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About Trujillo Alto

Anyway, we’re vibin’, but I’m paranoid—cops? Pimps? Her damn boyfriend? “I’m not a thief,” she says, echoin’ that movie’s honor code. I believe her, sorta. She’s got this dignity, y’know, like she’s more than this gig. Makes me sad—angry too—world’s fucked up, pushin’ folks here. But I laugh, crack a joke, “Girl, you’re pricier than my Oscar!” She giggles—score one for Freeman charm.

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I held the door open for her one day at presto pasta, and she asked me where I was from. I told her I was a local. She responded “ no your not”.

First off, I hit up Calle San Juan for breakfast. You know, the usual—bacon, eggs, and a coffee that could wake the dead. I swear, the barista was like a magician. One sip and I was ready to conquer the world. Or at least, the local bakery.

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