Hi. I'm Woth.

I'm probably cooler than you.

I've got a gay friend. She's chill.

I've got a loser friend, too. He's not so chill.

And then there's me.

I'm basically a professional asshole.

I need a card for that.

Anyway!

My poor little loser (Swans, for those who bother with names) and I live right next door, and have for twelve stinkin' years, no less.

Every night, he comes over to do homework, chill in my basement, and play the best damn video game in creation.

"SEAT SURGEONS!"

It's about these two guys named Dr. Taffy and Dr. Snicker who go around the world repairing chairs, and you play as them. It's lit as fuck.

"Aaaaah, he's dying on us, man!" I cried, furiously punching the buttons on my controller. "We're losing him, we're losing him!"

"Then sew him back up!" Swans replies. He's less into the game than I am, but he enjoys it nonetheless.

"Ummm..." says Robin, who's sitting by the minifridge with S.T. "What exactly are they doing?"

"I've learned to stop asking," S.T. advises.

Then, S.T.'s little bro Peacock rushes downstairs with an armful of those crappy Halloween cookies you buy at Walmart. His parents technically don't let him eat junk food after school because of baseball, but I let him eat whatever the hell he wants so long as it doesn't have my name on it, so I'm obviously his favorite of S.T.'s friends.

"What's up, little dude?" I ask, my eyes not leaving the screen. This stitching must be precise.

"Mhahamghrf," Peacock answers through a mouthful of cookies.

"Good to know," I respond, adding the final stitch and pumping my fist when I get a perfect score.

--

Even though I am immensely opposed to the idea of such unnecessary exercise, Swans believes we're obligated to walk S.T. and Peacock home every night, even though they only live three blocks down.

S.T. and Robin were walking ahead of us, talking away, Swans was somehow able to read and not run into lampposts while doing so, and Peacock and I were tossing around a baseball.

Now, you might be wondering, Woth, why would you and this nine-year-old be throwing around an item famous for breaking windows so close to so many windows? Well, the simple answer, lads, is that we're idiots.

So, I lob one a little high and Peacock dodges, which causes him to bump into his sister and bump her into the arms of a certain bird-namesaked girl.

S.T.'s face goes red. "Oh... Hi," she says awkwardly before shaking herself from Robin's grip and darting off.

Everyone stands for a moment, not sure what to do. Then, my favorite little guy goes :

"Woth missed his shot!"

Little shit.