He ordered 100 headshots. Jeremy Briggs: Actor. I helped him copy the same dead-eyed, soulless newcomer-from- Nebraska-smile that seemed to say, "I am enthusiastic to become a forgettable extra in a cancelled sitcom!" He went with the half-crouch pose in front of anonymous brick wall. Not the piss-stained hobo-infested walls on Hollywood boulevard he would soon pass on his way to improv class, where he would join other adults in creating brief realities that allowed them to be people more interesting than aspiring actors. Later, Alex Hoffman: writer came in to pick up his order of scripts, destined to be the subject of a half-ass reading by an unpaid intern--a film school graduate in no hurry to help a script that could increase her own competitive pool. Pages that would have the privilege of soaking up the juices of a discarded pumpkin spice latte at the bottom of a production house dumpster. Surprise, surprise! Hoffman wears horn-rimmed glasses!
His fingertips, I imagine, were calloused by hours of typing, coupled with sporadic masturbation sessions in between scenes. Hours spent figuring out whether grandfather should suffer from Alzheimer’s, or die of a Holocaust flashback during his blind granddaughter’s violin recital. I just want to say: "Enjoy your shitty dreams printed all over this expensive tree death!" And me? I’m okay. Happy. Yes, very.
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