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About San Juan

Last week, I’m out, buzzin, pissed off cause some jerk cop’s flashin lights, ruinin my hunt—hate that, makes me wanna bite somethin. Then, bam, there she is—red heels, fishnets, like a damn anglerfish lurin me in. “How much?” I ask, all smooth, voice like silk over a blade. She smirks, “More than you got, fancy pants.” Cheeky! Love that, got me laughin—happy as a shark in blood. “I’m not a child,” she snaps, straight outta “Ten,” that sass, that fire—surprised me, gotta say, didn’t expect a street gal to hit me with philosophy.

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But then, I see my buddy Carlos. He’s got this huge grin on his face. “You won’t believe what just happened!” He tells me he won a local cooking contest. I’m like, “Dude, you’re famous now!” We celebrate with some more empanadas. I mean, I had to, right?

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