Ah, I'm such a lame ass porno pirate.
Not "ass porno." Hm, let's try punctuation.
I'm such a lame-ass porno-pirate.
By lame, of course, I mean "Loser with a capital re-re," not "person with disability who does everything better than you do." By ass, of course, I mean the figurative "smells like an ass factory" ass, not the occasionally delightful body part. By porno, of course, I mean my J-O-B in the hot world of heroin fab fetish and latex luxury, not "Bust'n Nuts On European Sluts" or "Harry Squatter and the Sorcerer's Bone." And by pirate, of course, I mean "Arrrr to my shadowy underworld," not some geek-chic internet thief downloading delicious medias.
Just to clarify.
That is to say, why the fuck am I not updating more? Have I not stories? I do! Have I not fingers with which to type? Check! Have I not motivation? Well....
So, it's summer in SF, the time of year when I always over-quote Mark Twain's hackneyed platitude "The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco." The fog laps the land with a thick and lazy tongue every night, the dazed tourists are wearing not much more than their goosebumps, and local fashion has reached an all-time paradox, combining scarves with flip-flops and parkas with shorts.
I realized after my eight years here that if I ever moved back to a city with seasons, I would totally and completely freak out over how quickly time passes. In the Bay Area, weeks/ seasons/ years all blend into a timeless, ignorant ethnocentrism only broken by an offhanded comment on talk radio about how it's 110 degrees in New York, or by learning that there's some state of emergency because people's fingers are freezing off in Vermont.
However, it's like, I don't know, 82 degrees out today, which feels to me the same as my ole timey sweltering non-air-conditioned 180 degree Philly summers. We're such goddamn wimps. The whole city is whining into our melty little puddles. My cats have permanently beached themselves on the kitchen floor, where I've been occasionally joining them. Boo to us.