is a whiny fag asshole. And he cheats at Monopoly. Besides, if you skip Hell, you have to go to Heaven.

As we know, Heaven is where the Biggest Bitch Of Them All lives. Trust me, you do not want to go there.

After the U.S.O. Show incident, Gregory's parents decide that associating with the uncultured, small-town peons his own age is having a bad influence on him. They transfer him back to Yardale private school, where you can continue having a bad influence on him.

You are glad of this. You hate those public school bitches. They are stupid as shit. And you have already vowed to yourself that you will kill Eric Cartman if it is the last thing you do. The less you and Gregory have to do with him and his crew of dipshits, the better.

But Gregory does not share this sentiment. No matter how you insist the Testaburger bitch is from the same toxic cesspool that bred the rest of those cunts, he shrugs off you concerns. Still, he writes to her. You hate this, because you still at least partially blame that shrill, half-baked ho for the whole mess. If Gregory hadn't been led—dick first—by the promise of her affection into these nonsense "political affairs," you might have been spared.

That is your interpretation, anyway. However, when you voice your opinion to Gregory, he only tells you that it is quite sexist to call Wendy a "dumb bimbo slut" and "a shrill, mouth-breathing whore."

And then he makes a point to see her, sometimes three times a week.

It's not that you dislike her, particularly. True, she's a bit annoying when Gregory has her around. (Once, the mouthy cunt insists you refrain from using the word "bitch" because it is derogatory to females. You've heard all the politically correct nonsense from Gregory before, and it has all failed to move you. So you offer to call her a cocksucker instead, if she prefers accuracy in her epithets. She doesn't bother correcting you after that). Furthermore, you hate her constant, high-pitched rants regarding whatever-the-fuck—you don't give enough of a shit to listen enough to know what she's on about most of the time. She and Gregory can go for hours talking about the most bullshit subjects ever.

...Apparently there are politics involved in everything from war, natural disasters aid and relief, disease control, food, media and even fucking gender. Unbelievable. People make life so complicated by getting so far and firmly wedged up their asses. Whenever they ask your input, you tell them you want nothing to do with any fucking politics at all. To you, this kind of practice seems a slippery slope to needing to argue about everything. Your concern is that it will get so bad soon that people will be up in arms about matters like taking a goddamn shit.

What kind of world would that be, you ask them, smirking: where a person cannot even take a shit without starting a debate?

But Wendy just tells you that bathrooms are actually somewhat of a hot-button issue in the world of gender politics, and you moan and throw a couch cushion at her. Jesus fucking Christ. You hate Wendy's politics as much as you hate the Savior whose name you take in vain just to fucking piss Him off.

The excessive amount of eye-rolling you do around them gives you a headache sometimes. Thus, at first, you often avoid being in their presence for that reason alone. You do not need their higher-calling nonsense in your life. You have learned well that that business is nothing but trouble.

But eventually you get used to it, because she's not so bad. She's definitely mouthy, though no more so than Gregory. You tolerate him well enough, so you suppose you can't really complain. Also she is also kind of funny, when she gets angry enough. The little bitch has a meanstreak a whore's-cunt-wide. The things that come out of her mouth are so ridiculous and vindictive that you don't doubt she means them at all. You appreciate her wicked tongue, and watching her put Gregory in his place is a thing of beauty.

Furthermore, you admit, you bond with her just a little bit over your mutual violent hatred of Eric Cartman. Apparently she once beat the fucking shit out of him just because he pissed her off sufficiently. He cried, and when she tells you about the showdown, you hug her until she punches you and shoves you away. She hits you fairly hard, too. That pleases you even more because that meant Cartman really got what was coming to him. From that moment on, she is ok in your books.

When it comes down to it, the only real problem you have with Wendy is her blonde-haired, big-breasted, bimbo bitch of a companion.

See, Wendy becomes a pretty regular fixture in the St. Clair household, just like you. Gregory's home is simply the largest, and thus the law of hanging out prevails: the place that provides the most distance from parental units is always the preferred choice. Plus, he has a big screen television and permanently stocked fridge. It's pretty routine these days. You and Gregory come home from school, and stakeout the downstairs den. Wendy shows up a few hours in, and then Wendy and Gregory talk about their bullshit. You turn the TV up and ignore them until they are done (which can take awhile). Then the three of you play violent video games, do homework, and eat snacks until Wendy has to return home.

