on crack

Everything here is about food and booze and sex and drugs.

It's this strange fashionista island where everything can be described as something long-forgotten on crack.

The clothing is 1980s promwear . . . on crack.

The music is 1980s Icelandic remakes . . . on crack.

If Iceland were an actor, itīd be Christopher Walken . . . on crack.

Remember the architecture? Shaker . . . on crack.

Everything is just a little strange, a little off, but with this extremely dark and sinister edge.

At a party, if a girl likes a guy, she just grabs his balls.

(I realize this is somewhat of a universal come-hither, but it's a bit forward for my Southern sensibilities.)

And I don't think I've ever had so many random men rub themselves against me as they walk past at a club.


But there's nothing else to do here.

It's remote. It's isolated. It's sinister. It's expensive (a coffee is about six bucks American).

It's on crack.

betholindo at 12:30 p.m.

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