Dear Souplantation

Dear Souplantation,

I think I've outgrown you. You no longer get me stoked or, as my mother says like a goddamn Russian immigrant, "stoke me." Either way, I am without stokedness in your what-the-hell-year-is-it-and-what-state-are-we-in decorative interior.

When I was younger and you allowed my friends and I to eat and yell and basically run amok, that was different. In the last few years, I have become semi-cultured (meaning I've read the first few pages of a James Joyce book and have not giggled at dick jokes on occasion).

I am now a cultured man with elegant tastes. I've had asparagus soup that was orange, I've had wine I couldn't afford, I've even ordered Italian food from actual Italians. I mean, shit, I've had meals on four continents and in eleven countries. I've seen beyond the walls of America, dearest buffet kitchen and eatery.

Also, I opened my own restaurant when I was 6 with the help of my family (eEvita's) and then literally built a restaurant in my own fuckin' backyard when I was 22 with the help of my friends (Dive Bar). I know how to have a restaurant where the food is good and the service is exceptional. Sure, yeah, eEvita's was just a one evening thing and Dive Bar was only open for two nights, but the point is...well, I don't know what the point is.

I guess I'm just saying that I think I've outgrown you. I wear ties now. I have dress shoes. I've seen Sunset Blvd. I OWN A FUCKING QUILL, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE.

*sigh*

You were once like this kind of attractive girl who let me and my friends hook up with you in turns and the booty was sweet. I knew you weren't the prettiest girl, but you were a whole lot of fun to mess around in (eww). But, now, you've let yourself go. It's like your hair's knotted, your dresses are wrinkled and you have this loud cough that you do. But there's only one thing you do now that's good. Let's say your back massages suck (i.e. your baked potatoes), but your kisses are incredible (i.e. your cornbread and honey butter). I just have to seriously evaluate what I want out of my evening, you know?

I'm sorry. I honestly went to you tonight with a full heart, but I instead left with a full stomach and a promise to take a long hard look at myself before I return to you. We all grow out of our young flames at some point and I can only hope that you find another group of teenage anarchists to welcome.

Love,
Jake