From under my hat.

The homeless guy and I both held the same expression as strangers and stress went streaming by.

We’re suspicious and sleepy. The phone zombies in puffy coats scrolling through emergencies while Teslas race through stale green lights. A thriving city—where seismic shifts are nothing new—I suppose San Francisco can be whatever you want it to be if you’ve got the cash and a doggie resume.

We’re living a reality that can’t possibly sustain itself, but no one really cares once the rent is paid and the sunrise marks the beginning of yet another beautiful 70-degree day. I avoid getting political about it. I’m not smart enough to come up with a solution and I’ve succumb to the fact that greed will always prevail when real estate is involved.

So I file in. Another aging hipster chasing a fuzzy California dream. No savings, but big plans for the weekend. No kids, but guilty of acting like one most of the time. I drink too much coffee like so many other high-strung idiots. I record random thoughts as if they’re artistically relevant. I perpetually brace for bad news while constantly reminding myself how lucky am I to be here drinking coffee, writing gibberish.

I celebrate Friday as if I spent the week working hard, but my hands are getting softer by the day. I wear Redwing work boots to spend the day perched at an ergonomically correct standing desk surrounded by expensive Apple products. Feel free to laugh. I do. Often. And for that, I’m thankful.

The weekend is upon us. If you can, try not to take anything too seriously.

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