Ma says it doesn’t get better and tells me that Jabba the Hut will always be behind me, lurking, poking fun at me with his fat gut and frog face. She says I should worry. Says I should learn how to run like a real man. Like Lance Armstrong. I tell ma Lance doesn’t run. He bikes, I say. So what, she says. At least he can haul butt away from that Frog Hut. Ma says things because I ask her things. Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t ask her anything but then I think, well then, what will I write about? I tell ma my new friend at school, my new best friend, is gay. By gay I mean he likes to do it with nice clothes on and deodorant. She says that’s cute that’s nice who cares and I say I care because he’s depressed because the girls call him faggot and boys call him potty mouth. I won’t go there but he says he wants to die. Wants to fly to Neptune. Wants to give up the ghost and hang out with the dead. The six feet under stinky feet dead. The dead dead. So dead that he can’t come back kind of dead. Even if they use CPR. He doesn’t want to come back. I tell him it’s gotta get better and showed him what’ll happen when he turns 18. He can star in his own youtube video with sexy guys and wear cute tee shirts and have Justin Bieber hair. I swear, I tell him. Trust. Me. He trusts me. But I don’t trust him. I only see him 7 hours a day, five days a week. Ma says I should move in with him. I tell ma she should go do something with herself. The door knocks and it’s my new BFF’s mother. I open the door but I won’t tell you what she says because I have to go to school right now and tell my new BFF about Jeffrey Self and Guy Branum.