Dear San Fran,

To the freaky couple who got it on at 3:30 AM in the room next door and had me praying to God that you were just a porn tape, thank you for making me laugh.

To the heat wave that decided to preside over my stay, you're a motherless kind of evil.

To the coastal shores of Monterey, you have a piece of my heart.

To the Harbor Court Hotel (a.k.a. the "free hotel"), I'm going to miss your warm (& free) chocolate chip cookies.

To the pavement and rolling hills of downtown San Francisco, my feet hope to never see you again.

To 500 Jackson, my mouth waters every time I think of you.

To the Palace of Fine Arts, your celestial beauty takes my breath away.

To all the foreign cab drivers who are as friendly as a rock, you did nothing to assuage any of my fears that you wanted to see me dead. P.S. I only tipped you out of fear and to possibly win some morsel of love from your seemingly black heart.

To Sephora—the only store I can actually lose track of time in—why can't you come to Memphis?

To the Cliff House, if I ever make it back to you again, I promise to watch a sunset with you.