...Until one day, Bebe Stevens decides you and Gregory have co-opted her best friend, causing Wendy to neglect her feminine responsibility to uphold "sisters before misters." Then you kind of want to reconsider your position on Wendy, simply because the two of them seem to be a packaged deal.

And it takes you no time at all to decide that you hate Bebe so fucking much.

You know she is bad news the moment that two-bit slut decides to join the three of you. Your first clue is that she shows up uninvited, and then she does not leave until Wendy does. But after observation, you decide that you do not like her for three main reasons:

  1. She constantly makes reference to imaginary colors, such as "chartreuse" and "lavender" and "fuchsia." Those are not fucking colors! Purple is a color! "Chartreuse" is the name of some faggot's 80-year-old mother or something.
  2. She frags you constantly in Call of Duty.
  3. She carries a tiny dog in her purse, and you despise the loathsome mongrel with the burning fire of a goddamn thousand suns.

You soon discover that Bebe's favorite activity is to talk on and on about things so fucking uninteresting that listening to her makes you want to smash your head through concrete. "Oh my god, Sephora is selling Dita Von Teese's new line! Wendy, do you think I could pull off winged eyeliner? Some girls have that look; you know what I'm talking about, right? That...winged eyeliner look, where it wouldn't be too weird, because that's just how their faces are. I don't know if I have that kind of face. What do you think, Gregory?"

She hogs up your preferred space on the couch. When you protest that she should not bring her filthy, sweater-wearing mutt in the house (and threaten to drop it down the deepest hole you can find and then pack in dirt until you hear the yelping stop), she just sort of giggles at you. She implies you need some sort of help, and the condescending pout on her face makes you so angry you hurl a vase at the wall and cause her dog to piss itself in her Louis Vuitton handbag.


The list of offenses gets so long, you often count the things you despise about Bebe Stevens to help you fall asleep at night instead of sheep.

But by far, the worst sin is the day she walks up to you, Wendy trailing behind her—when you are trying to get some goddamn peace and quiet by Stark's Pond.

She is smiling about something, and that is never a good sign. Nothing that makes Bebe happy is a thing you are fond of. She sits down next to you, and Wendy scampers off, leaving the two of you alone. You glare at her retreating form and vow to hunt her down later. This is even worse than Gregory's betrayal, you feel. You would honestly rather be torn apart by dogs and left to die than sit here alone with Bebe fucking Stevens. Ugh.

God must have put her up to this; you just know it.

Reluctantly, you turn to her as she blathers on in your ear a while about some inane nonsense. You nod, and try not to listen too hard to anything she says. This is the only way you can imagine to preserve your precious sanity—which no matter what this bitch says, is perfectly in tact. You do not need help, not from some pussy doctor, not from anyone.

Though you don't much listen to her, you can't possibly miss it when she leans in to kiss your cheek and whisper the four little words that would forever occupy the top spot your Bebe-related shit-list from that point on:

"I think you're cute."

She proffers you a little pink daisy and hopeful little smile.

You shove her, cursing in French. Against your will, your own face pisses you off—lighting up a humiliating shade of unsightly pink. You want to grab your shovel and dig a hole, then hide in it for-fucking-ever...but not before bashing this bitch's brains in with it. She sits next to you, biting her lip anxiously, and if she kisses you again, you are going to punch her in the scary-white-bleached teeth.

Instead, you snatch the daisy from her and begin to rip the petals out one by one before dropping the stem to the ground and smashing it repetitively under your boots. No! She is not allowed to give you flowers and call you fucking cute! This is the most disgusting thing you have ever heard! You hate her so much, and you want to throw her into a vat of acid, and if she ever comes near you again, you swear to the Celestial Dick Muncher that you will.

"So...does that mean you're my boyfriend now?" she asks you, dense as fucking maple syrup.

« Non ! Ferme la bouche ! Je te déteste ! Brûle en enfer ! Tu es un putain ! »

Luckily Wendy apparently overhears. She senses the danger and comes to drag her friend away from you before there's a fucking push-up-bra-wearing corpse to hide.

Bebe giggles and waves to you, even as Wendy pulls her towards Gregory's house to safety. The sound makes you want to scream, but even worse—from afar you can hear the dumb cumguzzler say, "his accent is so dreamy!"

To add insult to injury, somewhere nearby, you can pick up the unmistakable sound of Gregory (who knows damn well exactly how you feel about Bebe) bursting into hysterical laughter.

