That’s ours, thanks.
Don’t fucking tell me about how other places have summer. Everywhere, everywhere, no matter where you go, is San Francisco.
The don’t even get their own jokes.
In that there is no discernible coffee taste with which one might take offense, yes, a regular U.N. cup.
The Draconian breakfasts of Michigan. Weak coffee & no vision.
Not much. And you?
Behold, the rare naturally occurring CAPTCHA.
You stand outside for a full minute, thinking, “Well, it’s quieter in there than anywhere else in this town. Maybe they would make me a Manhattan? Maybe I won’t care about the overt obnoxiousness?”
If you were in the city, you would take a picture and laugh.
Congratulations. You have discovered a way to bend time and space, and also all your dearly held beliefs about quality over consumption. Also, you are looking for a bar that is not playing Shakira remixes. A subtle bar. In Tahoe. On Saturday night.
I’m a week early.
It appears that the mosquitoes consider me to be the original San Francisco treat.
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