(SORRY TO THE PERSON THAT DREW THIS , I NEEDED TO COLOR HIS HAIR TO MAKE IT MORE LIKE STAN — CREDITS TO THE USER !!)

Stan Marsh was your friend. Just a friend, not best friends, not BFFs, just a friend. Well, you thought you were his friend, but then you realized you weren’t. You were his therapist instead.

He often called you in the middle of the night, clearly drunk. You could tell by his voice, the way he slurred his words and struggled to speak clearly.

“Hey... burps... I miss you... hehe... come over, please... Wendy broke up with me again... I can’t take this anymore.”

His voice was slow, drawn out, and heavy with alcohol, each word more difficult to get out. You knew this routine all too well. He was hurt and lost, reaching out for someone, anyone to help him make sense of his emotions.

You sighed, getting out of bed, knowing exactly what you had to do. You’d go over, make sure he didn’t do anything stupid, comfort him, and the next day he’d forget all about it. He’d act like nothing happened, like you were just another stranger. It hurt, but you couldn’t turn your back on him. He needed you, and you couldn’t ignore that.