Sometimes when you're on, you're really fucking on, and your friends they sing along, and they love you
One of my first acts upon arriving in San Jose was to inadvertently get very, very happy at happy hour. The drunk wore off, but not the happy.

There was glorious weather, and lots of things that were just like old times, like watching TV and cooking together and eating a ridiculous number of English muffins. There was food. Lots of food. There was chicken and dumpling soup, and cheese bread that was more like cheese pie, and falafel, and so much Thai food we ate it for dinner and lunch, and minestrone, and Chinese food that I actually ate with chopsticks, and ice cream and ice cream and ice cream. There was a birthday, which happened to be mine. We celebrated by spending money and roasting a chicken. I was busy being squeamish during Robin's lesson on butterflying, but Shan found it informative. And the end result was too good to be squeamish about.

There was wandering all over San Francisco, to places I had been before, like the wharf and Union Square, and some places I hadn't, like Chinatown and Golden Gate Park and the subway and Victoria's Secret, where they gave me an enormous, shiny pink bag for my five little pairs of underwear. There was a concert by Ben Gibbard (and some other people), who was charming and funny and humble and put on a show well worth the three-hour wait. There was the Sunday service at Glide Memorial Methodist Church, where everyone was unabashedly joyful and the gospel choir was stellar and there was an attractive boy sitting next to me in the pew. There was a ride on the trolley, where I clung to a partition and tried not to fly out the door and thought, I am absolutely in love with life.

And then there was eating the last English muffin and hugging good-bye and taking a plane and putting Shan on a train, because we always have to go our separate ways in the end.

But it was good while it lasted. And it will be again.

Rilo Kiley, "A Better Son/Daughter"

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