Depression is expensive. You eat junk food and order delivery because cooking and cleaning up sounds like slow torture. Your productivity falls off or you lose your job entirely. You miss obligations–everything feels like an obligation. You’re haunted by your elusive potential and the feeling that you’re letting everyone down.

I like danger and anything I can’t have. But I am afraid of ghosts.  Historically, I’ve been able to evade the supernatural.  But sometimes, because of our circumstances, we can’t always avoid what we don’t want. I spent the weekend at a San Francisco hostel in lower Nob Hill.  My first

As 2024 winds down, we’re reflecting on another incredible year of sharing the stories, art, culture, and nightlife that make the Bay Area so unique. BrokeAssStuart.com wouldn’t be what it is without you—our community of readers, supporters, and believers in independent media. This year, instead of asking you to join Patreon

The quest for the finest offal in the city. A Multi-Colored Brick Road (ahem) strewn with Brains and Heart for the Courageous.

Want to meet cute ladies, ladies? Here’s the master list of events- and for the love of god feel free to suggest any other parties or clubs you think are dope. Cockblock Called ‘The Best Place for Chicks (Who Likes Chicks)’ by the SF Bay Guardian Every 2nd Saturday at the Rickshaw

Through sprawls of twisting novels, jolting poetry, and a touch of drugs, a clique of artists belonging to the late ‘50s crafted the Beat legacy. At the peak of their activity, general America viewed them as destructive, wicked, and super gay. Naturally, bookstores and classrooms now showcase their work around

Bedbugs are what happens when horror movies come true.  It’s confirmation that, ‘yes, gross creatures who suck your blood at night do live in your walls.’ Despite the macabre, bedbugs are relatively simple to handle if you understand these key points: 1. Every one of those bastards has to die 2.

For those interested in the consumption of fine entrails, we present to you here within The Organ Trail, a weekly collection of macabre signposts pointing towards zones of high offal-saturation scattered throughout our little slice of peninsular heaven.

Your alarm goes off. “Fuck…” you mumble to yourself. Your mouth tastes like bad decisions and your tongue feels like sandpaper. You’re not sure if you’re hungover or still drunk but you know you’re in such bad shape that you’re even creating new swearwords, “Oh Jesus fuckhammer” you groan. Then