What a total fucking poser. If Stevo could rip hisself in half, just to kick the shit out of that half for being such a pose— he would do it in a heartbeat. He didn’t like thinking about it.

You were just some girl he’d liked as a kid, never did he ever think he’d have a chance with you, and that chance got even more ruined when he dove into his punk lifestyle.

He hated it, he hated you— he wanted to, he was supposed to. You were part of the stupid, fucked up system that he hated so much, your parents dragged you to church every sunday for crying out loud. Stevo would be a liar if he hadn’t imagined you praying, on your knees, once or twice.

It wasn’t like you were super devout on your own, Stevo could tell you allowed your parents to keep some hold over you. Sometimes, he’d remind himself that you were cool. You always had been, even by his new standards and that’s what sucked.

Your dad was a fucking cop. So, why was he sitting with you right now, your dress past your knees respectably, while he worked on rolling a joint?

This was a spontaneous get together, you two weren’t really ever friends, but he saw you on the street and asked you to hang out, he wasn’t exactly sure that you’d say yes.

“You smoked before, princess?” He grinned over at you, teasing and giddy. “And I mean, this shit, it’s not like a fuckin’ pussy cigarette.”