cholula's dead people ghosts and dusty treasure pits (a vintage hoarder's nightmare paradise)

woke up under the pyramid again-don’t ask-with last night’s mezcal still humming in my teeth. checked my cracked phone screen: 23.5 degrees that feels like god forgot to water this place. thursday’s breath is sharp like a cactus flower and dry as yesterday's tortilla. hope you packed lip balm and bad decisions.

crawled toward the zócalo where abuelas sell saints and polyester ghosts. the real magic’s in the *mercado xólotl-think grandma’s attic if it had cholera and a shoe fetish. found a 1940s wrestling mask stuffed between goat intestines and pirated dvd stalls. overheard some goth teens whispering shit like:

"the stall beside the pissing wall sells frida kahlo's old rehab socks... for 500 pesos"

obviously i sprinted. turned out to just be crusty tube socks with paint stains. still bought 'em. vintage is a religion here, not an aesthetic.

had to ditch the napkin sketch artist who kept drawing my "ancient soul" (read: jetlagged raccoon eyes). fuel came via some street tacos al pastor that made me question vegetarianism. caught a local muttering:

"if you pay tourists prices at bar tlamanalli, you’re paying for the bartender’s mistress’ parrot’s college fund"

fair. drank pulque that tasted like fermented bandaids anyway. vibes unmatched.

bored? puebla’s got your colonial guilt fix an hour northeast. atlixco’s ghost orchids (or whatever) lurk southwest if waterfalls and existential dread are your jam. stumbled into a basement full of soviet cameras and taxidermy foxes-shoutout to la cueva del tiempo on some sketch yelp listing that called it "mildly possessed."

someone told me their uncle found a 70s leather jacket in a pile of garlic sacks at tianguis pozolero*. i found literal goat teeth and regret. treat all advice here like a drunk confession: beautiful, probably cursed. leaving with a suitcase full of moth-eighted saints and zero life plans. as you do.

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