You will kill them all, you swear to yourself (not to God, because God is a cunt). You will end every damn one of these bitches. Fucking shit, they are just a bunch of traitors and sluts and bimbos, and you decide right then and there:

Friends are bullshit.

There is a place in the woods that is only for you and Gregory. It has served as your "headquarters" or "base" for some time now. But you are about to turn ten years old, and he will be nine just a few months afterwards. Neither of you has admitted it yet, but soon, you will be too old for those games. You wonder what will become of this place then.

It isn't much as it is. When you were about six, and he was five, you and Gregory came upon a few boards left over from the new deck Gregory's parents built in his backyard. Gregory got excited, and he asked his father if the two of you could have them. As no one else had any use for scrap wood, his request was granted. At the time, it seemed a huge, miraculous boon to the two of you.

Inspired, and you worked together and hauled the boards as deep into the forest as you'd dared.

"Where should we build it?" wondered Gregory, hands on his hips as he observed the quiet little clearing.

"Build what?" you asked him, excitement in your veins like the chemical high from your cigarettes.

"The barricades, of course," he told you matter-of-factly. Gregory, at the time, was quite obsessed with Les Miserables, some fancy-schmancy musical his parents took him to see for his birthday. He gabbed about it to you often, and you listened to him sometimes.

It was obvious he was quite taken with the story. The only game he was interested in playing for years after that was "Revolution." You didn't mind very much, truthfully, because often this involved digging "trenches." Well, you always did like digging, so that was all right.

In the end, you selected a spot next to a very tall, wide, study looking oak. You and Gregory leaned the boards against the tree, covered them with a tarp, and went to secure more materials.

The junkyard was the next stop. You dragged your old red wheelbarrow behind you to hunt for more parts. You and Gregory spent the entire day on your quest. Triumphantly, you returned with some plywood and other various pieces of scrap building-material, and your greatest find: a surprising quantity rusty metal accordion roofing. Gregory discovered that, under a heap of rotting cabbage. Clever fucking weasel had always been an observant little fuck. You freed it with your shovel so Gregory wouldn't have to touch the moldy vegetables.

You spent your allowance money on two boxes of nails from the hardware store. Gregory borrowed his father's unused toolbox (a gift from his mother, though of course a man like Mr. St. Clair had absolutely no use for a thing like that). The both of you took to wearing leather gloves because it was splintery work. You hammered your own thumb more than once, and Gregory nearly broke a leg tumbling off the roof when he tried to nail it down. But after three tireless weeks, you stood back to proudly admire the little shanty the two of you built against the oak tree.

It wasn't a proper "barricade" (or a barricade in any kind of way, really; Gregory's grasp of what constituted a barricade was somewhat tenuous at five years old). But you were both ecstatic about your work, and stood beaming at it side by side when it was finished.

"It's beautiful," Gregory breathed, leaning an elbow on your shoulder.

"Non. It looks like a crocodile's asshole," you rolled your eyes. "But it will do."

Now the thing leaks with it rains, some of the wood is rotting, and despite the repairs and modifying you and Gregory have done over the years, you do not fool yourself. It is a shithole. But it is your shithole, and it is Gregory's, so you are somewhat fond of it.

You are hiding out here after the unfortunate episode with that fashion-fellating cunt, Bebe. You often flee here, to this little shelter you and Gregory still call your barricades. You think it is because somewhere, you still hope it will live up to its name, and thus it will keep the rest of the world out.

But it doesn't stop Gregory. He knows just exactly where to come to find you. He brushes past the plastic shower curtain that serves as the "door" and sits on the matching upturned wooden orange crate beside you. This is as far as you and Gregory could manage for "furniture," and you hate it--because it often results in splinters in your ass. Ugh.

« Ça va, mon ami ? » Gregory asks you. "Dating troubles?" he teases you, elbowing lightly.

"Fuck off."

He's quiet for a time after that, but he is also Gregory. And so he stays.

"This place is shite," he remarks after a while, and you feel the wood give slightly as he leans back against it. "We ought to torch it and start again."

You shake your head, though you don't look up. Your forehead rests on your knees and tucked safely in the protective circle of your arms. "Leave it," you tell him.

You can almost hear him smile. "Perhaps if we could reinforce the walls with something, or remodel a bit. Wood was not meant to last forever, after all. But we can use some of the old parts in the new design, and build it to last now that we're a bit older, yes?"

