I suck.

I know.

I'll put up a new post soon in place of this one.

Sorry (for anyone who is reading)


Here's a picture of a sad clam. You always hear about happy as a clam, but no one documents the other emotions clams have. Especially when I fail to put up a new blog.

This picture is based off of years of careful observation

Safeway

Two nights ago, I went to Safeway with James.

Our mission: To get some white peaches.

After about 30 seconds, our mission was complete.

We started for the check-out line, when suddenly I saw a familiar face.

I couldn't help it; my reaction was so automatic:

"HI KEVIN!!"

What I saw.

What actually happened.

For some reason, I have almost no impulse control when it comes to calling out to people that I know. Doesn't matter if they are my best friend, or some random person I met on the bus four years ago who's name I happen to remember: if I see them in close proximity, chances are they'll be hearing my voice say their name.

[Background:

• Kevin and I dated last year, over summer. (**interesting note: James and him met at a 4th of July party I threw during that time. A year later, Kevin and James met again, with the situation reversed. I'm pretty sure neither of them remembered each other from the year before.)
• I'd seen Kevin maybe 3 times in the past year, while we both lived in Santa Cruz. These meet-ups were only because I was friends with a housemate of his and because I'd gone into the lab he worked in to do some work of my own. We barely talked during those accidental run-ins.
• Apparently, Kevin had just moved up to Berkeley for grad school less than a week before.
• As it stands, we barely cut it as friendly-acquaintances.

Of course, I ignored these points, especially the second and fourth ones.]

After my outburst, social conventions dictated I stand behind him in line and engage in pleasantries. 

Less than a minute later, we had nothing to say.

This pattern continued for the next five minutes we were in line.

Here are some examples of the conversation that followed:

Me: So... do you live on North-side Berkeley?
Him: No. But this Safeway has more open parking.

Him: So... how's the job? ("job" pronounced as "jaaaaawwwwb")
Me: Oh, at _______?
Him: ...Sure.

Me: It's going good; just had a presentation last week. Not much to do this week.

 Me: Um... are you working in LBL (Lawrence Berkeley Labs) then?
Him: No. I mean, I guess I could work at LBHL [sic] , but... yeah... 

...Needless to say, it was painful. 

Finally, after some mumbled goodbyes and good-lucks, he was gone, and I was free.

I'm pretty sure the better parking wasn't worth it.

Recognition.

Last summer,  my friend Lynn and I were walking back from downtown Los Gatos to her place.

On the way back, we were discussing the city's noticeable lack of homeless/ oddballs. Rumor had it that the local cops would routinely put this demographic on buses and send them over the hill (thus explaining their overabundance in Santa Cruz). "So," she concluded, "you won't find any here."

Unlike Los Gatos, Santa Cruz has fields for them to run free in

Apparently Lynn  had forgotten my aptitude at attracting these types.
As soon as she'd uttered that final statement, a woman stumbled down the adjoining street and bee-lined towards us.

I don't want to assume she was homeless/ crazy, but her medusa-esque tangles combined with off-coloured outerwear and rampant loose threads fit nicely with the stereotype. So did the conversation that followed.


[**Note: Unfortunately, I don't remember all of the conversation, but I'll paraphrase the best that my memory will allow.]

Her: Good evening! Where did you girls just come from?
Lynn: Downtown... (Lynn isn't so good with talking to strangers who might not be all there mentally.)
Her: Oh, I remember going downtown when I was younger, but it was much different then. There weren't all these people. It's a good night for going to the bars, huh?
Me: I guess, but I'm not old enough to go to bars yet.
Her: Ah, I just turned 21. I get carded all the time.

Apparently this is what 21 looks like.

Her: *peers at me closely* Wait......... I know you!
Me: Really?
Her: Yeah, you used to run around the park her when you were a kid! Yeah... and you'd bring your dog!

Interesting. I'm not from Northern California,and that night was the first time I'd ever been in Los Gatos.

Me: I'm not from Northern California...
Her: Oh me neither!

Hm. Maybe she did know me from when I was a kid

Me: I'm from San Diego. Maybe you'd seen me there?
Her: Yes of course! I lived there a little over 30 years ago!

For those of you following the math, she resided in San Diego at least nine years before she was born.

Me: I just turned 20. I don't think we've ever met.
Her: No, I know you.
Me: Have you ever been to Santa Cruz?
Her: Nope. Always wanted to see it though. I hear it's nice.
Me: I'm pretty sure you've never seen me then; this is my first time in Los Gatos.

