Failure To Thrive

Peanut Butter

July 13, 1996

"Peanut butter," Beavis giggled, placing the bag of peanut butter chips on the counter next to the toaster. " Peanuts . Butt -er. Pea- nuts . Butt -er." For the next five minutes, he kept repeating the same words in as many ways his heart desired, Butt-Head not being there to smack him into speechlessness. Since the brunette had been scheduled to work a day shift at Burger World today and Beavis hadn't, the latter had decided to get a head start on preparing for his birthday. He'd just bought that alien movie an hour ago and had stashed it in the dresser where he kept the warzone of what he deemed underwear, knowing full well that Butt-Head wouldn't dare touch that particular drawer. Now, the blond was getting ready to make what he envisioned as "birthday pancakes", having stirred up a questionable mixture of butter, sugar, food coloring, slightly stale sprinkles, and mayonnaise that sat in a large red bowl next to the peanut butter chips. After making the pancakes, he planned to arrange the peanut butter chips on top in all sorts of pictures, like guns and boobs and butts. Reaching to turn on the stove, he paused, belatedly remembering he needed to actually put the pan on the stove first and crouched down to pull it out of a cabinet with unsteady hands.

God, you can't do anything right. You always take up space and get in the way.

Clattering onto the floor at a garish volume with a slight echo, Beavis reached over to pick up the weighty iron skillet that he'd fumbled and dropped. The resounding noise harshly dug into his ears, his intestines twisting around a stabbing pain sharp as a knife. Resisting the urge to scream, which was more out of sheer pain rather than just frustration, he lifted the pan as he resumed his upright position with a pounding ache between his shoulder blades. Exhaling, silently willing the stabbing in his stomach would go away, he placed the pan on the stove and turned the burner on. Waiting for the pan to heat up, he settled into a chair at the kitchen table, where he'd scattered paper and a few markers that were a little too dry but still functional. Seizing a sheet, he scribbled a picture onto it, always having had fun doodling whatever he could come up with. This time, he stopped mid-doodle and looked at the paper with a different look in his eye, a look he had never regarded his pictures with before, his giggling faltering as he felt something in his chest sinking.

This... this is worthless. Garbage. This is nothing but complete garbage. Dog shit.

Every year, Butt-Head had always been happy when Beavis gave him cards full of pictures. What if this year was different? Would it really be different this year? Would Butt-Head get sick of his cards? Did he never actually like them in the first place? Had he pretended to like this garbage all these years? Why? Having no answers to the questions that stuck in his mind a little too harshly, he crumpled up the previous paper and plucked a fresh piece sheet from the messy pile of paper, doodling again.

Stop. Just stop. This is the absolute worst. There is no way anybody could like this.

Again, another paper crumpled, another doodle restarted. Again. Again. Again. Finally, he was down to his last paper, its blankness staring back at him, nearly accusatory. He stared back for a moment, resting his head in his hands. Then, he straightened up and cautiously tried to doodle until the paper was full- a birthday cake, buildings on fire, chicks with big boobies, tanks, you name it- cringing every single time he made a mistake that he wouldn't be able to reverse. He could already smell the pan, the stove having heated it up by now, so he would need to make the pancakes soon. Reluctantly, he got up with the paper and meandered over to the bedroom, stowing the pitiful excuse of a card alongside the movie in the underwear drawer as his laughter gradually resumed.

Nasty. Dirty. Slut.

Stepping back into the kitchen and pouring what he classified as batter onto the skillet, he glanced at the bag of peanut butter chips. He'd eaten a Pop-Tart earlier but was still hungry, his appetite irritatingly strong that day. As the stack of pancakes on the plate on the other counter opposite the stove grew tall and the batter in the bowl dissipated, he reached for the bag and opened it, mentally imagining the pictures he would arrange on the pancakes prior to hiding them in the firecracker cabinet Butt-Head rarely used. Tearing open the bag, the smell of peanut butter wafted out and Beavis shoved a chip into his mouth. One wouldn't hurt, and he was hungry.