Failure To Thrive

Breakfast

Hello, everybody. In this chapter, "fat" is used in a derogatory sense, but not in the way it seems. These words have been with me for most of my life, and I can assure you that the inclusion of the word "fat" is not used in the context of fatphobia. This is used in the context of the rejection of the right to one's own body, which is perceived as taking up too much space to be allowed in the world and undeserving of life; this only applies to the individual self, not to other people. I'm sorry, I suck at explaining this.Text in bold and italics indicates "voices"

June 15, 1996

"Hurry up, I have to take a leak!" Butt-Head shouted at the shut bathroom door. He heard Beavis mumble something incoherent and groaned, knowing his perpetually constipated housemate was going to take forever in there again. There would be absolutely no point in waiting when Beavis had to take his morning crap. His shoulders slumping, Butt-Head wandered to the back door and pushed it open, stepping on the pitiful sliver of concrete that served as the back porch. The morning air was already muggy, the sun hardly higher than the neighboring houses and the sparse patches of grass damp. Contemplating where to relieve himself, he ambled around the fenced-in strip of dirt and ended up deciding to pee on a large anthill. Whoa, that's a lot of ants. Readjusting his pants when he finished, he stepped over a discarded box that once held firecrackers and made the whole five steps to the back door without tripping.
Slamming the door, he stepped into the foyer adjacent to the kitchen. Giggling and picking at his nails, he wandered over to the haphazardly cluttered counter and reached for a cupboard when he caught a glimpse of red. Retracting his hand, he inspected the cuticles of his left index and middle fingers, which were adorned with bright red beads of blood. He watched, mesmerized, as they welled up. He knew he needed to wipe them off, but he was alone at the moment and the blood was so... pretty. Slasher films were cool and all, but real blood up close was different, entrancing, nearly intimate. Really, he had no idea how Beavis could freak out over something as stupid a simple nosebleed. The bloodstains were still embedded in that shirt he wore that day; if it had been Butt-Head's shirt and blood, he would've worn it like a badge of honor. Badge of honor? What? Ugh, sometimes he wondered if Beavis wasn't the only weird one in this house, but he couldn't help it; the sight of it was almost addicting. Glancing at the handful wrappers, half-empty boxes, and grimy but sharp silverware scattered on the counter, he scratched his neck. Getting prodded by doctors with spiky needles and crap was one thing, but sometimes he couldn't help imagining himself being the one in control of his own body, the one to, uh... he jolted when he heard the toilet flush. Wow, Beavis remembered to flush this time. Well, he didn't hear the sink running though Beavis had just stepped out of the bathroom, but Legos weren't built in a day or however it goes. As Beavis shuffled out of the bathroom and walked down the hall toward the kitchen, Butt-Head grabbed a couple of crumpled fast food napkins, hastily wiping his fingers clean.
"Uhhh, hey, how's it goin'?" Beavis mumbled, rubbing his eyes with hands that definitely weren't washed. Butt-Head shrugged, stashing the lightly bloodied napkins into the overfilled trash can; left to his own devices, he would've stared at those blots and stains on the napkins for a few seconds too long, but he wasn't alone, so sacrifices had to be made. He reached for the cupboard, pulling out a box of chocolate cereal. He shoved his tongue against the inside of his lip, trying to ease the ache of the bracket scraping against the blister there. Stupid braces. There was an uneasy feeling in the pit of the stomach as his eyes skimmed over Beavis, who was busy fixing his fly, before he returned his gaze to the box. He didn't know what the feeling was or why it was there, but something had been seeming kind of off lately. Whatever it was, he wasn't exactly sure. Maybe it wasn't important. Yeah, it probably wasn't.
"Uhh, do you, like, want breakfast today?" But-Head glanced at Beavis, having a feeling he knew what the answer would be but still hoping for something different.
"Uhh, nah," Beavis muttered, glancing at the couch, tapping his foot in that way when he's worried about missing something on TV.
