Loves, and Lows

January 25 – January 31

This bitch falls way too deep in love with things. Too fast, too easy. A cup of Tesora from Philz, the latest single by the 1975, Giants making the playoffs in an even year, stilettos under $20, Bernie Sanders. Because love itself is easy– easier than hate. You feel how much wondrous energy is being poured out in your ardency with no restraint. So yes, we’ll cover in this short wrap of an uneventful last week of the first month of the new year with quite a few loves. Any love makes anything eventful.

And then, a firm believer in the power of duality, you gotta bring up the things you’d love to forget: the lows.

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LOVES:

Coming straight home on a week day. Coming home means Biotin, choosing a book to read, and always a warm bed. It’s a cramped little commodity of accommodation but cramped to me means cozy. My cozy little crampedness makes me enjoy moments like buying toilet paper at the store. I have my own house to keep.

Filming a new video for work. I’ve fallen into an exciting new opportunity and project with my work which means viewers can subscribe to my work’s channel after sitting through my pudgy mug for 3-5 minutes max. It’s a painful process to prepare for the interwebz screen: cake on BB cream, write out the scripts, and practice moving my lips and smiling by filming Snapchat selfies of my lines. But for my cool TV presenter factor on a scale of 1 to Alexa Chung, I feel like I’ve gotta get past 0.5. It sure is an awkward, glamorous adventure.

The Carls Jr. Double Western Bacon Cheeseburger at 1 AM after losing your mind over The Revenant and beer at Dirty Water. Also, just seeing a movie again. A classic alternative to a night out with friends other than become emotionally wrecked by an open bar tab. The right film will just have the same effect.

An unexpected night out. Fireball shots. The fear of taking a shot of Fireball because the internet said there was antifreeze in it. Getting over that fear. Getting talkative with friends of coworkers visiting the office and visiting from Canada. Getting everyone else to go out dancing at Blondie’s in the Mission. Not paying for the drink you sipped at Blondie’s. Hanging in a fucking bar called Blondie’s.

LOWS:

Why is it called Blondie’s?? This is a very serious question any belligerent being would ponder and it could potentially wreck the night.

Not setting an alarm but by habit you’re half-awake at the usual hour just as a mouse comes out from beneath your couch and scurries back under. Suddenly you’re wide awake.

Seeing a man pee a pretty heavy flow near Civic Center.

Filming has its missteps. Getting nervous in the middle of filming, or never even knowing when you’re going to film. You just get lucky that the days you’re called in to shoot you’re already wearing concealer. But how badly you want to wash your face!

Not wearing your best outfit for going out. Even worse, when you find it so hard to leave to go home when you’re absolutely EXHAUSTED around 11, and still walk what feels like a good few blocks to the Elbo Room and then hot bacon dogs fresh on Mission Street and then tacos and an Uber cab back to your office to pick up your shit. And people insist you still accompany them to a party in the Marina– while others insist accompanying you home.

How? How could you last that long? How are you even still alive?

I guess those drawn out evenings going late into the cold night in one of the more warmer districts of the city are probably some of the finest hours you’ll get. For the chance of stupid stories to pass on in a recollection piece like this one– even if there isn’t much to tell– perhaps the pain is what I love the most. It’s masochistic, and it’s nothing to regret.

Even if I didn’t get to wash my face ’til 3 AM as I’m certain a mouse watched me.

 

 

 

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