I've come here often enough that I can recognize most of the waitstaff here (and they me), but I still sometimes home in on details that befuddle me when they're not there. Is that Krystal, the "goddess of station 1" there? If it is, I can't tell, because she's not wearing her usual shiny pants (nylon/polyester/spandex, I'd guess.) I find it frustrating that I can't remember the normal, "easy" things, but can remember some things in obnoxious detail. (When I was 17, I once met this girl named Beth Madeiros. Her brother did marine biology with sharks. She was wearing a black knit cap, and a pierced nostril [unusual in 1990], and mostly stood near the second rack of clothes by the right-hand wall, the rack that had the tye-dye shirts with images of various punk icons. I talked to her for about an hour, hour and a half, and was unable to evade my parents to try and get back there later. Never saw her again.)
I fucking hate it when the loud and giggly plebes let out their sudden cackles, it startles the fuck out of me. Sometimes I see the crowd around me more as a bunch of personified roles than as people per se. They're more interesting as to how they fit in the aggregate. There's very little here in the way of sparkly eyes, the people that stand out as individuals. I'm extremely fortunate to be in the SF bay area, where I've found an amazing amount of individuals, and the largest amount of people I've ever connected with. Even if I don't know how to talk to many of them, I'm still quite glad they're here. It seems like SF is one of the few places tolerant of eccentricity that I can finally learn to speak and to open up.