I’m sitting now in the middle of a darkly lit bar, with cheesy pop music courtesy of Rihanna playing in the background. It’s a bar called Tonic, which sits in the area between the Marina district and Russian Hill, and the mere mention of the two districts spark certain looks in locals. Snobs. White people. Posers. Douchebags. Meatheads. Surprisingly, I feel quite comfortable sitting here, typing away, holed up in a corner on beat up leather barseats, slowly meditating on pear cider, which has become my poison in America. Because everyone must have a drink here. Everyone must have a poison. Drinking is a part of life.

The past week, no less the past month since I’ve moved here, has been a series of emotional trials for me. Alone. Confused. Stranded. There have been times where I have felt like just taking off and flying back home. But then, I sober up and remember how much I hated what I called “home”, which in my mind synonymized with Shittapore, and how hard I worked in order to escape from there.