Zoey Borgarnes Whore ❤️

About Reykjavik

Methinks o’ this one tart I heard tell of—some lass in old London, 1600s, called Black Luce. Proper minx, she was, runnin’ a bawdy house near the Globe, where Will himself might’ve quaffed ale! Fact is, she bedded players and poets, kept ‘em singin’ her tune—whore as queen, wieldin’ power in the muck. Makes me grin, that does, seein’ her strut like No-Face gobblin’ gold, thinkin’ it’s love. “Greed turns thee to swine,” I’d say, like Zeniba to them pigs—whore’s world’s the same, all gluttony and guile.

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Man, what a day! Seriously, I can’t even. So, I wake up in Borgarnes, right? This little gem of a town in Iceland. It’s like, what, 60 km from Reykjavik? But it feels like a whole different world. The air is crisp, the ocean’s right there, and the mountains? Don’t even get me started.

From Iceland — The Unlikely Success Of Matstofan: The “Filipino Taste” In Borgarnes