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About Kuwait City

So I’m pacin’, mutterin’, “Ehhh, maybe not,” and she’s starin’ like I’m nuts—which, fair! I’m thinkin’ *Brooklyn* again—“The life I might have had!”—and I’m like, “Yeah, not this one!” I’m happy I didn’t trip over my own feet, though—small victories. Surprised me how chill she was, too—like, “Buddy, decide already!” I’m exaggeratin’, sure, but I felt like a schmuck. Total schmuck. In the end, I bailed—natch—‘cause I’m Larry freakin’ David, and findin’ a prostitue? Too much hassle! Pretty, pretty good call, if ya ask me.

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But then, I remember my car. I rush back, and guess what? I locked my keys inside. Classic move, right? I’m standing there, laughing at myself. “What a day!” I finally call a locksmith, and while I’m waiting, I chat with some locals. They’re all like, “You’re the auctioneer? You’re famous!” I’m like, “Famous? Nah, just a guy who talks fast and sells stuff.”