Torture!

For the last few weeks, I've been sitting on a particularly juicy big ol' ball of gossip. It really has no relevance to anyone unless you know the personalities involved, and you don't. So it really isn't worth going into, but the nature of the gossip is such that I am unable to discuss through the usual channels. I've got all this fascinating information, but no outlet for it, and I am bursting.

Bursting!

I know it's a bit of a tease. But if you have ever been in a similar position, you understand and sympathize, you lovely people, you.

I can say this: The learning of the French continues apace. It's fun now to watch a movie or something on TV and be able to pick up the gist of what a French speaker may be talking about. This only comes in handy when someone says something that's part of my limited vocabulary. I therefore find myself listening and being able to exclaim "Hey, he's talking about cooking something with mushrooms!" which I admit is not common in most conversational situations, but it's a start.

And, if I do say so myself, my accent is really coming along, and I sound good. It must be due to the French part of my mutt-esque ethnic makeup. I sound so cool that all I have to do is utter the phrase "Ou se trouve la banque?" and I would bring you to instant sexual satisfaction, believe you me.

And now I must, as I occasionally do, address the universe. The tone will be that of indignation and justified annoyance.

Dear Universe -

What's your problem? Specifically, what's your problem when it comes to me and work lately? You've surrounded me with people who have cushy, well paying, stable gigs. My roommate essentially plays video games 11 months out of the year. My friend Natalie sends me email most of the day. I have friends across this great nation who are able to make car payments and pay their rent in exchange for amusing themselves with silly websites. I even know a guy who supports himself as an actor.

You treated me really well when I first moved to Los Angeles. You handed me two industry gigs almost as soon as I landed at LAX. I turned down a third so I could stay in an improv class, which I must admit is paying off in slow increments, but not yet monetarily.

Earlier this week, I turned down an interview for Big Brother 4. The production coordinator told me in no uncertain terms, though, that I'd be photocopying and getting coffee 14-16 hours a day, six days a week, all motherfucking summer. For next to no money, and for what? The chance to bust my balls on BB5, 6, and 7 before I advance up the "reality TV" ladder? An eventual associate producer credit on the year 2006's Orwellian horror show? Fuck that.

I have perspective. I know that my life is not, by far, the worst it could be. I'll be able to pay my rent this month. I'll be able to go out to dinner. Hell, I'll be able to take a friend out to dinner. I just need to know that I'll be able to do that next month, too.

I don't have parents with connections. I'm a blue collar kid from Chicago with a degree in writing. It's frustrating, because with every day that goes by, my friends are out there earning and building toward something, and I'm sitting here fine tuning cover letters and resumes, emailing and making phone calls, and hustling my ass off like an ambitious, homeless newspaper vendor.

It makes me feel like a shmuck.

I'm doing most everything I can. I'm not asking for much here. Just my career fit.

If I were a woman, I'd be this close to selling my eggs.

Love,

Bill