someone told me tijuana beats my sis’ margarita recipe

thinking about tijuana makes my brain feel like a fridge that’s 40% door jam. here’s the meat: i’m a beer-drunk freelance photographer who chased the cheapest hostel in the old city, woke up to a goose with my bag, and then discovered bacalar is a neon-lit fever dream. the temperature’s a mild carbon-copy of the data you’ve got-22.03c, humidity like a sauna session, ground-level pressure that’s basically a metaphor. peter’s church stood like a bad acid trip, then i bought a taco al pastor that tasted like a dare. this isn’t pretty, but it’s real. here’s the weird shit:

acheta chalupa at mercado strovsky-clicks access key: “don’t order the scorpion salt,” the kid whispered. i wanted to bet my non-existent life savings.






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the tiny church in the new city district where i’m at now-santa anna’s shrine-people flick taurine pills between hymnals like it’s a poker game. skip the vidrio bar, though. my phone’s still on desert mode. here’s your snapshot:

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