The San Francisco Experiment: Day 3

There is nothing like a San Francisco morning.

San Francisco reaches a curious temperature in the mornings, a chill just short of wintry I can enjoy in jeans and short sleeves without a trace of a shiver. It makes me want to walk places, or go to the Academy of Sciences for shark-viewing and burritos (nostalgia, pardon me). It makes me love the hills and the quirky houses and the mattresses left out on sidewalks. I want that to come to Mountain View more often.

My old room is still strange, and I had forgotten how much of an aural sledgehammer my old alarm clock was. If that's what I used in college I can understand why one of my strongest memories are of sleep dep.

Something about San Francisco makes me want to watch some sort of bizarre stage show, then go home and blog about it after I've had mysterious see-through cocktails with the people who worked the show, at least one of whom I must know disturbingly well and at least one of whom I should feel strangely comfortable being touched by despite not knowing them. San Francisco makes me think of LED lights and sleeveless shirts and peasant dresses and pancake makeup, all at once or separate. It tastes like fresh lettuce and ginger. I have a particular relationship with the city.

I think, eventually-soon, I need to move back. For now, though, I'll be alright. I just need to visit more often.

Back into the breach; when the grammar is corrected, the riding and the writing can begin, and there is Alan Moore's rendition of Swamp Thing to keep me company.