Page 16 of We Are Just Us

His fingers started moving before he could talk himself out of it.

Honestly? San Diego: Month One Observations from a Pale Man in Paradise

I’ve been in Encinitas for a month and I’ve learned a few things:

“Full sun” means different things to different people. To me, it means second-degree burns by 9 a.m. To locals, it means a light Tuesday.

There is a flip-flop hierarchy I was not informed of. Mine are “too clean.” I don’t know what this means, but I’ve been judged for it at least four times.

“Beginner-friendly surf lesson” is marketing speak for “we will tolerate your presence while you flounder.” My instructor, Jax, demonstrated a pop-up exactly once—at full speed—then spent the rest of the hour checking his phone while we all slowly drowned. I paid eighty dollars to feel inadequate in saltwater. Worth it? Unclear.

I witnessed a woman argue with a zoo attendant about whether her emotional support peacock could enter a petting zoo. The peacock spread its tail feathers mid-argument, as if presenting evidence. I’m pretty sure the peacock won.

I’m terrified of the ocean but I moved here anyway. Not sure what that says about me. Probably something good?

He read it back. It was funny. A little mean-spirited. Mostly honest.

He should probably edit it down. It was more than he usually shared. But the martinis had made him bold, and the words felt true, and fuck it—he hadn’t moved to San Diego to keep playing it safe.

He opened his email.

Typed in Emory’s address. Then added three other friends from Sacramento—people who’d get the humor.

Subject line: Help…I’ve moved to a beautiful cult

He hovered over the send button.

For approximately five seconds.

Then clicked it.

The email whooshed away into the digital void.

Kieran closed the laptop, flopped back against the pillows, and was asleep within minutes.

He woke up the next morning, hungover, deeply regretting the second martini, and vaguely embarrassed by everything he’d written the night before.

His phone was buzzing.

He squinted at the screen—twelve new texts.

EMORY: OH MY GOD

EMORY: this is HILARIOUS

EMORY: I’m forwarding to my book club

EMORY: you need to make this a THING

Kieran stared at his phone.

He sat up, head pounding, and opened his laptop.

Scrolled back through what he’d written the night before, cringing at some of the phrasing but also somewhat impressed with drunk-Kieran’s comedic timing.

His phone buzzed again.

EMORY: Seriously. Make this a Substack or something