cake

first tuesday of the month at the MOMA.
sitting in delores park, smoking, drinking and eating pancho villa.
riding the bus (I secretly love public transport).
wearing long underwear.
tom jones sing-a-longs.
being bedridden with my dear friend and forced to eat soup and watch movies all day.
and:
.

I am happy to be home though. Home is a funny thing. I just spent the last two weeks in a city I spent the majority of my life in but yet I can't really call it home anymore. After only a few years I find myself calling here home. Someone once told me that it takes fives years to properly claim you're "from" somewhere. I wonder if this applies to calling somewhere home. I'm curious to see what others think; at what point can you call somewhere home? And why?

It's officially my last week of summer. I am still a little sick but I'm going to make sure this week counts. I have sunset junction lined up for sunday (buzzcocks, fuck yeah), tonight I am going to go watch my friend play soccer in the park (I have a weakness for guys + soccer) and tomorrow a possible evening outing with my dear Napalm. Here's hoping for more to come.

I have recently become a pinkberry addict. Don't tell anyone, for it shames me, but how can I resist? I curse the day that vice_vice_baby introduced to me the world's 8th sin; pinkberry. It's . . . just . . . so . . good . . . my point being, I am leaving now because girl needs her fix. Cheers.