You nod, and finally you come out from your huddle to join him in plotting. You do like to build things. "We could dig out the base," you posit, thoughtfully. "We could have a lower level, even, if you give me enough time."

"The tree roots will be in the way," Gregory says, but from the familiar wrinkle in his brow, it's clear he's thinking it over. You automatically lean in a little bit to pay attention. Soon he will start talking very quickly, making plans, and you don't like asking him to repeat himself. It reminds you of the days your English was poor, and you had to ask this very often.

"I have always wanted to build a secret entrance," Gregory tells you. He taps a finger to his chin. "Do you think we could have a tunnel of sorts, that leads into the base from far away?"

"Oui," you tell him. You grin, too "Easy peasy, mon cher."

In no time at all, Gregory pulls the stash of graphing paper from the plastic box of supplies kept under one of the cartons. He spreads it over a piece of cardboard, lays out on the floor and begins drawing up plans for an entirely new base. You squat beside him and nod over his shoulder, making your own suggestions here and there—most of which he takes. Gregory's voice is high and agitated, full of fervor and energy. He is never more enthusiastic than when he is in the middle of a project. In spite of yourself, you find it is contagious. It is easy to forget your previous embarrassment, and the whole damn afternoon, and just get swept away in Gregory's ambitious dreaming and scheming.

The afternoon grows later, and the shadows stretch where the sun peeks through the knotholes in the planks. That is the only way you notice time passing, however. In times like these, holed up together in the place that is only for you and Gregory, minutes seem to tick by faster. You lean over to check Gregory's watch, because you still cannot read the Roman-numeral analogue time display on your own pussy watch. The thing on your wrist is basically just a fancy bracelet, which is stupid. But you still do not take it off.

"It is getting late," you sigh, putting your hands behind your head, when you've covertly snuck a peak from Gregory's wrist. "Perhaps we should go back to your house, non? Best not to wander in the woods when the sun goes to sleep. Soon we will not be able to see much anyway."

Gregory nods, and adds some final touches to his drawing.

"You ought to apologize to Bebe, you know," he says, after a short pause. "What you said to her was very rude."

"Shut up," you snap at him, narrowing your eyes. You'd been very happy not to think about that anymore, ever again. "I do not like dirty sluts."

"Bebe is no such thing, and that's not nice to say," Gregory sighs. "She is a lovely girl, smart too. You cannot despise her just for expressing interest in you. Don't be a rogue, Christophe."

"She can go choke on toilet water for all I care," you declare, unmoved. You jut your jaw out stubbornly.

"You're going to have to get along with her, at least," Gregory's tone changes, and you narrow your eyes. It means he has to tell you something, and he knows you will probably not like it.

You don't ask, because you know he'll tell you anyway. You only continue to glare suspiciously at him, waiting.

He looks up at the ceiling, and exhales.

"It's just. She is Wendy's best friend. If you upset her, she will complain to Wendy. Then Wendy will be upset. And then I will have to get between you two, because..." He hesitates. "Well, I can't just let my girlfriend go on being unhappy, can I?"

Rule #3: synchronize your watches

By this point, if you are a smart-ass, you've sensed a theme in the waters here, euh? I have basically told you not to get distracted by other people, not to let emotions cloud your head, and not to sacrifice yourself for the ungrateful bitches you undoubtedly call friends.

If you want to be efficient and skip through with the wordy crap, my advice for surviving this bullshit life is fairly simple: trust no one.

There. That is it. You are welcome.

I warn you for the last time that life is a single-minded bitch who wants to rub you with her herpes-sores, and you must be vigilant. And do you know why Life is such a purposeful cunt?

Because Life, as they say, is from God. God sends us only shit here on this nasty little rock he set us on. He watches us build skyscrapers and cities, and sends us tsunamis to knock them down as He watches our children drown and die. He makes us pray to Him and then ignores our prayers. He wants us to shout Hallelujah while he fucking pisses on us.

If you get anything from reading this (and remember, I do not give a shit if you do), it should be this: Do not get on your knees to take God's dick down your throat. Fight back instead, because He will fuck you anyway, and you must have pride. You must find strength within, while you are taking God's indifference up the ass.

...That said, if you must trust someone (because you are, as I have said from the second sentence of this bullshit guide, a weak bitch), make sure you they are worthy of that trust. Make sure you are on the same page. Make sure you both know what minute it is, and so can coordinate and meet together at the right moments.

Make sure at the end of your wrist, there is something trustworthy.

You are sixteen when you discover why you are so miserable.

You hate American football--pointless, noisy sport with overly complicated, insensible rules. You don't even go to this school, so you don't care which team wins. You hate all the South Park bitches you are crammed up against in the bleachers. You feel like a pissant little sardine. This was a terrible idea.

But when Gregory announced that he was going to take Wendy to the Homecoming football game, you grabbed your coat and followed him out to his fucking bento-box of a car and plopped down in the back seat. (The front seat is for fucking incompetents. Windows on all sides is just asking for God to fuck with you. Once Gregory made you sit shotgun because he had to put some shit for the new base you are building together in the back seat. Every time you drove past a truck with insecure cargo, or heard a small rock bounce against the window, you sunk down further—sure something was about to crash through the windshield and smear your fucking brains).

"Hurry up. I don't have all day to wait for you to finish putting on fresh panties," you shouted at him from the car. "You are paying for my ticket."

And that was it. Gregory knew to pick his battles with you by that point. He hardly even complained (and the man could medal in complaining). He only grabbed his coat, sighed, and rolled his eyes.

"We're not stopping at Whistlin' Willy's," he warned you. "I don't care how much you kick my seat. We're going straight to the game and that's that, you bloody terrorist."

So now you're here, with a Willy's Deluxe Meal in your lap watching a bunch of spandex-clad twatlickers slam into each other over a stupid, incorrectly shaped ball—fucking Americans, can't do shit right. It is so fucking boring, and your dinner is not enough to ease your thorough dissatisfaction with the state of affairs. For one thing, the cold metal bench under your ass is so unpleasant you decide you might as well have just plopped down in the fuck-forsaken snow.

For another? You have to sit next to Bebe. To spite Gregory, you never did apologize, but you don't often go out of your way to antagonize her, at least. She hasn't bothered you since her sickening confession all those years ago, and you have grudgingly put away most of your protests to loathe her in bitter silence since.

But you guess she feels the cold, because she cozies up to you like lint clings to cotton, and you think it might ruin your little unspoken truce to try to pick her off. So you allow her the snuggling, though her cheap whore perfume fills your nose and makes you want to gag. ...The warmth is a little nice. Plus she keeps giving disgusted looks to your fast food, and so that helps. At least she is uncomfortable too.

The last reason you are unhappy is a complicated one. From your seat, slightly elevated above them, you can see that Wendy and Gregory are holding hands, and the sight makes you meal seem completely unappetizing. This is a shame, because Gregory paid good money for your food, and you hate to waste it. But the twisting in your gut is like someone took a skewer, stabbed through your belly button, and then proceeded to fish around in there for fuck knows what. Your spleen, perhaps.

You don't know why this is so. Perhaps the sauce is bad and you have indigestion, or ebola. It would just fucking figure that that rat bastard God would use you to deliver his plague to South Park. You prepare yourself for the bitter end, and almost laugh because you will die literally pooping yourself to death. It will be the funniest, cruelest punchline of all. What's the butt for? Why, ending the world, of course! Hah! And when everyone dies by crapping out their guts, it will literally become a shithole!

"You're staring at them," Bebe notes, with a little bit of amusement. Dumb bitch—ugh, you'd almost forgotten she was fucking there.

"Who?" you ask. You were not.

"Wendy and Gregory," Bebe says slowly, as if teaching the alphabet to a child, "Duh?" You bristle at this.

"I was not, salope," you insist, huffing.

"Um. Yeah." Bebe says. "Are you—"

"Do not!" You insist. You feel the revelation coming like a dirty dishrag slapped across your face, and you don't want her pissy slutface to be the one who delivers it. "I know what this is."

She frowns, clearly not expecting that. "Huh?"

"Obviously," you say, rolling your eyes, "...I am in love with Gregory's woman, and thus boiling with the sickness of jealousy," you deduce. Then you pat your traitorous stomach. It has brought you to the most inconvenient of conclusions by rejecting the meal you forced Gregory to so kindly procure for you. You are slightly lactose intolerant, so you will feed it ice-cream later as punishment.

Bebe sighs, and you get the impression she is disappointed in you for some reason. As if you care for her opinions anyway.

Just then, as if cosmically timed (you as sure it is, so that Jesus can get his fucking jollies) Gregory leans over to kiss Wendy's chill-pinked cheek. Your stomach recoils as if the sight has caused you to swallow poison. That is all the evidence you need to know that you are right.

Shit. Now God's fat angel Cupid has fucked you over as well. Wendy giggles at something, and you see Gregory lift her knuckles to kiss them. You can just imagine what he is saying to her. "Oh, Peaches, your eyes make me swoon like the knock-kneed faggot that I am. Please do not let me make myself an ass in front of you by trying to pretend I have a functioning nutsack" or some poetic bullshit like that.

The ache in your stomach moves up to your throat, and it feels like hand crushed around your windpipe for an airless moment.

"Christophe," Bebe's strangely angular eyebrow makes a sharp check as it angles up at you. "Are you sure you're ok?"

"I am not," you tell her, feeling no need to put in the effort to lie to her.

"Do you want me to drive you home?"

And for the first time in your life, you look at Bebe Stevens, with the crazy halo of gold-bright curls around her head, and think she might be an angel.

Annoying, because that means she is from God, but nonetheless, she has saved you this time, just like angels are supposed to.

You don't want to talk about it, and luckily Bebe doesn't make you. She plays girly pop (which, secretly, you don't really mind much) and eyes the bag of fast food you take with you, because you can't bear to throw it out. The fact that she is likely worrying about the fact that it will stink up her truck does not worry you. Wasting the food does.

You drive in silence except to grunt directions to your place to Bebe as she drives. You have to catch yourself about halfway there, because you nearly give her directions to Gregory's instead. You fumble around for you cigarettes and don't look at her as much as possible.

She blows a puff of air through her glossy lips to free a flyaway hair and eyes you in her peripherals.. Meanwhile, you locate your Lucky Stars and then begin your search for your lighter.

"Dude! You can't smoke in my car," Bebe admonishes you. "I'm like, doing you a favor! Don't be an asshole!"

You give her a very exasperated look, but comply and put the box away with no more than a dirty look in protest. Bitch. Neither of you say anything for a while, which suits you fine. Unfortunately, this gives you time to ruminate, and thinking too much produces annoying neuroses.

You as the one to break the silence, with a question you reget before it even fully leaves you.

"...So tell me," you say, conversationally. "What would you do, if you were to fall in love with your asshole best friend's lover?"

You don't care for her opinion, really, but it occurs to you here that you have no one else to ask...except Gregory, and possibly Wendy. For obvious reasons, you cannot. This is your only option for advice, and it makes you feel grossly pathetic and desperate. Merde.

"...You mean if I fell in love with Gregory," Bebe says. The way she says it, with just the slightest smirk on her face, makes you instantly wary. The cunt is sly, you will give her that, and you do not want to play these games with her.

"I suppose, ouias," you grit out, thoroughly rankled in spite of your attempts to stay collected.

"Hmm," Bebe taps a finger to her chin, thoughtful. Her eyes twinkle as she turns the matter over. "I'd tell him," she decides, with a shrug. "I wouldn't torture myself over it. I mean, I wouldn't expect him to break up with his girlfriend for me, but I'm a big believer in honesty. The truth will set you free, and all that good stuff." Her look softens into an expression you are sure is unmerited. It is almost like sympathy. You don't want her fucking pity!

"...The worst he can say is no, after all. Probably nothing will change, but I will definitely have gotten it off my chest," she reaches over to pat you, and you violently shrug her off.

You should have known anything she had to say would be useless. "Then what is the point of telling him?"

"Because then I don't have to pretend!" she says. There is a frustrated edge in her voice. "Pretending is exhausting. I don't wanna star in my own little tragedy."

Neither do you, but nor do you want to get punched in the fucking mouth. "Wendy will not take it well."

Bebe gives you the same look Gregory gives you when you refuse to separate your loads of laundry or use the dishwasher to clean your boots, and you know she has given up on you.

Mercifully, that means the rest of the ride is quiet, even when you take your cigarettes out again.

You find Gregory by the outdoor fireplace in his backyard, and he is obviously not expecting you.

"Where have you been?" he asks when you sit down beside him. "I've not seen you in days." He holds up his wrist and taps on the face of your now beyond-battered watch it with a finger.

You smile and hold up his watch as well. You still can't use the thing to tell time; useless piece of shit. You just get the time off your fucking phone. "Counting the minutes, euh?"

"More like savoring the quiet and wondering if it would end prematurely," Gregory rolls his eyes, but smiles. Then his eyes fall to your watch, and the smile fades off entirely.

