The man who calls himself the "Commander."


The number of individuals who use “that” when they should use “who” is astronomical.

It has always been a pet peeve, but lately it feels as if everyone around me makes that mistake in everyday speech. Or perhaps I’m going stir-crazy and I am subconsciously picking this up more frequently so that I will drive myself even more mad.

It takes a lot of will power not to correct my customers.


In a stark contrast to last summer, most mornings here I am greeted by the dense fogs characteristic of Daly City, as opposed to the day-breaking oppressive heat unique of the South Bay summer.

Most mornings and afternoons I can be found hustling some sort of good or service to the ridiculously wealthy and alternately stingy inhabitants of San Francisco, whereas last summer I was usually still in bed at noon.

No more idling away on a dirty SoCal beach; the bustling streets of downtown form my playground.

Well, at least I’m not turning into a raisin, eh?

Truly, this is the palest I’ve ever been during the summer, and I think I am a fan.

Slaving away all summer isn’t exactly fun and games. The main perk lies in the exposure to new people. And you know how much I love people.

My coworkers are amazing, so far. I’m almost vaguely perturbed by all the zany opportunities that may arise very shortly.

A burlesque convention?
A risque little theater in Nob Hill?
Hookah in the Mission?

So far, most excursions have the same theme, but hell, I’ll do anything, especially since I feel that the excitement has been severely lacking lately.


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