Dear Catastrophe Waitress


Maybe creepy, definitely awkward, sorta sans sanity


I can make two promises that I believe are true.
WON.) I am not anything close to a stalker. Or even obsessive. Just interested.
TWO.) I feel I need to tell you what I'm going to tell you, because if I were in a position such as yours and someone else were me, I would definitely be interested (among other things) to hear such a tale.

I live in a moderately populated small city / big town near Vancouver, Canada. I work at a movie theater, and get maybe 6 customers on an average Wednesday night. So I keep myself busy. One day my manager / good friend Robyn was reading Sex Drugs and Cocoapuffs, and I proceeded to take it from her midway through my six hour Wednesday night shift. I got about half way through it before I went home that night, and finished it before Thursday morning. However, I skipped the chapter about The Real World (because I do not care and do not plan on caring any time soon) and on basketball (because I am disinterested). Then I borrowed Chuck Klosterman IV from her, only because it seemed logical to read what else you've got. I liked it a hell of a lot more than Sex, Drugs, and Cocoapuffs.
My favourite part, ever:
"It seems like we talk about girls and love all afternoon, and the conversation was excellent - there was very little small talk, it was almost all "big talk."" (page 163). I avoid small talk at (almost) all costs, so this seemed deliriously suitable for me.
Ok, now for what this is really about. While I was reading these books, I probably told the aforementioned Robyn (a very crude, hilarious, condescending jerk, with a brilliantly vibrant laugh) that I might enjoy these books more were I not stoned senseless on all sorts of prescription drugs (I was reading A Decade of Curious People and Dangerous Ideas just after I had surgery), and also if Chuck Klosterman was more of a Robert Redford-esque sex bomb.
I hate dreaming, I hate the ambiguity of the potential meanings and interpretations, although they are probably nonsensical, I always make too much of them.
[Interrupting myself to mention that I didn't expect this to be so long, and I apologize if you find this completely dull.]
About a week ago I had a dream in which you came to see a movie at my theater. The next scene, you were sleeping on a mattress in the middle of (presumably) your floor. I was sitting on the edge of said sleeping pad. Next scene: we're walking down a street. Next: you're driving a mini van down the same street, and I'm riding shot gun, playing role of napkin-passer and DJ. We were probably listening to the Life Aquatic OST, because I'm certain the weather was perfect for that. Next scene, you pull into a church parking lot and speak in a foreign language to a man named Brad Jersak, which is actually the father of a pal of mine. This part weirds me out, in retrospect. Next scene, we're at a funeral reception. Next scene, we're standing at a crowded cross walk.
The end.
Just like that.
And ever since then, I've totally had the hots for you.
The next time I read the Great Gatsby, and think of the movie, and think of Robert Redford, I'll think about how much better it would be if he reached a Chuck Kloserman-esque level of sexy.

Sincerely, Stephanie Herbert.

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