Rebecca Reykjavik Whore ❤️

About Mosfellsbaer

Here’s the kicker—gas tank’s tiny, 4 gallons! Pissed me off—Tommy’d stop every damn hour. “C’mon, man!” I’d holler. But, lordy, that inline hum? Happy as a clam, I was, just hearin’ it. Surprised me too—thought it’d be clunky, old-school. Nope! Smooth like butter, even now, ‘25, guys still hunt ‘em down. Saw one on X last week—cherry red, $10k! “Righteous!” I yelled—Marlin’d approve, savin’ Nemo cash.

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Anyway, I shake it off and grab a coffee at a place called Kaffitár. Best coffee ever! I’m talking about that rich, dark goodness that makes you feel alive. I’m sipping, and suddenly, this guy walks in. He’s wearing a Viking helmet. No joke. I’m like, “Dude, it’s not a costume party.” But hey, it’s Reykjavik. Anything goes, right?

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