Dear San Francisco,
We love you. We love your chaos. We love the strange people you draw in and the strange people you create. We love your hustle and your bustle. We love your odd sounds and sights.
We love it all.
Until the sun goes down and the curtains close, and we shut our eyes and lay our heads on our fluffy pillows in hopes of a blissful night’s rest.
When that time comes, cut it out. Just STOP IT. We’re trying to sleep and we no longer appreciate you and your wildly absurd noises that rip us from our slumber.
From our pillows, we no longer want to hear from you, man carrying a giant speaker in a wagon blaring Rhianna under our daughter’s window.
While our child is snoozing, semi-truck, we don’t care to listen to you roar up the hill like a fat hippo snoring in our ears.
We yearn for your cars to just get stolen already, and their blaring car alarms too.
And we dearly wish to throw eggs at your inconsiderate motorcycles that throw said car alarms into a panic.
From our beds, we wonder if you’re pulling fire alarms on purpose just to mess with us, or else we assume the entire city must be burning down.
And we think your middle-of-the-night drunken arguments on the street are only a little bit funny.
When the lights are out, we would love it if you would just be nice to each other one time, and avoid having a honking duel with the car next to you.
We would appreciate it if you could avoid opening up a manhole and commencing senseless drilling on a residential street.
But San Francisco? When your semi trucks forget to take the less steep route and get stuck on your hills?
Keep doing that. That makes our night.