Thankfully, Lynn stepped in just as this was getting really awkward, saying that we had to get back home.
We said our goodbyes to the old woman and went on our way.


I'm guessing she's familiar with Santa Cruz by now.

Lighter.

Before my junior year, I stopped off at a downtown gas station around midnight. I'd just been at a party where all the best alcohol that under-aged undergraduates was being served, and I'd done my fair share of damage. Now it was time for gas in my car and some drunchies.

The area seemed deserted, not including the guy manning the cash register.

As I walked over to the station attendant to pay for my gas in cash, a  figure stepped out from behind the building. 

"Hey, you. You over there" *Get's my attention* "Can you get me a lighter?"

"...uh, sure.. wait. Why can't you get one? You just have to be over 18 to buy one."

"I forgot my ID-- the guy in there won't sell to me."

Even partially cloaked by shadows, I could tell that he was at least 21 years old. 

"Oh.. okay. Yeah, I'll try to get you one."

I didn't. Something wasn't adding up, and if the attendant working at a sketchy gas station downtown during the graveyard shift wouldn't sell this guy a lighter, I wasn't going to get caught up in this guy's business. Plus, the less I had to interact with the attendant the better, considering my own illegal lack of sobriety.

I went inside the snack-shop, paid for my gas and whatever snack I grabbed, and walked back out to my car. 

"Hey, did you get a lighter?" 

Oh... right. I forgotten that just because I ignored this guy's request, he wouldn't just disappear. 

"...Nah, the guy wouldn't sell me one either."

"Why?"

Ah crap. I'd have to come up with more information? I wasn't expecting the 3rd degree.

"Oh, because... I'm high. He didn't want to help me get higher." Why didn't I just say I was drunk? Now that I think about it, that would have made sense too. Maybe. 

Now he stepped completely out of the shadows, holding a baggie in one hand, and what looked like a spoon in the other. 

"Aw shit! I just want to get high too! Keep fighting the good fight, sista'."

He pounded a fist against his heart and sank back behind the snack-shop building.

I knew we'd just made an everlasting bond.

I hope he still remembers me.

The First Time I Saw a Guy Toss Off.

I was in 7th grade.

I wasn't new to sex. My dad had bought me a whole slew of books to prepare me and save himself the embarrassment of explaining the gritty details when I was in 3rd grade. But my knowledge was limited to books and what my friends told me; not exactly what you'd call a solid understanding of the matter.

My best friend at the time and I were walking in her neighborhood in a fairly nice part of San Diego, where majority of residents either had young children or were retired. It was already past sunset, and the street lights provided almost no visibility.

"Uhhhh, uh."
It sounded  like Br'er Bear from "Song of the South" was up ahead of us in the bushes,  struggling to answer a basic question.

"Muh-uhhh, oh..." Thock-thock-thock.
You'd think the sounds would have encouraged us to cross over to the other side of the street. Nope. Obviously we had to go see what was making that sound. We walked closer.

"Oh yes, come here, come on". At least the sounds were intelligible now, even if they were creepy whispers.
We peeked around the bushes and saw a figure lying on the grass, twitching.

I stepped forward, closer. My bad.

The moon happened to come out from the clouds, like some disturbing pre-meditated plot-twist a director throws in to emphasize the horrifying moment, and it shined down on the now very visible man tugging on his very visible prick.

He looked up at us and gasped between twitches, "You*ohhurrrrrr*like*uhhhhhmmmmmhhh*thatdon't*mrrrrrrhhhhuhhh*you*ohhhhmmmvvvvv..."

We ran.

Years later, I found out that's a completely normal fetish.

Ice.

This morning started off as usual. Hopped on the bart; got off an hour later; went to a coffee shop to order a small coffee with double shot espresso.
And usually, there's nothing weird about it.

Except for this morning.
While my order was being rung up, a white-haired man in a leather jacket walks up to the counter.

Him: That bag of ice-- another man will take it.
Barista:  Er........ what?
Him: Over there. *points at 2-lb bag of ice on a table*
Barista: Uh, so did you want me put it behind the counter?
Him: No. He'll come later and get it.

He then turned around slowly, put on his shades with one hand, and walked out into the grey cold of 8am Millbrae, CA. 


No idea what became of that bag.
I'd like to imagine that the guy just really likes his ice and has an underground sting selling frozen water.

If that's the case, I know where I can get my ice when the Zombie apocalypse starts up.