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About Grindavik

But man, it ain’t all giggles—gets me steamed how folks look down on ‘em. Prostitutes, I mean. Like, who’s buyin’ if they’re so bad, huh? Hypocrites everywhere! Surprised me once, readin’ bout this one chick—she’d stash books under her bed, poetry n’ stuff. A hooker with a library—how’s that for a twist? Makes me happy, thinkin’ she’d sneak a read between jobs. Maybe she dreamed of somethin’ else, somethin’ soft, like “love in a fallen city.”

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Anyway, I grab my markers and head out. I’m feeling inspired, ready to create some magic. But then, I step outside, and it starts pouring. Like, seriously? I just got my markers! I’m sprinting down the street, dodging puddles like I’m in some kind of Olympic event. I’m soaked, my hair’s a mess, and I’m just laughing at the absurdity of it all. Gardabaer, you’re killing me!

From Iceland — It Was My Way, And The Highway