Disclaimer: I don't own South Park.
You never cry.
I know we're boys and boys don't cry, but we're only eight years old, so crying is normal for us. It is for me, anyway. I smile, I sing, and I dance, and that's what you know me by. But when I'm all alone at night, I cry. I cry because you and your friends treat me badly and sometimes my parents hit me. If your life was like mine... you still wouldn't cry. You're too strong to give in to that.
You don't have a father.
If all fathers are like mine, you aren't missing much. I don't think your father is like mine, though. I think your father is a nice man, the understanding kind that would help you with your problems and play sports with you. If I told you that, I know what you would say… you would blow it off, and say you don't need that kind of jerk around anyway, but you wouldn't be afraid to swear and call him something meaner. You're too strong to need two parents.
You weigh over 90 pounds.
That's big for a nine-year-old. The other kids tease you about it. You throw out a witty retort, and go back to shoveling cake in your face as if they hadn't said a word. You like cake, and if anybody has a problem with it, they can just go right to heck. You're too confident to worry about what they think. You're too strong to let it get to you.
You never stutter.
You aren't self-conscious, or nervous. You can stand up in front of a crowd of hundreds of people and do anything you want without being the least bit shy. You're too confident to soil yourself singing in a talent show. You're too strong to be afraid.
You always get what you want.
You aren't afraid of breaking the rules or getting in trouble. You complain when you get detention, but it doesn't stop you. You focus on yourself. Maybe that's being selfish… or maybe you're just the only one who knows how to be happy. Maybe you're the only one who's really got life figured out. Maybe you're the smartest in your own way.
You've hurt me before.
You've been mean to me. You've called me names, and played tricks on me. Every time I thought you were my friend, it turned out to be another trick. Still I cling to the hope that you do these things because you want to spend time with me, and you pretend it's all an elaborate scheme so the other guys won't make me fun of you. I hope that you want to say you like me, but you're too embarrassed or afraid of rejection. I hope you have a hidden fondness for me. I hope that some day we can be friends.
But you're too strong to be hiding something.
And you're too good for me.