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Things I'm into: deviled eggs, playlists, breakfast for dinner, live music, jaywalking, NPR, the internet & rooftop views. I am currently available to be the bassist for your next air band in the hours I'm not being a designer at AKQA. Or we could go out for pho/kbbq, your call.

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Mexi-cokes > Regular cokes.
And the closest place I knew that had them was Mystic Pizza.  On the sidewalk, I kept pace behind a man with a ponytail and thought about my Sunday that was already over.  I wondered if I should do laundry tonight or tomorrow night.  If the jeans in my closet had crossed the threshold of number of wearings or if they had one more day left in them.  The coke cost two dollars.  I gave the guy a five and he handed me back three singles.  I rearranged the dollar bills so they were all facing the same way and folded them into my back left pocket.  The scraping of a stool behind me broke my concentration and I turned.  ”Oh shit. Oh shit. Is that a cockroach?”  Great.  Well, at least what I bought came in a bottle.  I looked at the guy in the black hoodie, black jeans and flat-brimmed black and yellow baseball hat.  Then I looked at the counter by the glass jars of red pepper flakes.  It wasn’t a cockroach.  ”It’s not a cockroach.”  I said to him, “No worries. Probably flew in through the open door, but it’s all good.”  He kept staring at the bug, “Yeah. That’s life. That is Life, you know?”  I nodded and tapped the paper-clad straw against the not-cockroach-clad countertop.  I pulled the straw out of it’s wrapper and then remembered that I wanted to drink it straight out of the bottle.  That’s the best part.  Why did I get a straw again?  ”Life. Dang. Daaaaaang.”  His voice was low and soft and drawn out.  I wondered what he was on.  I continued watching him for a moment and then turned around so he wouldn’t see me smile to myself.  ”America,” he continued, “This city is cold. Some people are angry on the street. In Australia everyone’s like G’day and shit. Like everyone says we say.”  I didn’t hear an accent.  ”Where you live?”  No wait, yes I did.  He redirected his attention to me and my coke and my unwrapped, unused straw.  I pointed to the ground and told him that I lived right here.  ”Dang… ESSSS EFFFF! SF got everything! San Fran Cis Co. Hills. Liquor stores. Skateboarding.”  I nodded, trying to decide if I wanted to finish my coke in the pizza place or on my walk home.  I decided to walk home.

Mexi-cokes > Regular cokes.

And the closest place I knew that had them was Mystic Pizza.  On the sidewalk, I kept pace behind a man with a ponytail and thought about my Sunday that was already over.  I wondered if I should do laundry tonight or tomorrow night.  If the jeans in my closet had crossed the threshold of number of wearings or if they had one more day left in them.  The coke cost two dollars.  I gave the guy a five and he handed me back three singles.  I rearranged the dollar bills so they were all facing the same way and folded them into my back left pocket.  The scraping of a stool behind me broke my concentration and I turned.  ”Oh shit. Oh shit. Is that a cockroach?”  Great.  Well, at least what I bought came in a bottle.  I looked at the guy in the black hoodie, black jeans and flat-brimmed black and yellow baseball hat.  Then I looked at the counter by the glass jars of red pepper flakes.  It wasn’t a cockroach.  ”It’s not a cockroach.”  I said to him, “No worries. Probably flew in through the open door, but it’s all good.”  He kept staring at the bug, “Yeah. That’s life. That is Life, you know?”  I nodded and tapped the paper-clad straw against the not-cockroach-clad countertop.  I pulled the straw out of it’s wrapper and then remembered that I wanted to drink it straight out of the bottle.  That’s the best part.  Why did I get a straw again?  ”Life. Dang. Daaaaaang.”  His voice was low and soft and drawn out.  I wondered what he was on.  I continued watching him for a moment and then turned around so he wouldn’t see me smile to myself.  ”America,” he continued, “This city is cold. Some people are angry on the street. In Australia everyone’s like G’day and shit. Like everyone says we say.”  I didn’t hear an accent.  ”Where you live?”  No wait, yes I did.  He redirected his attention to me and my coke and my unwrapped, unused straw.  I pointed to the ground and told him that I lived right here.  ”Dang… ESSSS EFFFF! SF got everything! San Fran Cis Co. Hills. Liquor stores. Skateboarding.”  I nodded, trying to decide if I wanted to finish my coke in the pizza place or on my walk home.  I decided to walk home.