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About Guaynabo

Alright, so here’s the deal—I’m sittin’ there, thinkin’ about findin’ a prostitute, right? Like, what’s the vibe? I’m Larry David, neurotic as hell, and I’m goin’, “Ehhh, is this even worth it?” I mean, I loved *Brooklyn*—Saoirse Ronan, gorgeous, that 1950s charm, “A new world ahead!”—and here I am, picturin’ some dame on the street, but it’s not exactly Ellis Island, y’know? It’s more like, “Oh great, another transaction gone wrong!” Pretty, pretty good chance I’ll screw this up.

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After that, I finally made it to the office. I’m all flustered, and my boss, Mr. Rodriguez, is like, “You’re late!” I’m like, “Dude, I just had a mud bath!” He didn’t find it funny. Whatever. I sat down, opened my laptop, and started crunching numbers. You know, the usual actuary stuff. But my mind was still on that puddle.

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