Anyway--right now I am on the hunt for both the ideal avocado and San Francisco's best granola. Bell Market is winning on the avocado front. This is a big upset. I had expected Trader Joe's to have the best everything, but it seems they only have the best of everything except avocados. On the other hand, Bell, the ridiculously overpriced and disproportionately shitty grocery store around the corner from my house, has surprisingly excellent avocados: creamy, unbruised and the same pale color as the inside of a lime. Things are not so clear, however, when it comes to the granola. Cascadian Farms: too sweet. Bear Naked: too stale. Kashi: disqualified due to lack of oat clusters. ("Fiber twigs" are not the same thing.)
I see: my C mug! Do you c it?
Last night I had a dream in which all of my professors were taking part in a debate. They were sitting in a room that looked like something out of one of the Oxford University scenes in "The Golden Compass" (the movie, not the book). I'm talking mahogany furniture, flames crackling in a gilded fireplace and outfits too decadent to be truly collegiate. So: there we were, though I was in more of a fly-on-the-wall position. I remember feeling as though I was doing something very wrong, listening to the way all of their voices changed when they were talking to each other instead of their students.
That might have been a waste of a paragraph. Isn't it funny how nobody cares about anyone else's dreams? We talked about this in my Narrative class last year, and I think it's true. Don't you ever just want to skip over a dream passage when it comes up in a novel? Or when a friend is telling you about a dream they had the night before--do you really pay attention? I used to be obsessed with my dreams. I had this big glossy book that talked about all of the Dream Symbols and what they meant. Now, usually, I am either amused or weirded out by the things I dream. I am too sleepy to figure out what that says about me.
Oh! Went to a reading the other night at the Bazaar Cafe. The cafe itself seemed too fitting for such an occasion to be real: mismatched wooden chairs, windy strung lights, found art, mugs the size of my head. As usual, I was all wound up beforehand, but really enjoyed it when I began to read. It made me want to look into other open mic/spoken word nights in the city, though I guess those kinds of things can be pretty hit or miss.
Last night I saw my first lavender sunset: