I'm sick. More than sick. Sick of it all. No, not the virus. Not the mask-wearing. I'm sick to death...of carrying this town.
Why do I have to answer every email? Every text? I'm starting on my 5th book.
Now people are asking me to teach writing. Get a life, people.
I'm carrying this town and waiting. Waiting on two of my speaking line roles to wiggle out of post-production and get to the big screen. Talk about development hell. Thanks to that freaking virus, I'm in post-production hell.
Can't wait. Can't wait till they see me on the Big Screen. Ex-professors. Ex-wardens. Ex-parole officers. Ex-1st ADs. Ex-Lovers and other strangers.
I pray to God every day. I know she's listening. I ask for her guidance. Help me cope. Help me cope with the Cretins in Hollywood. Divine Ma'am, Why do I have to carry this town?
I'm sorry. I 'm sorry.
Sorry that my good looks (a debatable proposition) questionable talents both on and off the dance floor and my never-say-die hustle have catapulted me to fame and most likely shame, as a Hollywood icon.
Okay, maybe being a Hollywood background movie extra ain't your cup of Green Tea. Still, it's almost a living.
Fellow actors, disgruntled directors, and recently disbarred entertainment lawyers, I'm still walking tall and an occasional muffled communication from a small, disgustingly oily but loyal fan base keeps me going (usually from within prison walls on stolen devices)and is enough to keep me living the dream.
And back to auditioning, once this virus thing is dead and buried. Whatever.
A lot of people out there are jealous of my performances.
I've worked with the Best: Cruise. Walken. Pitt. Clooney.
So have they. Me. How long do I have to carry this town?
But, enough about me...
