Something like 9PM. It's been a long week. Last night was out a little later than usual, helping a friend work on her pharmacy essay. I think she was a little overwhelmed, showed me some samples of essays written by friends that got into UCSF. They weren't that different, each had a sob story about somebody getting sick. Each had a detailed description of their internships. It was all very cerebral and technical. Both were lacking heart.
She thought about making up a story. I told her to keep that story in her back pocket, and asked her about her experiences. She talked a lot about the different ups and downs of her internships. How in her downtime she'd ask a lot of questions, had coworkers quiz her on facts and such. How she was able to help people who didn't speak English. How in one instance, she may have saved somebody's life.
There was a personal history, and some personal stories. And that's all we needed. Not something we made up. And it was heartfelt. It was passionate. It was something the UCSF kids didn't have. And it was all true.
I didn't get to bed till twelve and a half last night. Slept like a baby. Slept past three snoozes on the iPhone. Woke up, got ready, and waited for my ride.
So I go to work, it's a Friday, spent a lot of time in my car to and from work. In traffic. Top down. Fuckin' felt great. I love my car. The freedom. The thrill. Even in stop and go traffic, just the visceral motions of shifting gears and breathing everything from the fresh summer air to the tired exhaust on 101 is liberating. Makes me feel one with the earth.
So I get home. Thought about what I wanted to do. Curled up in a ball in bed and passed out.
At 11:30 I get a call. It's Brian. He wants to go drinking. I roll out of bed and get dressed.
Pretty uneventful. I was so tired I skipped dinner, so I got an order of won ton mien at ABC cafe across the street from our regular watering hole and scarfed it down at the bar. One. Two. Three Heinekens. A game of pool. Slapping hands with a few friends and a few strangers. Watching the Food Network on a plasma screen, Giada was prancing around my old stomping grounds in New York. Watching New York on TV always gets me nostalgic. And before you know it, I'm home again.
Tomorrow I'm going camping. Not everybody that originally planned to go can make it, so I'm a little bummed about that. But it'll be good to sleep outside for a change. Have some good conversation, food, and booze. Borrowed a sleep mat and a cooler from a coworker. Went to REI to pick up a sleeping bag. It's just one night, so how bad can it be? You could go out into the wilderness buck nekkid for 24 hours with absolutely nothing and come out OK.
Spoken like a true city boy.
On the way home, driving through dark lanes of tree-lined traffic in Golden Gate Park, Brian keeps asking me if everything's OK. I guess I didn't feel super social tonight, especially after shaking off the cobwebs of a week filled with exhaustion to make it out for a few drinks. He asks me if I had a good time. I tell him yeah, of course. These days I don't have a lot of expectations for things. He says low expectations are a good thing.
Time and the glow of street lamps past midnight. The cold breath of fog that seems to permeate everything, the shadowy boughs of Monterrey cypress, the slick layer of dew brushed across the asphalt.
Sometimes there are nights of longing. Other times, there are nights of living. There's always a story, sometimes it's just a matter of fleshing it out and writing it down.
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