"When is the last time you wound that?" He ask with a frown, and grabs your wrist to bring it in for an inspection.

"What are you talking about now, putain?" you squint at him. This prissy fucking watch required regular maintenance? It just figured that Gregory would give you such an inconvenient gift. He is and always will be a persnickety little bitch.

"For Heaven's sake," he undoes the complicated little clasp and slips the watch off your hand. "Here, let me."

Using your watch as a reference, he works to set it right. He pulls the tiny gold knob at the top and twists by rolling between his fingers it a good many times before giving it back to you. You hold your hand out to accept the thing, but you eye it with a new skepticism after you take it.

"How often do you have to fuck around with this bullshit?" You dangle it in front of your face as you ask. It's ticking now, and you guess it was always supposed to do that. You never really noticed that it had stopped. Sometimes, you're not very observant.

"You wind it every day," Gregory explains. "That's how you keep it in working order."

"For fuck's sake! You have not given me a gift! You've given me a goddamned chore!." You knew this was a stupid thing for Gregory to give you. You've no business wearing a watch that needs winding and probably costs more than your mother's car. Such a thing is wasted on you, and you knew that from the start.

"Don't be ridiculous," Gregory scoffs.

"I'm not going to remember to wind it every day, cher," you hold it back out to him instead of putting it on. "Give me my crappy watch back. Let us return things to the way they belong."

Gregory brow furrows then. He looks at the watch, and at you. He doesn't say anything, but you can see that he knows the truth of what you imply. Who were you kidding, wearing this thing that did not belong anywhere near you? He down looks at the ratty, fuzz-covered wristband of the watch he traded for the one in your hand. You see in his face as well: it doesn't belong there either. It looks absurd beside the silk-stitched, hand-tailored material of his oxford shirt with the ivory buttons. It doesn't match. It has never matched.

He reaches out as if to take the gold watch back. You feel that twang in your chest again, and goddamnit, you need to smoke less. Or at least switch to one of those faggy E-cigarettes.

"It's ok," you reassure him, though for some reason that choked-off feeling is back in your throat. You cough to clear it. He lowers his eyes, gaze flicking away from yours.

But then he places both hands over yours. Instead of accepting the watch back, he closes your fingers around it to make you take it back.

"To tell you the truth, I've grown fond of your old watch," he says, and his voice is nothing but polite and apologetic. "I fixed it up all on my own, you see. And I've grown used to all its delightful little functions. You can set an alarm, use it as a timer, and it's very accurate—down to the millisecond, see?" He smiles, and shakes his head a bit. "All my old watch did was tick."

You look at the thing in your hands, and then back at him. You smile; what a horse's ass Gregory is.

"So I'm sorry," he says, closing the matter with a regretful tone. "You threw your old watch away, and so it's mine now, and the one you have now was a gift. I certainly don't want it back. I've no use for it now anyway."

You cross your arms, mock irritated about this. "Is that so?"

"Afraid it is, Darling," Gregory shrugs, as if the matter is out of his hands. "...But how about this? Every day, when I first see you, I will wind your watch for you. That way it will at least keep time properly for you, yes?"

You arch a brow at him. "And what if you forget? What if you don't see me? What if you go on and leave me behind, and then all I've got is a stupid watch that doesn't keep time?"

He pauses only a moment, and then he shrugs at you, cheerily.

"I suppose that watch can serve as proof," he says. "Of what I should have said to you all those years ago, instead of 'sorry.'" He looks down a moment, but quickly finds your eyes again, holding them bravely.

"Christophe, whenever you look down to your watch, still ticking—time exactly the same as the time on the one around my wrist, you'll know I kept my promise to never let you down again. I'll always do my part." He grins, in earnest, and you can't help but smile too—and worse, feel an itch behind your eyes that is suspiciously like tears.

"It's a small thing, a small way to prove it, but I just..." the corner of Gregory's lip turns up, and for the first time, he sounds a little unsure. "I want you to know you can count on me."

There are a lot of things you could say. But Gregory is the eloquent one, so instead you just sigh, and put the watch back on, around your wrist. There is a tan-line that perfectly matches the watch band. So you guess it belongs there afterall. It is a perfect match.

"Just one thing," you say, sharply. "Fucking teach me how to read this thing."

So he laughs, and he does.




If you enjoyed this story, remember to check out the original artwork that inspired it!