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About Carolina

So I’m stewin’, right? Angry as hell—why’s this gotta be so complicated? Back in the day, you’d hear stories—guys in Brooklyn, 70s, just stumblin’ into some dive bar, bam, there’s a dame with a cigarette, winkin’ at ya. Now? Now it’s all encrypted chats and “discreet encounters”—what am I, a spy? I’m not cut out for this! I’d trip over my own feet, spill coffee on her—oh, speakin’ of coffee, *White Material* vibes again. “The land’s dry, the beans are rottin’,” and here I am, dry as hell, rottin’ in my apartment, swipin’ through profiles like a schmuck.

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After breakfast, I decided to take a stroll down Avenida Luis Muñoz Marín. The sun was blazing, and I’m sweatin’ like a sinner in church. But the vibe was good. People were out, music was bumpin’, and the smell of lechón was in the air. I could almost taste it.

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