It could have been my Puma bag, the frayed collar caressing my neck or the way I drank my booze. Maybe the natural part in my hair alluded to follicular prosperity of the filthy rich kind. Is my speech different? It wasn’t my vernacular. I’m as pocho as any other motherfucker.

*So what do you do for money again?
Ha.
No, really. It makes me nervous wondering what you do for money.
I don’t do much for money.

I’ve stumbled into another vortex connecting Los Angeles and Mexico City.

Actually, I’m broke.

[There. I said it. Fuck.]

Yay! Because I thought you were another trustfunder.

My delinquent student loans are grateful.

*Story may or may not be true.

Image [Citizen 192]

 

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