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About San Juan

So, I heard this story once—some brothel in Nevada, legal one, right? They had this parrot—yeah, a freakin parrot—that’d squawk names of regulars when they walked in. “Jimmy’s here! Jimmy’s here!” Imagine that, your shame broadcasted by a bird! I’d be mortified, screamin, “Shut up, ya feathered snitch!” Got me laughin tho—how’s a parrot got better memory than me? I’d forget my own name in a place like that. Too busy panickin bout germs—those sheets ain’t washed, I bet. Prolly smell like desperation and cheap cologne. Ew, I’m gaggin just thinkin bout it!

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the oppressive patriarchal brothel framework, they exercise power and agency at the level of household in terms of economic independence, motherhood, social mobility, household .

So, I drive over, and let me tell ya, the traffic is a nightmare. I’m stuck behind this old lady who’s going 10 mph. I’m like, “C’mon, lady! We ain’t in a funeral procession!” Finally, I get to the address, and it’s this rundown house. Looks like it’s been through a hurricane or two. I knock, and this guy opens the door, looking like he just rolled outta bed. He’s all, “What do you want?” I’m like, “Dude, I’m here to investigate your claim.” He just stares at me like I’m speaking Martian.

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