We Built This City On too Many Hills

Sometimes I hate this city. I hate walking out my front door first thing in the morning and having to use my irritated voice as I tell the bums to get the fuck out of the way, so I can open my gate. I hate checking out guys on the street and realizing that a) they’re homeless or b) that they’re gay.

Sometimes I justify littering like a kid can justify stealing candy from a store. When I litter, I say to myself, “I paid for that shit to be cleaned up with all my fucking street-sweeping parking tickets and getting towed too many times.” I curse San Francisco and those fucking meter readers and tow companies that stand-by just waiting for the idiots, like me, who read signs incorrectly or forget what day it is.

I hate that the same homeless guy comes up to me each cigarette break, never recognizing that he’s already asked me ten times that night and every Saturday night for the past year, to “help [him] and his daughter get a room for the night… [they’re] just nine dollars short,” and each time, I say, “you already asked me.” He looks startled and says, “oh (I did?)” and moves on. No fucking wonder he’s homeless. He’s an idiot.

And people complain about inhaling exhaust in LA? I much prefer that over the stench of piss frying on the pavement.

I hate that there aren’t enough places to run without having to take a plane, train or automobile or living in the Marina, which you pretty much have to run to get to anyway. And I hate hills. I hate running up fucking San Francisco hills. I blame those hills for this big ass of mine.

I hate Ocean Beach. I hate that it’s not La Jolla or Del Mar, how beaches are supposed to be… you know, ones that can actually be used and not just looked at.

Despite the homeless and the piss and the meter-readers and the hills and the useless beaches, sometimes, I love this city.