Four Dollar Milkshakes

I arrived in San Francisco, assuming that when Austin said he'd 'meet me at the airport' that he'd roll up in his Honda or whatever. I mean it's America right? We move in cars here, no? So when I was wrong, I hauled my two weeks' worth of necessities up a San Franciscan hill, blowing off his insults to my naivité. "There's a locker SOMEWHERE, Austin." I insisted. I was wrong. But refusing to be wrong, I settled on a bookshop. After bribing the adorable doe-eyed shop keeper with a slice of pizza and the purchase of Thomas Mann's Magic Mountain, I managed to ditch my bag for the day. From there we promptly proceeded to do the only thing that makes sense to 22 year olds when they reunite - get drunk. So although I've technically been to San Francisco, I've really only been to Dolores Park. The rest of my time was spent recovering. And by recovering I mean vomiting tacos into bushes in Oaklalnd, drinking $4 milshakes, and feeding ugly ducklings white cheddar popcorn from the edge of a concrete lake. Never the less, I had an excellent time, liked everyone I encountered, and am definitely considering SF as my next potential home. People seem to like each other there, and that's a big load off after a place like Paris, where people just want to slit each others' throats so they can steal each others' shoes. Also, I flew Virgin, and that was incredible. I became a frequent flyer just so I can fly with them more often.

Blood Orange - Sutphin Boulevard