And Hello Again...

I was 25 when I wrote my last letter to you.  I am 27 now.  I was finally diagnosed with lupus last year, although my symptoms have remained relatively mild.  I have even less energy than I did two years ago.  Sometimes I feel like an old woman, even though I still dance up on stage to your music ... in my head.

No one told me that life would suck so much sometimes.  I kind of wish I would have had a heads up, someone to say, "enjoy life now while it's still enjoyable."  I really had not given a thought to what might happen as I get older, or the dying of youthful vanity.  I am no longer part of the carefree crowd.  A party or a club repels me instead of drawing me in, as either used to do.  And I'm only 27.  How will I feel when I'm 47?

Have you noticed, Gaga?  Has it happened to you yet?  The changes in skin texture, the lines that appear from nowhere, a mixture of sun damage and side-sleeping?  All the more reason to don your costumes and give it all you've got.

Dear Miss Gaga,

I read your feature in Vanity Fair. As a Southern Californian, I'm sad that you don't like Hollywood. Not that I blame you, of course; I don't like it either. It's just that I'm kicking myself that I didn't take opportunities to meet you when I had them. I really do think you would like the South Bay better; you should give it a try.

Anyway, I am grateful for your greatness. You have taken your dreams and transposed them into The Big Picture. I have so many dreams, yet it seems I can't realize just one. I love to read about you and watch your music, to live through you vicariously. Living the dream, whatever that means.

In my head, I've sang and danced to your songs, imagining myself wearing outlandish outfits and pouring my heart out with your words. I don't want no paper gangster.

Growing up, I never imagined I would live a normal life. I believed I was destined for something big. Even the peers who taunted me couldn't keep me down. I think it was the overwheming anxiety that did me in, or perhaps the psychiatric test conductor who concluded my dreams were the stuff of grandiose naivete. Apparently, such thinking is suitable for little children only, not for 13 year olds who should be learning the ropes of "reality."

Now at 25, I live in a small studio in a Los Angeles suburb, with a dead-end job and only dreams for the future. I have lots of dreams; they are nothing like they used to be, but I would be a wealthy young woman if dreams alone made money. Maybe I'll share them here. Maybe..

Until next time,

Karma Kamilienne