Reality is Terrance.

Reality is standing in line at auditions for hours on end only for the part to go to the casting director’s niece.

And as for Cate Blanchett or Sydney Sweeney. I doubt they ever found themselves in a skimpy cheerleader outfit, cost of twelve dollars--I'd had to take the tag off myself in 'wardrobe', a tiny mildewy utility closest with half of an ancient water cooler in it--shaking her tits back and fourth in time with to-be-inserted digital fireworks that’ll be launching out of her cleavage in an ad for some seedy sports book app. An ad that’d be lucky to make it to TV around 3am, if ever. It’ll probably just be a popup on porn sites that try to infect your device with malware.

I really can’t seem to recall that phase in Miss Blanchet's oeuvre just now.

Three years I’ve been here. Hunting for parts, networking, making contacts, doing whatever I could. Including whatever Gloria Kelvich, my agent, told me to do. Chasing the dream. Chasing it right into a bunch of extras’ roles in music videos and shitty network and on-in-the-background streaming shows.

Christ, this is actually one of the better paying gigs.

Maybe I should just cut out my own heart instead?

Thank god for the modeling work, at least. Nothing glamorous there either, but steady work doing shoots for clothing brands and such. Between that and what I can get trying to make it in this industry I’d been able to keep myself housed and fed.

And then there’s Dylan, of course.

Comparing my actual life to the naive fantasies, he’s the one aspect that hasn’t fallen short, leading man or not.

Well, back to reality.