Poetry
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The smell of perfume and make up makes me sick. I look around and all I see are these prima Donna bimbos with unnaturally brown skin and platinum blonde hair. I hate days like this. All I want is to go down to my car, parked haphazardly on King Street, and have a ciggie. But as this thought crosses my mind my agents voice rings through my mind, Please dont go in there after a smoke, its bad for your reputation. I utter an audible groan and the girl next to me flicks her eyes my way, I swear I can see a smirk cross her lips for a second. I smile back at her. My smile is a little less than convincing. But as I am constantly told, it is important to be polite to these people; they are my colleagues, not my competition. Bullshit I reckon. But in this industry what I think is not really all that important. Its all about how you look on camera. Did you know that Brittney Spears doesnt take good care of her baby? Apparently he was in a car seat without a seat belt. Who gives a fuck? I toss the shitty womans magazine back on the pile and return to my seat. And when I looked up there she was, Amanda. It was the first time I had seen her Why do I do this to myself? Because when you get the part the rush is like a drug and your life becomes a party. Every day you get paid to be a star. And I love it. Amanda flicked her long red hair and sat down next to me. She was young, much younger than I am and her eyes were dancing with secrets untold.
Hey there, she said looking me right in the eyes. I smiled politely. I think Im going to shit myself She was wearing a goofy kind of teenage grin, the kind of smile that only someone who hasnt had their hopes crushed can summon up and plaster on thick like a fresh coat of paint. I just laughed appropriately and turned my gaze back to chipping the cheap black nail polish off my thumb nail.
Auditions,