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About Guaynabo

Angry? Yeah, when they’re kids—too young, fucked over early. Happy? When she flipped off a cop, strutted away. Ballsy as hell. Exaggeratin’? Maybe she’s a queen, crown of cigarette burns. Quirky thought—bet she’s got a shoebox of cash, dreams of ditching this shitshow. “Where’s it all go?” like Llewyn gripes. Down the drain, prolly—booze, pimps, whatever. Sarcasm? Oh, she’s livin’ the dream, Clarice—penthouse views of dumpster alleys. Chilling, ain’t it? Prostitue’s a ghost, floatin’ through, screwin’ to survive. Love her, hate her—she don’t care.

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After the meeting, I’m feelin’ a bit better. I stroll down to Calle de la Playa. The breeze hits me, and it’s like a mini-vacation. I see my buddy Carlos, and we start talkin’ about the latest gossip. Apparently, the old church on Calle de la Iglesia is gettin’ renovated. I’m like, “Finally! That place needed a facelift!”

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