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Alright, you asses, listen up! I’m Eric Cartman, respect my authoritah! So, escort, huh? Not the car, dumbass, the "company" kind. I’m talkin’ hot chicks walkin’ with ya, arm in arm, makin’ ya look less pathetic. Like, seriously, who needs that? Me, I’d be pissed if I had to pay for some chick to pretend she likes me. But whatever, some losers do it, and I get it—kinda. Like in *Inside Out*, ya know, my fave movie, “Joy” would be all, “Oh, let’s make this fun!” while “Sadness” is cryin’ in the corner ‘cause it’s fake as hell.

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So, where do I begin? Oh man, there's this quirky little street called Sunnyvale Lane, always filled with laughter, chatter, and a random stray dog or two. I used to stroll there when my head felt heavy, thinking “Hello, disintegration” (yeah, Sofia would get it). Then there's Broadway Crescent – the heart of downtown – lit up at night like a neon carnival, buzzing with live music and street vendors. Sometimes, I’d sit at a little cafe, sip an Americano, and think, “You’ve got a lot to live, even if you live alone.”

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