I was curious what this fine city’s inhabitants might be hiding, so I asked people to fill out an anonymous form with instructions to come clean about whatever they felt compelled to confess. The results are in and you’re weird, San Francisco. But that’s why I love you.
As soon as my boyfriend leaves the room I let out all the farts I’ve been holding in and then blame it on the dog when he gets back.
I WIPE MY HANDS OFF ON A FRIEND’S CAT.
About five years ago, right before I moved to San Francisco, I lived in the North Bay and I worked in a coffee shop. One of our regular customers happened to be Guy Fieri, and let me tell you, he is just as much of a douchebag in person as he is on TV. Maybe even worse. He always came in with this obnoxious air of self-importance, always looked down his nose at us, always ordered an Americano, and rarely (if ever) left a tip. I served him decaf every fucking time, and I don’t even feel bad about it. I’ve never told anyone about this, aside from like three close friends, because I don’t want anyone to think that I would ever fuck with their coffee. Just to be clear, I’ve never done that to anyone else, ever.
Just him. Now that I’m five years older and marginally wiser, I still don’t feel the least bit bad about it.
One time I was so broke and unhappy at my job that I found a bottle of wine in the kitchen and I stole it.
I was a short kid. When I was 7, I decided it’d be easier (and more fun) to pee down the floor drain in a public restroom than stretch for the urinal. I was having the time of my life until I realized there was a businessman in the stall next door. Apparently some people don’t like to have their dress shoes peed on. I bolted and could still hear him cursing up a storm all the way out the hallway as I rejoined my family.
I’ve watched the entire current season of Real Housewives of Orange County while at my desk at work. Nobody’s noticed.
Twice, I have gone produce shopping after masturbating, forgetting to wash my hands before leaving the apartment. Please wash your apples.
I crapped my bootie shorts at Hardly Strictly, then jumped in the bushes to finish the deed. With the long port-o-potty lines and my bike tangled up with three other bikes at the bicycle parking, I couldn’t get out of the park quickly enough. My apologies, beautiful park.
I ate five meals yesterday.
IT WAS TOTALLY ME WHO FARTED.
I steal food. From my roommates, Whole Foods when I know I won’t get caught, my nannying clients. I mean — not like a lot, I’m talking a can of lentil soup here and a few bananas every once in a while. I don’t think they ever notice. I feel a little bad about it, but the truth is it’s one of the ways I maintain my eating disorder recovery so I won’t buy a bag of chips and binge like crazy and instead just take a handful from my roommates when they’re sleeping. Is that shitty?
After a crazy night in the Mission (I had one too many margaritas from Latin American Club), I woke up the next morning with a half-eaten burrito in bed next to me. I then proceeded to eat the rest of the burrito.
I murdered my best friend’s crawdad when he was in the bathroom because I feared its crustacean creepiness. We were eight, and living in Nashville, Tennessee. Crunch-crunch-crunch went the dinner fork into the crawdad’s exoskeleton. “What’s the matter with him?” asked my friend, when he emerged from the bathroom. “I don’t know,” I replied. “Let’s watch TV.” (But I did know.)
I masturbate with a banana.
I served a crappy grilled cheese to a really excited customer.
I spent an entire day at work, applying for a different job.
When I was in elementary school, I sent my friend an email pretending to be a dude I liked and said that I (he) liked her and that is the story of how I accidentally hooked up my friend and the guy I liked.
I keep a detailed Google document that lists every person I’ve hooked up with (date, place, person and short sentence on the experience). Kind of like a dirty dating resume.
After four years of being broke, I finally graduated from art school… and I took a job at Google. I went from being angry at the gentrifiers who made my apartment hunting hell for years, to riding the bus every day. Some guy flipped us off this morning, but I can pay my rent now. Worth it.
I STEAL MY CO-WORKERS’ SALAD DRESSING ALL THE TIME.
I got arrested for smuggling MDMA from Amsterdam.
I stuffed a wet wipe saturated with butt-crack sweat inside a Louis Vuitton purse at Bloomingdale’s. It was some cross between an act of class warfare and an awkward disposal of evidence when no trash can was found.
I KNOW WHO MY SOUL MATE IS. AND I’M PREPARED TO DIE ALONE AND CELIBATE UNLESS I AM WITH HIM.
My husband loves Jeopardy, so oftentimes he’ll record it. Whenever I can, I watch the live version beforehand and memorize the answers. He thinks I’m a genius. I think I am, too.
My housemate and I are sincerely planning to put laxatives on everything our sociopath property manager eats. We like to brainstorm our vigilante ways in the name of household justice.
This story is part of our week-long package of anonymous stories. Learn more about it here.
