I'm Not Going to Think About Him, a south park fanfic

A/N: Um. This is inspired the Tales of Mere Existence series, as seen on YouTube. You could watch the video ("I'm Not Going to Think About Her") online, and I recommend that you do in order to get the best impact out of this story.

I really should be doing homework. It's past 12 AM and I've barely started. I've also been in a very bitter mood since I woke up from my nap about 6 hours ago, which is the time in which this was written. Writing this actually made me feel a lot better. Like, a lot better. It's a great writing exercise and I think I'll do it more often...

Oh, boo, I'm rambling. Please enjoy this installment of angst and all.

I'm Not Going to Think About Him

I'm not going to think about him.

I'm not going to think about him anymore.

I'm not going to think about the way his hair was practically fluorescent yellow.

I'm not going to think about the way he never combed his hair.

(And I'm most definitely not going to think about how well I thought he pulled that off.)

I'm not going to think about how big his eyes were.

I'm not going to think about how he always had bags under those eyes.

I'm not going to think about how he wouldn't sleep for days until I made him.

I'm not going to think about the way the bridge of his nose curved inward and back out at the tip.

I'm not going to think about the way his freckles only showed in the sunlight.

I'm not going to think about how small and pink and delicate his lips were.

(And I'm so totally not going to think about how he said he would "prefer kissing me over drinking a cup of coffee.")

I'm not going to think about what a meaningful compliment that is coming from him.

I'm not going to think about that ridiculous caffeine addiction he had (and I'm not going to think about how I almost forgot not to think about that).

I'm not going to think about how I always used to hit him when we were young.

I'm not going to think about how he never understood that I did it because I liked him.

(And there's no way in Hell I'm going to think about that fight we had in third grade.)

I'm not going to think about how after the fight, we were right next to each other in the hospital, and we just lied there, talking.

I'm not going to think about how squirmy he was when I tried to gel down his hair to look as gay as me, that one time in fourth grade.

(And I'm not going to think about how I knew no one could look gayer than me, that one time in fourth grade.)

I'm not going to think about how he never buttoned his shirt correctly.

I'm not going to think about how cute I thought that was.

I'm not going to think about the time he told me, via text message, that he really wanted animal crackers.

("CRAIG!! I WANT ANIMAL CRACKRS………")

I'm not going to think about how I knew how much he hated texting.

I'm not going to think about how I knew that despite his hatred of texting, he must have wanted animal crackers really badly.

I'm not going to think about how I bought him a huge jar of animal crackers from 7-11 and left them on his doorstep.

I'm not going to think about how scared he got when he thought someone had poisoned the animal crackers.

I'm not going to think about how he ate them anyway.

I'm not going to think about how he never suspected they were from me.

("Craig! Y-You know how I wanted animal crackers yesterday?"

"Yeah?"

"W-Well, I was s-sick in bed, remember? And I didn't really want to get out of bed, a-and then the doorbell rang, but my mom was in the shower, and my dad was at work, and I thought it could have been an axe murderer, so I didn't really wanna get it, but my mom told me through the bathroom door to answer it, a-and I didn't want to! I didn't! But I did! And someone left me a huge jar of animal crackers! But I thought they were poisoned, because – because – because—")

I'm not going to think about how he always got stuck on the word 'because'.

("—because who would leave me a jar of animal crackers? But when I brought them inside, they seemed kind of fine, I guess, so I-I ate a bunch of them, and I had a stomach-ache, so then I knew what happened!"

"What happened?"

"It was the gnomes! Th-They left me a—")

I'm not going to think about how I don't remember what he said after that because I was gazing into his eyes.

I'm not going to think about him.

I'm not going to think about how he felt bad for eating those animal crackers a week later, because he thought that for each one he ate, he actually killed an animal.

I'm not going to think about how his nose would scrunch up whenever he drank bad coffee.

I'm not going to think about how he got really ticked off at this coffee place this one time in Denver because they served him cold coffee.

