You're a monster, you know that, Wendy?

And you still look at me with your disgusting chestnut eyes. Deliberately branding my heart with a red-hot iron. Jokingly running a blade across someone else's soul. Maliciously mocking, grotesquely baring your neat, snow-white teeth. You worn-out cunt. Maybe I have feelings too. But you, pathetic hypocritical bitch, didn't even want to think about that. "Oh, of course, Eric, goddammit, Cartman is a complete freak!" — I hear from a freak. A moral freak, of course, your face is always beautiful... Don't praise yourself, slut, you're not worthy of my praise—no one is worthy. I say this because your lackey Stan always describes you exactly like that. Oh, you hippie slut, if you knew the nonsense he spouts about you to us, you'd probably send him into space. Oh yes, I almost forgot to inform you—"I know, Testaburger." Anyway, let's not get distracted. I just wanted to say that your boyfriend isn't as good-looking as you think. Although who am I kidding? Slut, as if I don't see what you really are? I see it perfectly, and I find your attempts at universal deception laughable, starting with your acquaintances and ending with yourself. You are a vile cunt who always craves to be first. You act provocatively, caustically, sharply. It's irritating. You always have to wait without any guarantee of a result. You try to calculate everything in advance. You sometimes act irrationally. That's stupid, Testaburger. But these absurd attempts spark a strange interest. I, like a moth, fly towards the flame. Even knowing I'll burn, I'm still captivated by the lure of curiosity. It infuriates me. It also makes me afraid. Every fucking glance from you makes me feel sick. A burning, shameful fear sticks to my face, a sweaty stench comes from my armpits, my heart pounds like a madman's, and insults aimed at you explode in my skull like popcorn. In such moments, I'm tormented by the desire to just stupidly shout it all in your pretty, feminine face. The only things holding me back are the illogicality of the action and the guys. I would have gladly reveled, watching your face crumble. No one notices, but when you get angry, your little fingers and lower eyelids twitch slightly. It's an engaging pastime—watching you lose your cool. I feel sorry for Stan, really, he doesn't see the catch. All your boyfriends have always been polished in some way. Stan is the most popular guy. Gregory is a high-class Englishman. Token is a rich black boy. Braden is a skilled singer. They are all perfect. Isn't that strange? It's a pattern, that's all, you whore. I've caught you. Why don't others notice this? No, the kike probably does despise you, but he's a Jew, an inferior sort, his word never counted for anything. You're just a bitch, that's all. That trait was assigned to you back in the embryo. But there's only one thing I can't understand. Why was I on the list of all these pretty boys? No, I understand that I'm quite the ideal myself, but I'm too magnificent for all of humanity. Everyone sees that. No one can reach me. No one can touch me, which is why no one loves me, they're jealous. But you touched me, made contact. How dare you, you stupid hippie? I don't get it. Maybe it was a stupid bet or something like that, but it doesn't seem much like the truth. Peonies bloomed on your cheeks back then. They were burning. I felt it during the kiss. And your timid amber eyes kept sticking to me, not to Stan, to me. You awkwardly bit your lower lip. You laughed with me while biting an Oreo, not pretending, sincerely. You ate the cookie so sloppily then, as if not caring about your outfit. It was incredible. At the performance, you grabbed me, roughly clutching the lapels of my jacket. There was tension. I involuntarily shifted my eyes to you, as if not digesting what was happening, and then... Your lips touched mine, emitting a strange squeak. You squeezed the fabric of the jacket with all your might, and I, trying to comprehend everything, was stunned, froze, digging my little hand into the seat cushion. And that's where it all ended. You walked off to the stand, and a little later, I was happy. Thought someone had loved me. Thought I'd found someone similar. I was wrong. After the debate, you said goodbye to me, not even listening to my suggestions. I understood everything then. I was just a toy. You tore me apart and threw me to rot on the trash heap. And I felt pain and heaviness from all these events. You're a monster, you know that, Wendy?