Caturday.

Dearest Samantha,


It is a Saturday afternoon... I do realize the title is quite cliche but it makes sense... it makes sense. I feel you about wanting to be a writer though. One of my life missions is to write a memoir-esque collection of essays about my life. I have several fictions I've attempted to write, but I figure I lack imagination under a sober mind. I try to make for my fiction-writing shortcomings through song writing, musical compositions, and (of course) the culinary arts. I figure conceiving other forms of "art" satisfies the same mouth, per se. I think you would be much better at writing fiction, something mind blowing and deep... My imagination is lackluster and I figure my own personal stories are far more interesting and make more sense than whatever fiction I decide to write. I know, I find it a bit self-indulgent writing about one's self, but it seriously feels like it's the only thing I can write with any trace of interest. Up there in my interest in writing is my interest in music but I'm so insecure with my musical inclination.







Anywhoot, yesterday was friday night and it made me think. Let me go back and look at the typical friday night a year ago... Karla-Josephine a year ago would spend a friday night either playing video games OR go out with her friends to a crazy shindig of either massively amazing or lame proportions. Lame proportions meaning a party in The Villas townhomes in San Francisco that a friend is holding where a bunch of people I don't know end up going and taking up too much space on the dance floor. Then you start talking to a guy and he is either on parole, an uneducated rapper named Deli trying to make it big (TRUE STORY), or a high school junior trying to pass off as a 22 year old student at USF. Or he could just be a loser... or all of the above, I wouldn't rule that out. But despite the lameities a night may consist of, it will always be funny to laugh at a few nights after, especially if you have your girls who can help you recall the facts. An amazing night could start out the same... a party at a familiar face's pad then you meet some nice people, possibly even a boy who makes you believe they're not all assmunches. A simple night, but sometimes simplicity is key when trying to make a night to remember.
I used to be so active and outgoing... yesterday night was spent watching a 20/20 two hour news segment about the chemistry of faling in love. After that, I spent the night with my personal deity, Chelsea Handler. I love her show, it's my favorite source of retrieving pop culture news. If I were to be a writer, I'd LOVE to write like Chelsea Handler. She holds nothing back and doesn't give a crap how honest her words are. I finished reading her book My Horizontal Life a few weeks ago and it was probably one of the only books where I caught myself laughing outloud. It's a good book if you're into raunchy yet hilarious sexual ventures manifested into a clever memoir.



I ended the night borderline overdosing on generic nighttime cold medicine and generic allergy pills. It was weird, I forgot I took cold medicine and took my allergy pills and I started to worry. I went into slight hysteria and started to feel my liver shutting down and my kidneys failing but luckily the histamine kicked in and I knocked out after eating a Chewy bar and a popsickle.

Part of me really misses the crazy nightlife of drinking excessively, dancing with little to no rhythm, and meeting people who are just as down to spoon as me... I don't know what to make of it. I'm not upset in the slightest that my current friday nights consist of me sitting in sweats all day watching the food channel and sleeping face down on the couch to the studio audience laughter on audio from TV Land, but I couldn't help but think of how I would be if I still were in San Francisco. I guess I know monday is the start of me not being a drop-out anymore. 14 units and culinary school, here I come.





I'm going to be an asshole and indulge in pretentious coffee at a pretentious coffee shop wearing a cashmere sweater.
Sincerely,
Karla-Josephine Boring.