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.

Dearest Karla,

I don’t know where to start.
I guess I’ll tell you about why I got all…like this. I mean, I know this blog will dissolve into frivolous meow meow posts, but for now, background. I guess it’ll be hard to digest if you still believe that I don’t read, write, go to school or do anything but sit around in my pajamas.
I’ve always wanted to be a writer, but I don’t have a great story. I don’t have that story that would flow so perfectly, that story that I could sneak symbolism into, it makes people cry and use my quotes, that story that would make me feel like I could be something, affect someone. I still want to live that chain-smoking, hard-drinking (to the point where booze don’t get you drunk, they just get you to normal..), almost moral-less existence, but then write about God or something. God trapped in a love story that could never work out, and also everybody dies. Nobody gets anywhere. Ah, I love it.
I want to live in a time when I could have communicated with like minds. Maybe we have a cause, or maybe we are so causeless that we get to sit around and drink and smoke and write. People look up to us; maybe buy t-shirts influenced by our work. They’re like me, those people buying those shirts. They want to be something. They copy down our quotes. They buy a pair of black sunglasses and move to some big city.
I’ll buy some sunglasses. I’ll move to some city. Why is this my idea of how to make it as a writer?
So I’m studying the mind. I’m studying religion. I’m studying something to turn it on. Something that can inspire me and help me realize what I see, what I want to see.
It’s just that some words are so beautiful.
But really, I won’t go anywhere. I won’t do anything. If I had anyone to communicate with, these so-called “like minds,” I probably wouldn’t be sharing my opinions with them anyway. That’s my shtick. I don’t have opinions. There’s nothing happening now that I can bring myself to care about, anyway.
I do, though. Care. I care about some things so much sometimes.
I want to be a part of a scene, but none of them are right for me.
So that’s what I mean. I want to be a writer.

and I'm trying to leave you this comment, but the word verification isn't working for me, so I'll leave it here...
in regards to your post...

Tangent - some kid in my Medieval Philosophy class mentioned the Land Before Time in class. It was supposed to be a joke. The professor was discussing how time could exist before time was created by God or whatever. I might have cried, if I hadn't felt so much like committing violent mass homicide.
but I saw AirBud when it came out. Saw it in theaters with my mom. I remember the theater, and it doesn't exist any more.
Anyway, you know where I stand of the ultimate battle of good v. evil, right v. wrong, cat v. dog. I'm done with dog movies.


-Mantha Ray

p.s...I just realized I think I always liked blogspot better.

Air Meow.

Dearest Samantha,

I'm sure you got the text about my original blog idea, but thanks to the kind people at Wikipedia, I decided not to write on the topic... Guilt, nothing but guilt. Anyway, instead I wanted to write about the large flux of dog movies out in theaters and DVD lately. I know your roommate/my sorority sister Britney is probably stoked about it since I know she's all about the Beethoven dog movies (just kidding Britney, on the off chance that you're reading this) but I feel like all these movies are a little much. It started with Marley and Me, which seemed like a cute idea and I guess I wanted Jennifer Aniston to get back into the movie scene again... but then Hotel for Dogs came out... Camilla Grey from the band Uh Huh Her said it was a cute movie that made her cry, but then Space Buddies came out. WTF Samantha... WTF? Where's the love for the cats? I'm getting kind of sick of the Air Bud franchise... it's up there in my hit list of annoyances next to The Land Before Time series, which is only on the list because dinosaurs scare me, especially those of the singing cutesy nature. Call me a cynic, but isn't the talking golden retriever movie idea a little played out? Maybe it's just my Comcast, but every commercial break, there's a Space Buddies commercial with puppies going to moon or something and saying hip different cute phrases about things and crap. Maybe it's just me though, I get bothered by realistic animals talking.

Anyway Sam, here are a few movies you should check on Netflix if you're into Air Bud:

Air Bud: Golden Receiver (1998)
Air Bud: World Pup (2000)
Air Bud: Seventh Inning Fetch (2002)
Air Bud: Spikes Back (2003)
Air Buddies (2006)
Snow Buddies (2008)
Space Buddies (2009)
Air Bud: Aussie Rules

Check your local listings.

Sincerely,
Karla-Josephine Bud.

Generation Meow

Dr. Frasier Kat