I bolt lock the front door and fall flat on my face, collapsing into my down pillow.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, man.” I pause, then, “Oh my God…” It continues like this for several minutes.
“That bad, huh?” My best friend Anna pops her messy brunette head up from underneath the covers. She’s in the middle of a nap. She’s had a crazed week too and this is the first time we’ve both been home at the same time. Have I mentioned we share a bed? It’s pathetic, I know, but through sessions with my therapist I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m twenty-five and sharing a bed with a roommate to save a few bucks and it’s ok… Yeah, it’s totally fine… yep.
“This week. Thank God it’s over and I can just lay here, lay here, lay here…” I mutter until I’ve fallen asleep.
2 hours later…
Something’s drastically wrong with these sweet potato fries, but I’m not sure what exactly. I’m scratching my head, poking the fries with a fork and noticing they’re still frozen when Anna enters the kitchen and, without saying a word, switches the pot. I’m so happy she knows about pots. If she didn’t know how to cook, we’d be screwed. I’ve learned better than to call my mom about the topic of cooking. The last time I asked her how to poach an egg she warned me that eggs carry the swine flu and to stay out of Mexico.
Now that Anna’s thankfully taken over in the kitchen, I can play with my new red lipsticks. I collect them in the middle of the floor and reminisce about the week, turning up the Van Morrison on my laptop to drown out the blaring R&B music with the blown out bass that my scary neighbor is rapping to. He terrifies me. I fear that one day he’s going to put spiders under my front door — call me paranoid.
I’ve had four auditions: a horror film, a Warner Bros. TV show, a short film and a commercial for a famous fast food chain where I had to make out with the other male actor.
“So, like…tongue?” I ask the plaid wearing casting director in Converse shoes who’s just given an award winning explanation of the required make out exchange. He should just do it, I keep thinking.
“Um…If you want it to be real I would.” He says sternly, crossing his arms and pacing as though he’s prepping us to do the bedchamber scene from Othello where Desdemona is pleading for her husband not to kill her.
I check out this guy I’ll be kissing, and he’s ugly. Not to be rude, but I mean… acne, balding, beer belly — you get the point.
To get me through it I think about the new man in my life, Jon: the sexy director from Canada and the night we shared in the hot tub puffing on cigars, brainstorming ideas for our short film and laughing.
“Alice, there’s lipstick on the stove and it melted all over the place!” Anna lets me know.
“What else is new… how about those fries?” I smile.
Alice can be reached at AliceActress@yahoo.com