I'm not going to think about how that waiter was looking at him.

I'm not going to think about how I almost punched that waiter's brains out.

("You call this a coffee house?! You guys are frauds! FRAUDS!")

I'm not going to think about how he always stared into the bottom of his coffee mug when he finished it, like it was art.

I'm not going to think about how he sucked on caramel and toffee candies after drinking at least three cups of coffee.

I'm not going to think about how I always stole those little candies right out of his mouth when he least suspected.

I'm not going to think about how when I came home from work, he'd always be at stove trying to cook dinner for us.

I'm not going to think about how many times he burned the pasta.

(And I'm not going to think about how he always told me I made the "best lasagna in the world".)

I'm not going to think about how he always forgot how to spell 'lasagna'.

I'm not going to think about how he freaked out because he responded whenever I called him 'Fabulous'.

("Hey, Fabulous?"

"Yes, Crai – GAH! Why did I respond to 'Fabulous'?!"

"Because you know you are.")

I'm not going to think about him.

I'm not going to think about the little birthmark on his neck.

(And I'm not going to think about how I always told him it looked kinda like a turtle.)

I'm not going to think about how angry he got when I turned Three Days Grace up really loud in my earbuds.

I'm not going to think about how he was afraid I'd go deaf.

I'm not going to think about how one day, I pretended like I couldn't hear him.

I'm not going to think about the mini-heart attack he had about that.

I'm not going to think about how badly he always wanted a puppy.

I'm not going to think about how he gawked in the window as we passed the pet store.

I'm not going to think about how I said I'd buy him one for Christmas.

I'm not going to think about how I never did.

I'm not going to think about how disappointed he was.

I'm not going to think about how I almost broke down when I saw his face.

("Oh, my God – is it a puppy? T-Tell me it's a puppy!"

"M-Maybe.")

I'm not going to think about how he ran out to out half-assed Christmas tree and saw a box that could not have possibly contained a puppy.

("G-Gah! Is the puppy dead?!"

"You could say that.")

I'm not going to think about how he tried to hold in his disappointment.

I'm not going to think about how he still stayed with me that Christmas.

("It's okay… th-there's always my birthday.")

I'm not going to think about how we picked out that Christmas tree.

I'm not going to think about how it was even shorter than him.

I'm not going to think about how he was 5"4'.

I'm not going to think about how we made a string of popcorn for the tree.

I'm not going to think about how he would yell at me for eating the popcorn as we went along.

(And I'm so not going to think about how he would just laugh afterwards.)

I'm not going to think about how much money we spent on candy canes.

I'm not going to think about how even three months after Christmas, we still had the candy canes lying around the house.

I'm not going to think about New Year's, when we went to Clyde's party and he had his first beer.

I'm not going to think about how he spit it up all over my dress shirt.

I'm not going to think about how I told him it was okay.

("Gah! Cr-Craig, I'm so sorry, oh, my God, oh, my God… L-Let's get you cleaned up! In fact, I'll buy you a new one!"

"No, Fabulous, it's okay. No worries, the stain'll come out.)

I'm not going to think about how he still insisted he'd buy me a new shirt, days after.

I'm not going to think about how whenever we did go shopping, he would buy sports teams' T-shirts for himself.

I'm not going think about how he didn't know they were sports' teams, and how he just liked the bright colors.

I'm not going to think about how I never even told him they were sports teams.

("'Mariners'? What's a 'mariner'?"

"I dunno."

"The shirt's r-really a nice blue though…"

"I think you should get it."

"I-I think so too.")

I'm not going to think about how I really wanted to make out with him whenever he wore black and white stripes.

("I think I look like a prisoner!"

"I think you look fabulous."

"B-But you always think I look fabulous!"

"Yes, I am aware of this."

"B-But—! Never mind…"

"That's what I thought.)

I'm not going to think about him.

I'm not going to think about the first time I asked him out.

I'm not going to think about how quickly he said, "Yes."

I'm not going to think about how young and innocent we were.

