I take the subway downtown to the last stop, which is basically the hub of Wall Street. It’s the part of New York where you’d expect to see Gordon Gecko jerking off all over the cobblestone streets and men with briefcases yelling on cellphones. My casting is for a magazine in the Daily News building. Editorials pay you the equivalent of a prostitute’s hard day of work but you get great exposure from them (lingo for “no one will ever know or care it’s you but we pretend that’s included in your pay” ugh, thanks). Honestly, I get excited when I see myself in a magazine, but after 3 minutes of joy my subconscious turns on me and tells me being pretty in a picture is hardly an accomplishment. I like to draw a dick in my mouth because that’s never not funny.
Every time I walk through publishing offices like the ones at the Conde Nast or Hearst buildings I imagine if the girl working at her cubicle wearing heels and a short skirt is even as remotely envious of me as I am of her. I would love to be a successful young woman with an important job and she would probably like to be taller, thinner, and prettier. The woman doing the castings takes each girl one by one. I wait for about 15 minutes while I reapply my lip gloss and switch into heels. I’m guided through a maze of cubicles into a room where 6 people are sitting around a giant conference table. I hand them my portfolio and stand there silent with as innocent a look as is possible for my snarky manner. They ask me to take off my shirt because they need a photo of me in a bra. I didn’t eat or drink anything yet so my empty stomach indents could be confused for a trace of abs (I haven’t worked out in 3 weeks). They ask my age, I say 23 as usual because if I went any younger I fear that they might question the miniscule eye wrinkle that only I can see with a magnifying glass. They comment on how beautiful my eyes are, which I’ve heard so many times that I’m starting to think it’s a backhanded compliment to compensate for the giant zit on my chin that I unsuccessfully covered with makeup. Wow, that was really harsh. I need to either increase my dose of zoloft or start doing cocaine.
The best part of my job, in my opinion, isn’t the actual work, it’s the behind-the-scenes activity I experience. Everyday I have a glimpse into the “real” world of New York and the people who have the jobs I wanted when I was going to college for business or whatever I changed my mind about 5 times. I see young stylish women who look happy and busy, and for the short amount of time I’m in their office I think about how my life would be in their shoes (only, like, if they were Louboutins duh). Fuck that I can’t wear those 6 inch ankle breakers, women who wear those everyday are ridiculous. I get cranky after one hour in 3 inch heels, I can’t possibly be a real girl. I have this weird fantasy of having a stable, normal life. I don’t know exactly what that means but having a steady job is the main idea behind it. I’ve either lost my mind or I’m so bored with modeling that just about anything else sounds better. All of you think I’m ridiculous but I feel like I have so much more to offer this world than my blue eyes. Being in your 20s is great, isn’t it guys?