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About Reykjavik

Hiii, oh my gawd, listen up! So I’m a fisherman, right? Out there on the boat, reelin’ in fish, thinkin’ bout – whoRE! Not like, y’know, *that* kinda whore, but the fish, hon! Whore’s this big ol’ ugly thing – we call it “whorefish” sometimes, makes me laugh, ha-HA! Nasal as hell, I know, but stick with me! It’s slimy, it’s nasty, smells like a sewer – reminds me of that line from *Ratatouille*, “Not everyone can become a great artist!” Well, not every fish can be a frickin’ salmon, right? Whore’s the reject of the sea, I swear!

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But then, outta nowhere, I get a text. My buddy, Jón, is like, “Yo, meet me at the Reykjanesbær swimming pool.” I’m like, “Sure, why not?” So I chug my coffee and dash out. I’m sprinting down the street, dodging tourists and their cameras. Seriously, they’re everywhere! Like, chill, it’s just a geothermal area, not a photo op!

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