When I moved to San Francisco, I thought I should upgrade to a fullsize. You know, just so that I could be adult.

I diligently researched possible retailers. Then determined my budget.

And I thought I was so brillant when I came upon Dirt Cheap Mattress. I spent only $500 on a so-called luxurious bed set. I was so happy to find the ultra plush Simmons with a pillow top. I spent the following weeks researching the best sheet sets and other things.

My roommate didn’t agree with me and went to buy his bed at Ikea.

Now about 1.5 years later, I wish I went the standard normal route. The bed sags in the middle. Unlike my younger self, I don’t jump on the bed. It doesn’t hurt my back yet, but people who have come over…complained. I am happy sinking into the mush.

And so today, I reluctantly went to try buying real beds at real retailers. It was confusing. The same mattresses with different labels at different retailers. How could I justify spending so much money when I may leave the Bay Area? What if I suddenly decide to upgrade to a queen? And what if?

And the funny thing is, I am much more willing to spend more money on a computer than a bed. Chris did point out that I spend most of my day on the computer than on the bed.

He said that he had a daughter. One day he heard there was a shooting close to the San Francisco streets she played in daily. “So we moved,” he said. “To Dolores Park.”

“Oh, but why stay in San Francisco?” I asked. Because I wouldn’t raise my kids in San Francisco. For the lack of quality of education. For the lack of the playground I used to take for granted. For the lack of safety.

He looked at me, “I have a partner. I am gay. It’s just easier to stay in San Francisco.”

Almost at once, I felt embarrassed that I asked. But then it occurred to me that it was sad how we often had to stay in zones of comfort. For an easy life. That it’s easier not to be a minority.

While in Texas, I was sitting on the bus going out shopping. A man with a toothless grin mentioned how he liked something I was holding. I nodded and smiled, still somewhat lost in my thoughts.

“Do you speak English?” he asked.

I was slightly startled. If I was not Asian, would he asked the same question? Instead, I said in my Californian accent, “Yes, I speak English.”

“And I am afraid…I guess that’s my secret,” she said, her voice shaking.

It was during Frank Warren (the creator of PostSecret) keynote at SXSW. She said that her sister was supposed to make it to SXSW but only recently found out she wasn’t going to live. The girl at the microphone recited her sister’s blog url and said in tears…that she was afraid.

The many secrets that were revealed during the keynote were heartbreaking, but to me, this was the most. Because there are times that I wake up from a nightmare in fear that my lifelong companion—my sister was no longer around. But no she’s living the life of an optometry student in the dead of Orange County still. They often say that nobody can understand you as well as siblings.

It’s often that we hear “I am jealous of what you two have.”

And once too, someone said, “It’s like you two are dating.” Only because we talk almost every day in some digital form. Be it phone, facebook, im, etc.

Friends come and go, but siblings are forever.

I was halfway across the street when a car came careening around the corner. I screamed in response as the car screeched to a halt less than a foot from me.

Then I stomped off in displeasure, somewhat recovering from almost being hit.

Texans, when I can see their face, are absolutely nice. (A bicyclist would always stop for me.) But when behind the wheel, maybe not so.

Everyone here uses twitter, but I decided to use jaiku. But I am having trouble figuring out who in my world really wants status updates so frequently…

“Part of the reason that they post it online is the risk of being found out,” a panelist said in one of the best panels so far, Sexual Privacy Online.

They talked about how people would post up explicit material online and somehow found by blogs, forums, etc. And how an anonymous sex blogger was named. An inappropriate video passed around until it reached the parents. The uproar, the legality, and the right to freedom of speech.

I don’t ever intend to post up anything explicit. Granted, I may be super-conservative (to put it lightly). But it’s the fact that I am acutely aware that anything I post can be seen by anyone. Anyone. Back in the day, I would regularly admit that I had a blog. At even times, it almost comes off as a sin, a burden, a confession. But it’s supposed to come off as a hobby. A self-preservation. A thing that I just do.

But there are times that I wish I could be truly anonymous. To post how ever I wanted without affecting those around me. Or affecting my life. Like so many bloggers, I want to tell it as it is. Because as readers, we are all so easily attracted to honesty.

On the louderspeaker at the gate, I heard “Boarding zones 1, 2 and 3. If you’re in a party of more than one, please use the lowest zone number.”

“Are we in a party?” I asked my friend. My zone number was 4 and his was 3.

“No, I think we’re in our own party,” he replied and walked away, boarding the plane.

Later when I passed him going to my seat, he apologized realizing…what I meant by a party…

The first doctor. On the 13th floor. Windows faced south. Staffed by two blondes. The doctor told me straight up what was going to happen. Then they emailed me the treatment plan with a breakdown of insurance coverage and cost.

The second doctor. In the same building, but on the 22nd floor. Windows faced north. Staffed by asian and middle eastern descent. The doctor led me through a storybook-like process of describing the procedure along with models of human teeth. Then a lady led me step by step through the financial portion, describing what charge I didn’t have to pay and what I was responsible for, listing my payment options.

And obviously I chose the second doctor even though it was someone I had found on yelp.

After my last experience of using someone I randomly chose from a list from my insurance, I couldn’t do that again.

I opened the door, perhaps accepting my fate almost willingly.

Empty waiting room with the red leather seats so different from the waiting room that I had just left. It had an older feel. I walked up to the counter. The lady, pleasantly plump and somewhat old…was on the phone as was another person. They had a cardboard box between them filled with pastries. They seemed busy with the phone.

I waited patiently and she lifted the phone from her ear. She said not too pleasantly or too pleasantly, “May I help you?”

I looked forward to relief and pushed forward my referral slip, “I was referred here by Dr. Velasco…”

She replied, not looking at the slip, and said in a dull tone, “The doctor passed away yesterday night.”

I mumbled something in response, in shock. She told me to go back upstairs to tell Dr. Velasco. As I walked out back on the elevator, now the whole dilemma was dawning on me. Not because of a doctor that died before I ever got to see him, but rather…life and death appears and disappears almost as if its own will. Did he have a fulfilling life? Treating patient after patient? A hollow job of pain and guilt only amended by the great bedside manner he supposedly held. In an office with a waiting room of old-fashioned red leather seats and gold trim?

Tears don’t come for someone I don’t know.

I bit down on a meaty rib, ready to indulge in my love of being a carnivore.

An hour later, I was in major distress as I went down the list of dental providers by my dental insurance, realizing that most dentists are not available on Saturdays.