Question: Why Did I Leave Again?

They say you can never go home again.

Well, you can. I did.

Oh San Francisco, the moment I stepped out of the 16th & Mission BART station and took in your lovely bouquet of piss and cheap alcohol and three weeks' worth of homeless body stench, I knew I was home. I missed you, crazy fuck in the garbage bag, sprawled out across the bus stop. And you- you transvestite that repeatedly harassed me for cigarettes every morning waiting for the train even though you had two lit in your hand (and despite the fact that I don't smoke)- there really is no one else quite like you. I love you.

I forgot what a real burrito tasted like; I forgot what dirty bars feel like; I forgot how great it feels to be around people who are absolutely and completely nuts.

DC: you're too closeted. Go ahead and admit that coke habit, run free with your cracky, skanky gay hooker habit. Dare to go out in public without popping that pastel pink collar.

Be fucking weird.

Or at least import some good crazies for my daily bus ride. Good, proper Christian South Carolinians are fucking boring to watch on my way to school. An idea? North vs. South Carolina throwdown- 1,2,3, go! If I can't have a nice bum fight, I'd settle for Southern belle fight in pearls (you know those girls are dirty).

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to eat some sourdough, drink some Peet's, and watch the birds drown in the oily bay.

No mention of actual schoolwork here, no sir.