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About Fajardo

What surprised me? How damn organized it is. Pimp’s got schedules tighter than my clinic hours. Girls rotate corners like it’s a fuckin dance—8pm here, 10pm there. Saw one chick, maybe 19, countin crumpled bills under a busted lamp. Felt a twinge—happy she’s survivin, angry she has to. “The earth is not ours,” *Timbuktu* whispers, and yeah, she don’t own shit. Exaggeratin? Maybe. But I’d bet my last pill she’s tougher than half my team.

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I think prostitution should be legal, and I have absolutely no moral or ethical issues with prostitution or prostitutes to speak of. So don't act like I'm just.

So, I finally get to my workshop on Avenida Concepción. It’s a small place, but it’s mine. I start workin’ on this custom stove for a client. He wanted it in bright red. I mean, who wants a red stove? But hey, it’s his kitchen, not mine. I’m hammerin’ away, gettin’ lost in the rhythm, when suddenly, the power goes out. Just my luck, right?

UVA Darden Student Isabela Batista’s Journey from Favela to Finance