DIRT: the grunge diaries (𝒱𝒾𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇𝒾𝒶'𝓈 𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃)

entry # 128 - first hand humiliation ?

11:30AM
downtown Denver
طيب حسناً، تمني لي التوفيق

SO, updates from the western front ! I mean, from your favourite West Bank, on the road, nomadic habibti ! After our little, loving morning tryst, and after a solid half an hour of mandatory aftercare, Sean and I decided to finally get ready to head to my fucking casting. More like, I got ready to head to my fucking casting, all over again... and he got ready to ride my bike to the Wilhelmina bureau in this town. Nobody asked him to do it, but he wanted to do it, he showered and got dressed in his usual homeless fashion to be my chauffeur of the day, and now we're precisely pulled right under the building where the fucking agency is. And not gonna lie, it looks intimidating from outside. Not gonna lie, I'm taking my helmet off and shitting myself on top of my own saddle, not being quite sure I wanna take the stairs and really drop my fucking portfolio anymore. Fear of rejection and of not being enough are stonking in this house, as you can tell. As a matter of fact, they're so stonking that the more I try to hop off the passenger seat of the saddle of my Bonneville, the more impaired and the more stupid I feel, because a part of me knows that I shouldn't even be here to begin with. Come on, let's be reasonable for a second. My friend Barbaranne, blonde stunner of all stunners, face of an angel and body of a goddess, virgin of tattoos and piercings of any kind, came here two days ago with her immaculate portfolio, and got rejected by the casting lady. What chance of being casted by the bitch do I have, as a dyed redhead from hell, with the face of a terrorist and the body of a sprinter, a pierced nose, navel and ears, and tattoos scattered all over the fucking body ? None. Let's add the fact that I'm 5ft4 and not white to the equation... and wow! That's the perfect picture of the big fucking rejection that I'm gonna be handed !

But hey, let's try to stay positive, for once in this life ? Kate Moss is 5ft6, if I'm not mistaken! This makes her just a little little little taller than I am, and still she's a model. Yasmeen Ghauri is not white, but still whiter than me because she's half German, half Pakistani, and she was born in Canada. I was born in Palestine by Palestinian parents, and I am a Jordanian citizen for the world to know. But y'know what? I think I'll be doing the Yasmeen today: which means, I'll do the Pakistani, if it will help me book a photoshoot. I mean, it won't be easy to book a photoshoot, but it will be easy to do the Pakistani: some people think that Pakistan and Palestine are the same thing, especially in this country. I sometimes get the occasional, compassionate, fucking ignorant 'are you from Pakistan? Free Pakistan!' ... and I think that maybe I should people's clueless comments as a weapon in my arsenal, instead of using them as an enema like I'd normally do ! Apart from my ever so greening irony, I can see a pattern in this shituation: my fifth and last middle name is Yasmin, like Yasmeen but more forward, less Urdu and more Arabic, and Yasmin Le Bon is a model too, and a fellow rockstar girlfriend like me! Yasmeen, Yasmin... there's a height gap of about six inches between me and these two stunners, height is much more of a requirement in modelling than beauty is, and I'm really fucking wondering what the heck I'm doing at a fucking modelling agency today. Wasting my time? Doing the masochist? Signing up for rejection? Fuelling my self worth doubtfulness? Fucking myself up in the head after getting told I'm not enough, all over again ? The more I ask these questions to myself, the more I open my eyes, the more I reckon I shouldn't be here, and the stronger the temptation to ask Sean to ride us back to the hotel gets. But I can't do it. I can't withdraw. First of all, if I don't try my luck again, I'll never find out if I can stand a tiny chance in this industry. Second, Sean is looking at me like he's wondering why the heck I'm so bothered, and also like he kinda expects me to strut my way into the building and come back to him with a new job already. He's smiling, playfully poking my thigh, trying to infuse me with positivity and common sense, in and out trying to push me into the arms of the casting lady... while I'm feeling on the brink of throwing up the quick breakfast that we had at the hotel before we came here. All nervousness aside, and all gag reflex and stomach turmoil aside too, I don't feel like letting him down... and I think that I'm gonna give this a shot. I owe it to him. Respectfully and honestly speaking, he's the reason why I'm here today: I made my mind on trying to sell myself to modelling, all over again, just because he always makes me feel like I'm a piece... and also because he tried to sell me as a model to the bouncer of last night's club, and the dude really fucking believed him, when he said I was 'a model, not an actress'. So, considering that he's here now, rubbing the back of my hand because he knows that something is going on with me, and wants to show me some support... I can't let him down. I gotta try at least. And if I come back here with tears in my eyes because I've been rejected... I just know he's gonna rub the tears off my cheeks, take me out for lunch and crack jokes all day long to cheer me up. I am a self sufficient, individualistic piece of fuck, and very proud of it... but how fucking good it is, to have someone who cares about you sticking by your hip when you're feeling self conscious and vulnerable? How fucking good it is, to have support of a beloved one, while you feel like you're getting yourself into something you shouldn't even be daring to get into ? No feeling quite compares.