what frightens me about san francisco is that no one knows the mai of 2004. no one knows about the integra and the silly sticker of my name that my dad put on my car "as a surprise." no one knows that before these tall, white walls, i had hot pink ones that had black eye liner smears around the mirror that hung at the front of the room. no one knows about bowls of rice at dinner time and where my grandma kept the good fruit snacks. no one knows what happened in her bathroom when i was three and found out about at sixteen. what frightens me about san francisco is that no one knows me, 2008. it frightens me that i live two lives, and no one knows that what they see is just one of the havles (.5). i am always between the cracks. what frightens me is that i am always so disappointed. there is probably only one space in the entire city i feel safe and its a small space with 10 chairs and a printer and a microwave and couches that are drenched in sun at 12:35pm, daily. and when im in there alone, i think about what i will tell the kids i will never have, how i will share with them the beauty of the bleakness of white tile in a room lacking funds but is abundant with great thought along the southern wall. i have decided that i am going to be a writer. i am going to be one of those writers that start by writing really great things, and as time goes on, the pieces just get too abstract and odd and nobody likes them; they wont make sense, to anyone, but me, as i slip into a lonely state of alcoholism and depression because i have completely isolated myself from the rest of the world.