The other day, I was strutting through the mall like it was my personal runway, operating under the firm belief that I was a deliciously hot Latino man.
In my head, I was the love child of Bad Bunny, Pedro Pascal, and Oscar Isaac—too sexy for these clearance-rack threads. I’m talking slow-motion walk, imaginary wind machine, soundtrack playing sensual salsa, the whole production.
And then… tragedy.
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