It was the kind of day that made me proud to be a native San Franciscan. I imagined my parents when they first moved to the city from Hong Kong and Fiji – how overwhelmed, excited, and terrified they must have felt. They sacrificed everything for me, so that I could experience a day like this.
It was a perfect 73 degrees – blue skies with an unusual humidity for San Francisco. It was a Friday, which unofficially meant that work emails would stop around 3, when people started surfing Justin Bieber videos on YouTube and giving the illusion of productivity. I took a lunchtime break and headed over to meet my friends along the Embarcadero.
I hiked up 2nd street and turned left. Keeping a brisk pace, I made my way down Folsom street, admiring the yuppie, stay at home moms with Starbucks and yoga mats in hand, the tech geeks emerging from their SOMA offices, and the ridiculously luxe condos in the neighborhood. I wanted to be a billionaire so freaking bad.
I walked past the Infinity apartment complex and tried to take it all in. And then – SPLAT.
Holy calamity. A bird shat on my head. A. BIRD. JUST. SHAT. ON. MY. HEAD. I had a frantic inner monologue freakout and then elicited a quiet shriek, followed by a much louder, shriller one.
As I stomped away alone, I got a closer look at the slimy, sticky substance in my hair. ‘Good lord, it’s not poop. It’s not the white/green/brown combo I expected. Ack! It’s clear, whitish, and slimy. Please say it’s not semen…and why does it smell like the Marlboro man?’
Some vile, nameless little shit had spit his tobacco dip spit off the side of the Infinity balcony onto my head.
Tobacco kills. And if I find the perpetrator before the nicotine gets him, he’ll be the first to go.