"Why not?" Butt-Head blurted out. "You don't have to do what we did back then, you know." They had enough food now to have multiple meals a day, so there wasn't a need to save every last bite anymore. He wondered if maybe Beavis was just sticking to his old habits like when they were little kids, unemployed and neglected. Still, asking why felt kind of embarrassing. He didn't want to accidentally start some conversation about feelings or something. Ew.
"Uhh, no, just not hungry, and cereal kind of sucks," Beavis said, an amused smile on his face. He was entertained by But-Head's train of thought, but he hoped they could watch TV soon. He scratched his neck, swallowing the dumb acid that had risen in his throat.
"Why not?" Butt-Head huffed, setting the cereal box onto the table. "You like Count Chocula! I swear, you've been worse than a toddler lately."
"No, I'm not!" Beavis retorted petulantly; he just wanted to watch TV, not get grilled about a stupid breakfast. "And Count Chocula sucks anyway. It doesn't taste good anymore. Can we watch TV now?"
"Dude, nothing 'tastes good' anymore." Ignoring the last question, Butthead rolled his eyes as he set two empty bowls on the table, something absolutely unnecessary that he would never do because Beavis always prepared his food for him; heck, not even Butt-Head was entirely sure why he was even making his own food in the first place when Beavis was standing idly in front of him, the nervous laughter in the room doing little to ease either of them. "I don't even remember the last time you actually even tried to eat breakfast."
"Why does that even matter?" Beavis picked at his nose, wishing he could find something in there to flick at Butt-Head and wondering how they're even having this stupidly awkward conversation in the first place when they could just wordlessly laugh it off like they always do. No booger to be found, he retracted his finger and swallowed the acid before it rose into his mouth.
"I-I don't know. It's just weird, man." Okay, that was the dumbest thing he could have said, but he didn't know how to put what he felt in the pit of his stomach into words, so that was really the best he could do. Still, Beavis is weird personified, and even the Beav himself stopped and just gaped at him for a solid three seconds without a single laugh before stuttering out a boogerless reply.
"Y-y-you're weird! Why do you care about what I eat?" Beavis inwardly cringed at the way he directed the conversation, wishing he'd just shrugged and said "whatever" or called him a fart-knocker to end it or at least change the topic to something actually interesting. He just wanted to watch TV, not stand in the kitchen arguing about some stupid cereal, and of course he was weird, when was he not weird?
"Geez, man, are you gonna eat or not?" Butt-Head shoved one of the unfilled bowls onto the scuffed counter behind him, the faded ceramic clinking against the toaster.
"NO!" The sudden, loud tone startled both of them, silence settling heavily into the room. Butthead gave him a look of disgust, as if the blond had announced eternal loyalty to Stewart or something. At least, that's how it felt to Beavis, who promptly avoided the brunette's judging eyes. It's not his fault he's not in the mood to eat breakfast first thing in the morning. Butt-Head's just trying to make a big deal out of nothing and pick a fight. That's all.
While Butt-Head grumpily poured cereal into one bowl, the other he had gotten out earlier now sitting empty on the counter, Beavis resumed picking at his nose idly before wandering into the living room, swallowing the acid in his throat. Their usual vocal tics slowly resuming, Beavis settled onto his side of the couch, giggling and channel surfing while Butt-Head puttered around in the kitchen for a few minutes, a routine that became a lot more common thanks to their occasional small raises from slightly-underpaid shifts at Burger World.
Stupid. Fat. Gross. Ugly. Yucky. Nasty. Disgusting.
Beavis hummed along to a car ad, bobbing his head. He felt good today, like he'd been doing something right for once in his pathetic life despite the look on Butt-Head's face. The voices had always been there, but they're impossible to ignore. He's not really sure where these words came from or why this mantra kept repeating, sometimes for days on end. They always returned louder than before, so he'd finally decided to play along. Bright colors and dollar signs flashed across the suspiciously sticky screen.
Stupid. Fat. Gross. Ugly. Yucky. Nasty. Disgusting.
They never made sense, but that's alright. He believed them anyway. How couldn't he after years of listening? Besides, he was pretty good at being gross and stuff, and it's not like other people never called him any of those things. He was used to it. They didn't hurt. He picked at a loose thread on the armrest and swallowed the acid in his throat, the car ad's catchy jingle giving way to a commercial for a deodorant product he wouldn't be caught dead using.
Stupid. Fat. Gross. Ugly. Yucky. Nasty. Disgusting.
The sound of a spoon scraping against cracked ceramic abated, signaling the end of Butt-Head's breakfast. Beavis' eyes bugged out as the camera panned to show the model applying deodorant on the screen. Man, was he ripped! A chair scraped against the kitchen floor and ceramic clattered against the other dishes in the sink. Footsteps approached from the kitchen.
Stupid. Fat. Gross. Ugly. Yucky. Nasty. Disgusting.
Butt-Head walked into the living room, settling on his side of the couch and glancing at Beavis, who seemed pretty happy despite their earlier dispute. The deodorant commercial faded out, giving way to a rerun of Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids, featuring one of Beavis' favorite episodes. The brunette rolled his eyes, knowing it was going to be one of those days the blond would parrot "hey, hey, hey" and some of his favorite quotes relentlessly. Butt-Head leaned on the armrest, rubbing the spiky stubble on his chin and glancing at the sad patches of fuzz on Beavis' face, contemplating whether he should grow a beard. That'd be cool, he could, like, stash chips and money in it, oh, but then Beavis would probably yank on it nonstop. Ugh, and a beard would take forever to grow anyway. Maybe he could try to grow a cool mustache again that wouldn't look like the Monopoly guy, which is what Beavis had said last time and honestly made no sense in retrospect. His previous mustache attempt looked nothing like the Monopoly guy's mustache, Beavis was just too dumb to know anything about the fine art of mustaches. Butt-Head couldn't help not wanting to look like a total dork in front of him though, especially since once Beavis started teasing, he wouldn't stop unless he got the crap beaten out of him. Don't get him wrong, Butt-Head still gave Beavis a good smack upside the head pretty much every half hour, but it'd been a while since they actually had an actual, physical fight. He glanced at Beavis, who was staring vacantly at the TV and laughing like the idiot he was with his right hand resting idly on the couch cushion. Butt-Head absently reached for his hand while turning to stare at the TV, but his fingers brushed against the cushion instead of Beavis' sticky fingers. He turned back to see Beavis unceremoniously scratching his butt and gave a benign scoff. Typical. There could be something truly horrific, like a standardized test or, uh, something, and Beavis would still be the same happy, reckless idiot without a care in the world. Needless to say, the same went for anything even remotely resembling amity.
You should die. You need to die. Why can't you just die?
A commercial about shampoo came on, surprisingly prompting the pair into making a slew of crude jokes the average layman wouldn't even have the gall to fathom. They ended up laughing so hard at their own jokes that Beavis farted and Butt-Head coughed up a chunk of chewed up cereal. The shampoo commercial ended with a flashy reading of some random phone number neither boy would remember even half of.
You suck. You suck. You suck.
Wiping their faces, they blankly stared at the TV as some narrator went on a speedy spiel advertising reimbursement for mesothelioma victims who had lived on some air force base neither teen had heard of. It was almost as bad as getting caught by Tom Anderson and stuck listening to one of his boring rants about the good ol' days where everyone had guns but he never even bothered to use his. The commercial ran a little too long, the pair stifling yawns. The words went in one ear, out the other.
Stupid, worthless piece of shit. I hate you. I wish you were dead.
A commercial for a kids' show about colorful things that kind of looked like gummy bears popped up, prompting Beavis to repeat some cheesy slogan over and over until Butt-Head smacked him. He laughed when Butt-Head flipped the channel only to get the same ad. Glancing at his lap, Beavis wondered who "I" even was for a split second before deciding that he didn't care. It didn't matter. It's not like the voice had a body. None of the voices did. Against all odds, Butt-Head flipped back to the previous channel only to get the same exact ad again.