This is one. Arrive home, quarter past three, not a single idea of what to write about. Reminisce on the evening. Drinks at Southern Pacific. Then “emo night” at Knockout, with Brand New blasting out the speakers. Cheap beer and rounds of shots. Photo booth captures and post-bar burritos across the street. Classic San Francisco. Late night cab home with four stops between the Mission and the Richmond. Blissful sleep.

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In 2012 I landed at San Francisco International Airport with one suitcase and a carry-on. Henceforth I was one among 800,000 others living in this spirited, weird, warmhearted city. In time I would come to acknowledge that I was unwittingly joining the ranks of what some call the “tech elite”, a blanket classification used to typecast any person working at a company that makes software. In 2012, though, I was wide-eyed and awash with awe to be in the midst of such talent and innovation. San Francisco, after all, was founded on this very spirit of innovation. I threw myself headlong into the world of startups.

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Saturday night I took a short walk with friends, crawling out from the bustle of Chinatown, across Columbus Ave and through the Financial District, emerging onto the Embarcadero into the midst of ongoing setup for the impending Superbowl, metal barriers and racks of lights on trailers piled and waiting for their starring role in next weekend’s festivities.

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I’m keeping my entry brief tonight in lieu of finishing Gloria Steinem’s new book My Life on the Road, the first of hopefully many books that Emma Watson will encourage me to read via her recently started feminist book club, Our Shared Shelf. Steinem’s book, aptly named, is an account of her beginnings as a political activist and feminist; it is also her story of the burgeoning women’s liberation movement, coming to life around her as she traveled the country beginning in the 1960s. It is a book overflowing with a lifetime of wisdom, and one that you simply cannot read sans highlighting device.

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My apartment in San Francisco has a living room with several large windows. They are tall, magnificent things in the common style of Queen Anne victorians. One looks east, out onto our back porch, and the others are a set of bay windows that look down to the street below. All that glass makes for a bright room in the morning, even on days rife with clouds. Connecting the front of the house to the rear is a long, dark hallway, altogether the opposite of the brilliantly illuminated living room. If you were to stand at the front door and watch me walk away, down the hall, I would appear as a shadowy silhouette surrounded by an ethereal luminescence, so dark is the hall in comparison to the room at its end.

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