I'm not going to think about how he put on a dorky tie for the date.

I'm not going to think about how I'd noticed his shirt has also been buttoned correctly.

I'm not going to think about how nervous we both were.

I'm not going to think about how he sneezed on me when we met by Stark's Pond.

I'm not going to think about how he almost fell into Stark's Pond.

I'm not going to think about what a disaster that could have been if I hadn't caught him before falling.

I'm not going to think about how I used to like it nice and boring, and I'm not going to think about after having a date at Stark's Pond, which was about as cliché as anyone could get, how I decided I didn't like things nice and boring anymore.

I'm not going to think about how I asked him if we could go somewhere else more fun.

("Hey."

"Y-Yeah?"

"Let's go someplace more fun."

"L-Like where?"

"I dunno, we could screw around town. Scare children, maybe."

"S-Scare children!?"

"Kidding. But hey, everyone comes to Stark's Pond for dates. What say we break off the tradition and be different?"

"Well, I-I don't know, I'm having a fine time right here by the water, I don't see why we should leave just because—"

"Let's go.")

I'm not going to think about how I grabbed his arm and ran off with him in the great unknowns of South Park.

(And I'm not going to think about how the "great unknowns" were really just the parts of town where lots of people crowded around, just waiting to be annoyed.)

I'm not going to think about how I knew that it must have been the most fun he had in a long time.

I'm not going to think about how we got kicked out of Whistlin' Willy's for actually scaring children.

I'm not going to think about how bad he felt for scaring the children.

(And I'm also not going to think about how he scared them anyway, and laughed with me.)

I'm not going to think about how long the walk was back to my house, even with the bus ride.

I'm not going to think about how he called his mom to tell her he was staying over my house that night.

I'm not going to think about how we sat next to each other in my bed (still innocent) watching Red Racer DVDs and Terrance and Philip reruns.

I'm not going to think about how he fell asleep on my shoulder at 4 AM.

I'm not going to think about how truly warm he was.

(And I'm not going to think about how when I woke up, he was still there.)

I'm not going to think about him.

I'm not going to think about how we spent our time together.

I'm not going to think about how I wouldn't want to spend my time with anyone else.

(And I'm not going to think about how I knew the feeling was mutual.)

I'm not going to think about the way his laugh sounded.

I'm not going to think about how ticklish he was.

I'm not going to think about the time he lost his Xanax.

I'm not going to think about how he stayed home from work for days until he found it.

I'm not going to think about how I went to the pharmacy at 5 AM and got him some more, because I knew it was long gone.

I'm not going to think about how I never told him I'd accidently vacuumed it up.

(And I'm not going to think about how I was vacuuming even though it was his turn to vacuum that week.)

I'm not going to think about what his apartment looked like before he moved in with me.

I'm not going to think about how spotless everything was.

I'm not going to think about the plastic covering he put on his sofas and armchairs.

I'm not going to think about how there wasn't a trace of a fingerprint on his bathroom mirror.

I'm not going to think about how all the food in his fridge was alphabetized.

I'm not going to think about how he put gnome-proof locks on his underpants drawer.

I'm not going to think about how his bed had looked like as though it had never been slept in.

(And I'm not going to think about how quickly that changed.)

I'm not going to think about the first time he asked me to do it with him.

I'm not going to think about how I was really, actually kind of nervous.

(I'm definitely not going to think about how he never even considered topping.)

I'm not going to think about how much it hurt for him.

I'm not going to think about how much it hurt for me.

I'm not going to think about how long we lasted.

(And I'm not going to think about how it was decently long.)

I'm not going to think about how when we were done, he fell asleep on my shoulder at 4 AM.

I'm not going to think about how truly warm he was.

(And I'm not going to think about how when I woke up, he was still there.)

I'm not going to think about him.

I'm not going to think about when he came out to his parents.

I'm not going to think about how his dad kind of freaked out.

I'm not going to think about how his mom accepted it.

I'm not going to think about how his parents got into a fight.

