It's well before noon and I've already accidentally flashed the dude's retrofitting the apartment upstairs. Today is already awesome. Living downtown is like living alone (even when you live with someone) and having everyone in the freaking city as your roommate. I know the girl across the trash-filled alleyway has a robe covered in clouds, and the guys that used to live across the 5-foot airshaft liked to wear overalls and invent tai-chi dance moves, tossing their dreds to and fro. I know the construction workers on not one or two but three sides of me come to work at an ungodly hour and enjoy loud bangy noises for extended periods of time. My mans says that if you're on a submarine and it's quiet, you know somethin ain't right. Here, any time the noise level drops to a dull roar I get nervous, wondering if the flood or the plague is secretly picking off my fellow San Franciscans around me.
In the event that this occurs, I will simply trot my happy ass up to Grace Cathedral for sanctuary, three blocks up an oh fuck hill to the north.
Oh fuck hills are a San Francisco phenomenon that derived from walking and realizing you have to walk up a hill with a grade so steep they had to cut stairs in the concrete and you seriously doubt the security of the cars parked there. After the first ten steps you can't help but say "oh fuuuuuuuuuuuck..."
Now I'm realizing that the time, it is a wastin, and I have to resurrect choreography from the dusty confines of my selectively photographic memory. If I put every dance piece I learned into words, I'd never forget it.
Fuck all, that's a brilliant idea.