Ghost Bird

1: Auditions

 As a rich, famous, beautiful actress, of course the first thing I would do in the morning would be to check my Twitter feed. How many new followers have I gotten? Ten? A hundred? How many retweets, celebrity mentions, and pleas from desperate teenage boys and creepy old men to send them pictures of myself do I have? Three hundred new followers, you say? Excellent, I'll have to give my PR person a raise.

Well, that's probably what would happen. If I were rich, or famous, or beautiful, that is. Now to tackle the list line by line, like my banker does with my expense reports:

To be rich, one must have a job. Despite auditioning for over fifty different roles, not a single director has wanted me. Somehow, it's possible that I'm both "too plain" and "too pretty", "too feisty" and "too timid", "too skinny" and "too fat". What do these people want? Do they not see what a great actress I am? But, I digress.

To be famous, one must be memorable. Do you remember Joe Williams, the actor who did his job and, surprise surprise, managed to avoid any kind of scandal? Yeah, I don't either. Because I'm nineteen, I can't drink- the main cause of scandals- and since I'm not rich, if I got caught I couldn't worm my way out of it. And drugs, well, have you seen this fried egg? This is your brain on drugs. And I don't like fried eggs; they're much too rubbery.

To be beautiful, one must have a fake tan and bleached-blonde hair. That's what my PR person says, at least. "Oh Sang, you'll never get anywhere with that pasty skin of yours! I have a coupon to Half Life Tanning Salon- here, take it, I'm begging you."

I no longer have a PR person. But that's okay, because I'm almost out of money. So that's why I'm standing here, outside of the WION studio complex. It's a fine Monday morning- the sun is shining, the smell of smog isn't as bad as it normally is, and I had absolutely no problems finding a parking spot. In Los Angeles, you say? What magic! That's right, the celestial bodies must be in line for me today. Or I walked, either option works.

The sun is eclipsed by the rather large head of the security guard blocking my way. "ID please," he rumbles. I fish through my purse filled with candy wrappers and expired coupons to pull out my faded Hello Kitty wallet. My ID photo captures me in all my teenagery glory; someday I'll show it to my grandkids as a memento of what a cool youngster I was.

And then my grandkid will go, "Gram Gram, I've never seen such a hideous shirt before." And then I'll die a bit inside. Alas, the curses of obstreperous whippersnappers.

The guard takes my ID and scrutinizes it closely. I roll back my shoulders and try to appear ready- I have worked hard to get to my level of acting skill. All the blood, sweat, and tears, and then the fake blood, water, and off-camera onions I've suffered through. I just know that this is finally my time to actually get a role! This will be the end of my six month dry spell.

I can only take so much ramen. Last night I used my chef skills and added egg to it- scrambled, not fried mind you- but still... I long for the finer things in life, like hot chocolate with marshmallows. Because who doesn't like marshmallows?

"You're not on the list," the guard says, his voice emotionless. My happy-go-lucky world (it really seems like the expression should be get lucky, go happy...) instantly crashes around me.

"Wait, what?" I whisper. How am I not on the list? I registered in advance like the website said to!

"You're not on the list. Please leave now, or I'll have security escort you out."

Tears well in my eyes. "Isn't there someone I could talk to?" I plead. The guard remains impassive as he pulls out his walkie-talkie.

"Wait! It's okay; let her in," a strong voice commands from the other side of the gates. As if he were Satan himself, his words opened the gates to Hell and into a new world filled with vice and lacking in virtue.