I'm not going to think about how he fainted at my feet.

I'm not going to think about how much pressure it must have been for him.

I'm not going to think about how I lifted him over my shoulder and carried him back to the car.

I'm not going to think about how when he woke up at home, I made him lasagna.

I'm not going to think about how fast he inhaled that stuff.

I'm not going to think about him.

I'm not going to think about how he always told me to stop smoking.

I'm not going to think about how the more he told me that, the more I'd smoke.

I'm not going to think about how he would hide my Marlboros when I wasn't looking.

I'm not going to think about how he kind of sucked at hiding them.

I'm not going to think about how he always told me I'd burn down the apartment one day.

("C-Craig, I think you should consider quitting very soon… y-you could burn down the house one day!"

"Burn it down? Naw. Don't worry about that."

"B-But researches say that… that 30 percent of house fires are caused by smoking!"

"Well, what say we be part of that 70 percent?")

I'm not going to think about how he was right.

I'm not going to think about how I was smoking while cooking some Italian dish.

I'm not going to think about how my cigarette fell onto the stove.

I'm not going to think about how quickly a flame emerged.

I'm not going to think about how I freaked out like a Sim.

I'm not going to think about how I panicked too much to remember where the fire extinguisher was.

I'm not going to think about how I wasn't going to think about not thinking about this, and how long not thinking about it took, and in that time, the fire spread across the whole stove.

(I wasn't going to think about that.)

I'm not going to think about how loud the smoke alarm was.

I'm not going to think about how the kitchen was burning, and my ears were hurting at the same time.

I'm not going to think about how he started to cry and panic and tug at his hair and scream and yell for help.

I'm not going to think about how long it took me to remember the fire notice stuck on our front door.

I'm not going to think about how I grabbed his hand, along with the keys and cell phones, and told everyone on the floor about the fire.

I'm not going to think about how he was having a panic attack.

I'm not going to think about how by the time the firefighters came, more than half of our apartment was gone.

I'm not going to think about how fast I quit smoking.

I'm not going to think about him.

I'm not going to think about how we had to move to a shittier apartment.

(And it was not a good time to think about how I lost all my Red Racer DVDs.)

I'm not going to think about how glad I was that he was okay.

I'm not going to think about how he kind of didn't really talk to me for a few days.

I'm not going to think about how I went up to him and said I was sorry.

("Hey."

"…Hello."

"Look, I—"

"Mhm."

"—I'm sorry… about the…"

"You don't have to say it. I know you're sorry."

"You know, it wasn't really my faul—"

"Of course it was! I warned you, I told you, I tried to help you. And now this is all we have? I thought you were smarter than that.")

I'm not going to think about the burn he got on his left hand.

I'm not going to think about the burns I got on my forearms.

I'm not going to think about how truly sorry I was (am).

I'm not going to think about what I tried to remind him.

("'This is all we have'? Are you saying that just because we lost our old home, that our safety just isn't good enough for you?")

I'm not going to think about how he was silent after that.

("…I'm glad you quit."

"Me too.")

I'm not going to think about him.

I'm not going to think about I fell even deeper in love with him every day.

I'm not going to think about just how much more beautiful he got every time I woke up next to him.

I'm not going to think about how much I love(d) him.

I'm not going to think about how many years it took me to say that to him.

I'm not going to think about how when I said "I love you", he broke down in tears.

I'm not going to think about how many years it took after that for him to tell me he loves me too.

I'm not going to think about the first time he said, "I love you."

I'm not going to think about how faintly he whispered it to me.

I'm not going to think about how my stomach dropped.

I'm not going to think about how hot my face felt, nor will I think about how quickly I crashed my own lips with his and said, "I love you, too."

I'm not going to think about how I kind of cried (but not really, because that's not manly).

I'm not going to think about how he kind of cried, too.

I'm not going to think about how he broke down even more.

I'm not going to think about how he was crying into my shoulder, apologizing about not saying it to me earlier.

