Acting in Hollywood can be a pretty frightening endeavor, in my opinion.
There’s plenty of shit people can ask of you while you’re on set.
You know, they could be like, “YOU’VE GOTTA BE SUPER SAD!”
I’m like, “Chill, let me grab the Bengay from my satchel of tricks.”
They could be like, “YOU’VE GOTTA BE NEARLY NAKED!”
And I’m like, “Well, I do keep a bikini in my car.”
But there is nothing more intimidating to me
than reading on the casting sheet:
“Come dressed in whatever you would normally wear out to a club.”
THIS IS ASSUMING I GO TO CLUBS, EVER.
I DON’T. I AM NEVER UP IN DA CLUB, PEOPLE.
I only have like,
two modes of dress.
Work/Pajama mode
& Not Work/Pajama mode.
The Work/Pajama mode is basically whatever shirt I slept in the night before over a pair of jeans that are four sizes too big as to simulate the effect of sweats or, weather permitting, a crumpled skirt I found at the bottom of my shorts drawer I haven’t worn since I was nineteen and going through a “boho” phase.
The Not Work/Pajama mode is a pair of shorts with
either a boys’ size large button up I have renamed a “crop top”
or a graphic tee that may or may not be potato sack shaped.
Like, really, the only reason I get laid
is because at this point my dudefriend
is forced to accept me for who I am.
MOSTLY A FUCKING BUM WITH NO DESIRE
TO TAKE THE TIME TO DRESS FOR HER BODY TYPE.
Damn it, this is really one of those times when that bitch I used to live with came in handy. Dudefriend does not have any slutty clothes. We are a tag-team of classy hobos as far as our closets are concerned.
Right now my plan is to dress up my Not Work/Pajama mode with a pair of discreet heels a mom would probably wear to a part-time secretary gig,
and twiddle my thumbs until someone is like,
“Wait, didn’t you say you had a bikini in your car?”
