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February
22,
2001
So yet another
audition where I'm the fattest in the room and I'm positive that's why I
didn't get the part. I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry, but I can NOT be a size 2 when my
bones are a size 8, okay? It
doesn't work like that. I
just hate it. I can ACT!
I'M GOOD! At least,
I think I am. I hope I am.
I'm pretty sure I am. And
all they do is look at the outside.
Yeah, dumbass, that's what
they're supposed to do. You want them to look at your insides, go be a doctor or
something. Idiot.
It’s so depressing, this endless round of auditions and
rejections.
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How much
longer? How much longer
before we decide to pack it up and move home?
But there’s some perversion, some sense of if I just hold out
for one more month, I’ll last longer than the thirty other girls that
decide to pack it up and move home.
Thirty girls every month. I
actually don’t know if it’s thirty or not, it’s just a number that
I made up to make myself feel better.
To make myself feel that I’ve got a shot, because thirty girls
(that I don’t know if they even exist or not) decided to move back
home.
I mean, I do
know quite a few folk that have moved home.
And it’s always such a shock.
You mean you’re giving up?
No, wait, I didn’t mean it like that.
You mean, you’re moving away?
You mean, you have other options? How great! How wonderful, that you realize that there’s a completely
normal life outside of L.A. that you’d be happy taking.
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