I am a bad blogger. I have not written a single word about E-Tech (informative) or San Diego (pretty), my inability to remember to pack my gym pants (vexing) or Control (Ian Curtis, just kill yourself already). I have not written about my two days of fine dining (Bacar and Orson), when I really ought to. There were clever cocktails. Service was
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Under my reign of terror, he will be cut into julienne strips and deep fried in duck fat. All things are improved through frying in duck fat.
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I never thought it would be such a relief to get to work, where there are no jerks, only paranoid schizophrenics.
BAHAHHAA. Amazingly true.
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He had already walked past me by the time I realized that this man had just hit on me and grabbed my ass, so I kicked the nearest available target. I would have had to move a whole lot faster in order to orchestrate a kick to the nuts. If I hadn't needed to get to work, he would have felt my wrath! Wrath, I tell you!
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I'm trying to think of anything even remotely exciting that has happened to me on the wild streets of SF, but the best I've got are random marriage proposals and ... clever ... pick up lines, like: "I hate to see you go but I love to watch you leave."
Walk on the streets with me more often. No one wants to touch the six foot girl in the steel-toed boots.
Edited to add: I'm also really bummed that happened to you -- women's bodies are not public property.
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I am a city girl. I have spent my entire life walking through bad places, risking the possibility of unpleasantness happening to me. I try to minimize the possibility that unpleasant things will happen without becoming one of those people who is practically immobile with fear. I am a tough girl. I just wish that my boot has moved a tiny bit faster.
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(I bet I could do a million straddle ups in a row if it meant kicking him in the nuts and then the nose over and over again)
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