We have it pretty damn good here in San Francisco. New York is jealous of our food, Chicago looks longingly at our weather forecast, and LA even hates the fact that we have a working public transportation system (somewhat). It’s hard not to feel like we’re living the good life. Of course, that’s not to say we aren’t without our woes as well. There are plenty of ills and maladies that we San Franciscans have to deal with on a daily basis, and damn do they suck balls. You might have incurred one, two, or even all of these injuries in your rigorous day-to-day in this wonderful, yet perilous, city of ours.
Do you know how many finger taps it takes to spell “MUZJIKS”? (128 points, bitches!) Yeah, that’s right. Seven. Now multiply that number by all my Facebook friends and you get a sense of why so many of us are cradling our bruised index digits. How am I supposed to ironically type my next manuscript on this typewriter now?
Look, updating my Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Path, and Foursquare while booking a Zipcar for my weekend trip to Big Sur and catching up on last night’s episode of Glee all at the same time on the 1.46-lb. device I’m holding with one hand is not easy. Never mind how tough it can be to heft that beautifully designed behemoth above my head to snap a picture of the time I thought I saw Anthony Bourdain at my local bar. My arm hurts just thinking about it.
Looking good never hurt so bad. These days, we San Franciscans are more than willing to sacrifice sensation in our lower extremities to make sure we give Portland a run for its money in the tight pants trade. Now just give me a hand up, will you? Also – sorry, babe, I’m now sterile. Bummer.
I just went to the park to get a little sun and maybe sip on a delicious PBR, not get my inner ear worked over with a baseball bat by a dude who looks like he last bathed in 1996. Seriously? Some of us really need our ears to do other important tasks, like hear our order called from that hot new food truck or listen to that really awesome NPR podcast on crocheting our own beer koozie. That shit was going to blow up my Etsy page.
Backpacks are so elementary school and padded shoulder straps are for wussies. Do you know how much street cred I get when I wear my vintage leather portfolio bag with a strap that cuts into my shoulder like a hot knife through a lovely Cowgirl Creamery Brie? Yeah, a lot. But it still hurts something fierce and my chiropractor does not take Healthy SF insurance.
When the temperature manages to poke its timid head above 70 degrees, there is only one thing that can chill me out: ice cream. And not just any ice cream; that shit better be a salted-caramel-bourbon-Fernet explosion in my mouth and cost the same as a decent meal. Unfortunately, since the average wait time for the excretion from a cow’s nipples in SF is apparently one to two hours, I may be calling 911 for something other than the guy running off with my fixie.
Shit, any barista worth his/her salt knows that the proper temperature at which to brew coffee is exactly 200 degrees Fahrenheit, which cools to the correct drinking temperature of 175 degrees in a matter of seconds. Yet, still, I have to keep an eye out for that random rookie who rapes my tongue with an overly heated cup of joe. What is it, amateur hour up in here? Get it right, beardy.
Oh, I know this locally sourced, all organic, cage-free, free-range, fair trade, hedgehog wool scarf looks amazing on me when the temp gets a little nippy, but this mother of all allergy rashes on my neck itches like a bitch. I would say I might be allergic to hedgehogs, but how the fuck would I know? Still, have you seen how good I look? Just look at me.
You know how it goes: You start out in the Mission on a hot summer day, sweating balls, and decide to meet your friend for dinner in the Inner Richmond at the new Indonesian/Korean/vegan /gluten-free place, and bam! Next thing you know you’ve got icicles hanging from your mustache and your nipples are so hard they can cut glass. My vintage denim jacket, old-man cardigan, and hedgehog scarf are just not doing it for me this time. Let the EMTs know they’ll find my frozen body in the nearest fancy Victorian doorway.
I get them. They suck ass. But it’s not my fault – we’re just a city with one of the highest bars to people ratios. It’s really tough out there for us.