![]() On morning walks to work in the Mission, I passed long lines of men sporting messenger backpacks, waiting at public bus stops for private double-deckers that whisked them away to Mountain View. Once, in a fit of financial optimism, I tried shopping at the neighborhood boutique grocery store instead of a Safeway a single bag of cherries was priced at $17. ![]() The internship was unpaid-one of the other students I was working with confessed he’d taken out a loan for the opportunity-but I had received a grant from my college to be there, a sum that, though it looked impossibly generous on paper, was quickly eaten up by the rent for my bedroom in a dilapidated Bernal Hill bungalow where we lit the stove with pliers because the knobs had long since broken off. IN JUNE OF 2013, I flew from Philadelphia to San Francisco to intern at a small independent publishing house whose twee aesthetic had by then begun to feel anachronistic. ![]() Discussed in this essay: Uncanny Valley , by Anna Wiener. ![]()
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