Tenderloin is so depressing. Giant, square avenues. Deserted, horror-movie Walgreens where fucking toothbrushes are under lock. The bright winter sun reaches me, but not the heat.
I’m back in BART, going to the airport to sort this baggage thing out. The guy at the United desk is apologetic but unhelpful. Brussels Airlines is useless. Thank fuck, there are free phones everywhere in the airport, so I can weather 15 minutes of waiting to be put in line with someone from British Airways. Once again, the Brits save the day. Once it’s all set up for my bag to be delivered some day maybe, I head downtown to do some shopping. Let’s BART this morthefucker, I say to no one.
Union Square is a shopping hub. It looks like a shopping hub. Nuff said. I get to the mall and rob an H&M. I would love to say my afternoon at the mall includes an amazing 80s-themed musical number around a fountain with a robot and my homegirls Jessica and Tory, but no, it doesn’t.
I head back to the hostel, put on shiny boots and ripped black jeans and it’s like I’m human again. I leveled the fuck up. I feel like a million bucks strutting down O’Farrell. Back at Westfield, I experience the food court without great success. It’s 6pm, I am exhausted and slightly disgusted with myself.
So I go to the movies. Pitch Perfect 3. Oh yeah, it’s bad. But the seats in the theater, man, they’re amazing. If we were in Vegas, I’d marry one in front of God, a bunch of drunk people and Elvis.
Getting back to the hotel, I detour by the Disney store. They’re selling R2D2 dresses. I might have shed a tear.
I’m not realizing yet, what’s happening, where I am. It will come.