San Fran Quotes

I'll get drunk & give no shit, & not be a Messiah." - New York to San Fran

La justicia es mucho mejor servida por un individuo que un sistema. Yo no tengo ninguna burocracia que esquivar o códigos morales que seguir.

We're stuck in our Selves, And who else to be stuck in? - New York to San Fran

LOVE IT! :) Yeah. They've been doing BIG billboards of this in the gayborhoods in NYC, LA and SanFran. Although I wouldn't fuck a Scientologist on a dare. 8|

No jures a Dios, Henry. Sabes lo que dicen. Ese es tu primer paso hacia tener un trato con el diablo

I pull a bobby pin out from my bun and push it into the old lock, waiting for the tiny bolt to ease downward and click out of place. I like to be in places where I'm not supposed to be-in my old high school's attic or in the empty house in my San Fran neighborhood. There's a tiny thrill in picking a lock and exploring a space that others want closed up.

Male bonobos can be highly protective. A striking example occurred at the San Diego Zoo at a time when its enclosure still had a wet moat. The keepers had drained the moat for scrubbing, then went to the kitchen to turn on the water valve to fill it up. Before they could do so, however, they were rudely interrupted by Kakowet, the alpha male. He appeared in front of their kitchen window, screaming and waving his arms. As it turned out, several young bonobos had jumped into the dry moat to play but were unable to get out. If the water flow had not been halted, they would have drowned. Kakowet’s anxious intervention demonstrated his ability to take another’s perspective and recognize their circumstances. But more practically, it also showed that he knew who controlled the water supply. After his alarm, the keepers descended into the moat with a ladder. They got all the bonobos out except for the smallest one, who was pulled up by Kakowet himself.

Over here you’ll see San Fran is also host to a wide variety of exotic animals. Many find our streets to be like a modern rain forest,” she says, indicating a flock of flea-ridden pigeons pecking leftovers off a bum sleeping on the curb.

There was only a text message from the woman I’d fucked earlier, Emily. She was listed as ‘Dallas-Emily’—city first, then name. That way, I wouldn’t confuse her with ‘San-Fran-Emily’ or ‘Vegas-Emily,’ so I could easily keep track of the other women I slept with in other cities.

Quan­do in­fi­ne re­cu­pe­rò il fia­to fece usci­re tut­ti per par­la­re da solo col suo me­di­co. «Non mi im­ma­gi­na­vo che que­sta stron­za­ta fos­se così gra­ve da far pen­sa­re all'olio san­to» gli dis­se. «Io, che non ho la gio­ia di cre­de­re nel­la vita dell'al­tro mon­do.» «Non si trat­ta di que­sto» dis­se Ré­vé­rend. «E' noto che si­ste­ma­re le fac­cen­de del­la co­scien­za in­fon­de all'am­ma­la­to uno sta­to d'ani­mo che fa­ci­li­ta mol­to l'in­com­ben­za del me­di­co.» Il ge­ne­ra­le non pre­stò at­ten­zio­ne alla mae­stria del­la ri­spo­sta, per­ché lo fece rab­bri­vi­di­re la ri­ve­la­zio­ne ac­ce­can­te che la fol­le cor­sa fra i suoi mali e i suoi so­gni ar­ri­va­va in quel mo­men­to alla meta fi­na­le. Il re­sto era­no te­ne­bre. «Caz­zo» so­spi­rò. «Come farò a usci­re da que­sto la­bi­rin­to?» Esa­mi­nò il lo­ca­le con la chia­ro­veg­gen­za del­le sue in­son­nie, e per la pri­ma vol­ta vide la ve­ri­tà: l'ul­ti­mo let­to pre­sta­to, la toe­let­ta di pie­tà il cui fo­sco spec­chio di pa­zien­za non l'avreb­be più ri­pe­tu­to, il ba­ci­le di por­cel­la­na scro­sta­ta con l'ac­qua e l'asciu­ga­ma­no e il sa­po­ne per al­tre mani, la fret­ta sen­za cuo­re dell'oro­lo­gio ot­ta­go­na­le sfre­na­to ver­so l'ap­pun­ta­men­to ine­lut­ta­bi­le del 17 di­cem­bre all'una e set­te mi­nu­ti del suo po­me­rig­gio ul­ti­mo. Al­lo­ra in­cro­ciò le brac­cia sul pet­to e co­min­ciò a udi­re le voci rag­gian­ti de­gli schia­vi che can­ta­va­no il sal­ve del­le sei nei fran­toi, e vide dal­la fi­ne­stra il dia­man­te di Ve­ne­re nel cie­lo che se ne an­da­va per sem­pre, le nevi eter­ne, il ram­pi­can­te le cui nuo­ve cam­pa­nu­le gial­le non avreb­be vi­sto fio­ri­re il sa­ba­to suc­ces­si­vo nel­la casa sbar­ra­ta dal lut­to, gli ul­ti­mi ful­go­ri del­la vita che mai più, per i se­co­li dei se­co­li, si sa­reb­be ri­pe­tu­ta.

So tell us, Oscar, how the hell could you survive life in that giant Gap ad aka San Fran? It’s so lily-white and boring there, the place is, like, covered in chinos.

more than Miami, LA, and San Fran combined.

thought of as a coastal city, but it actually had 520 miles of coastline, more than Miami, LA, and San Fran combined.