A/N: I would say what this is heavily inspired by, but I have a feeling that would give away too much. Starts with an 'F'.

I'm taking a walk.

My normal route. Take Chestnut away from my house to avoid that old lady that turns into a vulture every time I turn my back on her, turn onto Maple to give the teenage girl with the skull face a wide berth, take a left onto Birch to stay away from that asshole with dried human carcasses hanging from the roof.

Then I can get back home without too much trouble.

Normally, at least. Sometimes there are complications—like that tree that kept moving into my path that one time, or the little girl with bat wings that wanted to snack on my ears.

And sometimes Dawson shows up.

Like today.

Dawson pulls up next to me in his fake cop car, all smirking glory. The car says 'booty patrol' in massive black letters, and it's got Japanese on it. He calls it the Booty, and laughs every time he uses the name.

I remember the day Dawson painted the Booty, he got some white weeaboo to translate, he said it was an open invitation for girls to climb in and fuck him.

I wrote the characters down one day and asked my mom's Japanese friend to translate, and she gave me a horrified look and said it means 'I like putting my hot dog in other peoples' buns'.

Maybe that was what Dawson was going for, though.

I have some dignity, some self-respect, so I can't help but cringe as Dawson pulls into a red zone, engine purring. I don't want to be seen talking to a guy with a booty patrol car.

I start to walk down Sticky Monkey st., trying to ignore the Booty cruising next to me.

"I love the name of this street!" Dawson yells at me. "Doesn't it sound dirty? Sounds like a word for your dick or somethin'. 'Hey, girl, wanna touch my sticky monkey?'"

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. "It's a plant that sticks to clothing, pervert."

I get a weird look from a woman walking her dog on the other side of the street. She starts to jog a little faster.

Great. It's already starting.

"Where do you learn all this useless shit, man? I mean, do they teach you this in school?" Dawson asks, stopping the car and reclining his seat.

He knows that I have to have a conversation with him now. He's not going anywhere.

"I don't know, did they? Because you were with me the whole way through," I say, a little aggravated.

"I skipped a few more weeks than you did," Dawson says. "Man, that school was great, they let me skip out all the time and no one ever cared. Why'd you have to get us kicked out?"

"That was my fault? You were the one who convinced me it would be a good idea to go cow tipping drunk off our asses."

"You're the one who killed the cow," Dawson says, examining his nails.

"You're the one who found the baseball and broke the school's window."

"You're the one who forgot his chemistry book."

"Yeah, well, you convinced me to go and get it," I say.

"I thought you would clean the blood up, man, that one's on you!" Dawson says, raising his hands.

"You know, you're the one that got me drunk in the first place. All of this is your fault," I say.

"Uh-huh. It's all my fault, I suck so much…at least I'm not the lunatic."

Dawson knows he's gone too far. He smirks, and starts to laugh as I kick his car.

He loves the Booty. He doesn't ever let me in it, and I've known him thirteen years, ever since he knocked me down in the sandbox and pissed on my leg.

I've tried to take my anger out on the Booty before, but it just stays immaculately disgusting, nothing I do ever harms it.

I tire myself out kicking at it, and there's not even a scrape.

Dawson, meanwhile, is laughing so hard he's crying.

"You need to…toughen yourself up…man," he chokes out, between peals of laughter.

"Don't call me a fucking lunatic!"

"Why does that bother you so much?"

"I expect too much from you," I say.

"Now that's the first time anyone's ever told me that," Dawson says, catching his breath and starting to calm down. "Hey, you pumped for summer, man?"

"Sure. You can call me crazy some more, it'll be great."

"Just think, this is gonna be our last summer where we're still kids. I'd feel sad if I hadn't been waiting for this my whole goddamn life."

"Why? So you can—"

"Perform debauchery without punishment. Yes. But this summer, fuck getting punished. We're gonna party, man. I'm talking Gatsby-worthy parties. And orgies." Dawson looks very excited at this prospect.

"You actually read Gatsby?" I ask, really surprised.

"Nah. Saw the movie with Candy the other day. Almost passed out from boredom."

Candy is Dawson's hooker girlfriend.

"Great, well, have a good time." I start to walk again.

"You're coming too. This is our last summer without responsibility, and you're a virgin. I would be a horrible friend if I let my best man stay a virgin through his halcyon days."

"You're a horrible friend anyway," I say, and run off.

"Aw, c'mon, man!" he yells after me, but I don't listen.

I'm so aggravated at him for no real reason. I guess at the fact that I let him walk all over me and never fight back.

I'm so blinded by irrational emotion that I walk right past a kid with a starfish hand without looking back.

This neighborhood has really gone to the dogs.

A/N: All feedback is massively appreciated.