I'm not going to think about how I stroked his hair and told him that there was no rush for love.

I'm not going to think about how he fell asleep on me again at 4 AM.

I'm not going to think about him.

I'm not going to think about how much he's grown since I've met him.

I'm not going to think about the beautiful young man he's become.

I'm not going to think about how he buttons his shirts correctly (almost) every time.

I'm not going to think about how he combs his hair (occasionally).

I'm not going to think about how his hair color has been perfectly preserved (it's never once faded).

I'm not going to think about how he still thinks gnomes take his underwear (yet he's learned to negotiate with them).

I'm not going to think about how he still has a caffeine addiction (I hope that never changes).

I'm not going to think about how big his eyes still are (and how they change color according to his mood).

I'm not going to think about how his freckles still only show in the sunlight (all across his perfect, button nose).

I'm not going to think about him.

I'm not going to think about how I always cared about him.

I'm not going to think about how he only kind of cared about me.

I'm not going to think about how he was so absorbed in his own problems.

I'm not going to think about how I kept my problems to myself.

I'm not going to think about how much I helped him with his problems.

I'm not going to think about how he didn't see mine.

I'm not going to think about how I was losing pay.

(And I'm not going to think about how I didn't tell him.)

I'm not going to think about how he said "my best wasn't good enough".

I'm not going to think about him.

I'm not going to think about how he stopped kissing me when I came home.

I'm not going to think about how I stopped making lasagna.

I'm not going to think about how he started going to bed before 4 AM.

I'm not going to think about how he started to take more medication.

I'm not going to think about him.

I'm not going to think about his sudden, unpredictable move.

I'm not going to think about how he said it right after we'd finished two rounds.

(And I'm not going to think about how it stopped being fun a long time ago.)

I'm not going to think about how calm he was (kind of).

I'm not going to think about how he actually was about to cry.

("Craig, I think we should stop seeing each other.")

I'm not going to think about how he said that.

("What? Why?"

"I… I… I…"

"Is there something wrong?")

I'm not going to think about how that question was horribly rhetorical.

("I don't know, I… I… Never mind."

"You can't just 'never mind' after saying something like that. What's up?"

"Nothing. Nothing.")

I'm not going to think about how he was lying.

("Tell me. You know you can."

"N-No, I can't."

"The first step to solving a problem is admitting you have one!")

I'm not going to think about how terribly uncomforting that quote was.

("Like I said, I… I just think that we should stop seeing each other. S-Simple."

"It's not that 'simple'."

"I know it isn't! It's just… It…"

"It's not you, it's me? I think we should start seeing other people? There's someone else? Take your pick."

"No! It's none of those."

"Thank God."

"It's hard to explain. I mean… you realize what's been going on lately, r-right?"

"If we're thinking about the same thing, then yes, I am."

"What are you thinking about?"

"That we're out of Captain Crunch."

"S-Stop trying to change the subject!")

I'm not going to think about how he always saw right through me.

("Craig, I—I… ugh, never mind. Just never mind!")

I'm not going to think about how he curled himself up in the blanket and faced the window.

I'm not going to think about how I faced the same way and put my arm around him.

I'm not going to think about what I whispered.

("If you want to leave, you can.")

I'm not going to think about what was going through my mind at that moment (if you really love something, let it go).

I'm not going to think about how he responded.

I'm not going to think about how it was another breakdown of waterworks.

I'm not going to think about how this is a cycle I've noticed.

I'm not going to think about how I felt him jerk up and down in silent tears against me.

I'm not going to think about what he said.

("I love you.")

I'm not going to think about how cliché it was, or how cheesy or pathetic or whatever word anyone wants to call it.

I'm not going to think about how I think it's called 'love'.

I'm not going to think about how I replied.

("I love you, too.")

I'm really, really, really not going to think about what I said next.

("You can go.")

I'm not going to think about how when I said that, the sun began to rise.

(And I'm not going to think about how when I woke up, he wasn't there.)