4th of July yields more than 4 selves

It's 102 degrees in the apartment. I'm drinking water out of a wine glass I picked up at Beringer vineyards, which, after the class of Lake County to which I've grown accustomed, tastes like grape juice and lye. I've ruined my tongue, and my pocket book, forever. Ah well. This Independence-day weekend was spent in San Francisco, elbowing down Fillmore for the annual jazz fest full of whining saxophones and middle-aged women with big hips and voices that treat each note as if it had a three-tone grace period. Did Indian food at Shalimar on Polk and California - cheap and tasty, and they didn't charge a corking fee. Rolled through Chinatown, downed one too many Presbyterians at Vesuvio. Eh, it had an alcoholic vibe to it (though need I specify this, as it is a bar?). Friend and I fed on the vibe, alliterating our arguments in reverence for the scene. Clandestine chemistry was in the air. We eyed the cigarette and candy girl, eyed eachother, eyed ourselves. Fun how bloated Jack Kerouac can make a person feel.
Earlier I taught James the joy of back-scratching and now I've ruined him. Made a spaghetti strainer-toting fool of him. Weekend highlights: purchased new underwear, successfully sold myself at a dinner party, saw an old friend and laughed and laughed. Weekend lowlights: Inadvertently ate American cheese, inadvertently ate a c-note in sustenance (scotch included).

I had a thought regarding self-reference and how unfathomably limiting it is to have only one singular pronoun with which to refer to ourselves. "I" does not distinguish between my Sunday self and my sugared self. My teenage self and my thirtyage self. "I" is too short to fit all my nuances, all my innuendo, too unstable for my backbreaking bag of mistakes and valiant efforts to reconcile. People are dragging around big rocks behind them. Boulders. Our mothers and our IQs and our addictions. Our pets make them smaller, deaths make them denser. They’re extensions of ourselves, like the skin tags on old ladies. They rise to the surface in hard lumps, some malignant, others pulchritudinous. But we all deserve to have more than one word to embody it all. How do we resolve this? I'm beginning to think that "I" have more in common with schizophrenics than "I" ever imagined.

Favorite word for the moment: transgressive