1. My Name is Novella McClure

My name is Novella McClure.  Obviously, that’s not my real name.  A lot of people tell me it sounds like a porn star’s name but that’s not true either.  A porn star’s name is the combination of the street you grew up on and your first pet’s name.  Only a weirdo would name their pet Novella and I’ve never seen a McClure St.  Besides, I wasn’t going for that sort of thing.  I wanted a marquee name.  One that rolled off George Clooney’s tongue as he announced the Best Actress winner at the Academy Awards.  It sounds French and Irish and mysterious.  That’s what I wanted.  So I changed it the day I turned 22.  The same day I put all my shit into a bag and came out here to Hollywood.  Unfortunately, that was 10 years ago.

Thirty two-years-old is young.  There isn’t a billionaire over the age of 60 who wouldn’t give up all her money to be my age.  But a 32-year-old female looks like the Crypt Keeper at a casting call.  If I were funny, I could make it at 50-years-old.  Just look at Jane Lynch.  She’s funny as hell and she has more work than Megan Fox.  But I’m neither.  So here I am, again.  At another casting call waiting for the dreaded, “Thanks for coming in.”  Again.

I’m so hungry.  My stomach is growling.  I hope the casting agent doesn’t hear my stomach growl.  There’s nothing more embarrassing than your stomach saying the lines louder than you.  And my nails look like shit.  I get these hangnails that look like they’re two inches long.  Your teeth can only do so much, but I don’t have any clippers with me.  Besides, I’m starving and maybe I can convince my stomach I’m feeding it.  I probably shouldn’t chew my fingers here.  The casting agent will probably mistake my ghetto manicuring for anxiety.  Anxiety equals inexperience.  Maybe inexperience is a good thing.  Maybe then they’ll believe the “23-years-old” I put on my headshot.

“Thanks Novella.  We’ll let you know.”  I desperately try to give the casting director a flirty smile before I leave.  Don’t let the door hit you in ass!  I wish they’d just say that instead.  I’d respect them more.  I ask the receptionist if I can call them next week to follow up.  She tells me, “We’ll let you know.”  Why does everyone keep saying that?  Just say, “No!”  Then out of nowhere she asks, “How much do you weigh?”  What?  What the hell is this?  I weigh half as much as you, bitch.  “105 Pounds,” I tell her.  It’s the same number on my headshot.  And you know what?  I’m NOT lying about that one, bitch.  “Hmm...”  She says, “I work for a company that’s always looking for models.  Do you do that sort of thing?”  Whenever someone in LA says “a company” but doesn’t name the company, it’s generally a porn company.  She probably thinks Novella is a porn name because she’s a dumb ass with no taste.  But nonetheless, I say, “Yeah, totally!” smiling and nodding and being a perky 23-year-old.  “Ok cool,” she says, “I’ll give them your head shot.  They’ll let you know.”  

As I sat in my car thinking about whether or not that dumb bitch was suggesting I was overweight, I couldn’t stop staring wide-eyed at nothing while chewing on my fingers.  Like I said, my hangnails are awful.  But what really sucks is when you chew on them they only get worse.  People tell you to just stop biting them but I had this one zinger that would keep peeling if I let it live.  I don’t carry band-aids in my car because I’m not a soccer mom so I kept chewing, pulling, sucking, and thinking about that fat bitch inside asking my specific weight.  God damnit, I’m starving.  But the last thing I want to do is go get a burger after that dumb bitch asked my --

Ow!  I looked at my finger.  It was bleeding.  Not a push-pin-to-the-finger type bleeding, but dripping-on-my-car-seat type bleeding.  I put the finger back in my mouth to suck the blood and protect my only hot audition shirt.  I was starting to get that bad severed nerve pain in my finger.  The kind you get when you cut yourself with the lid of a tin can and you question whether you should just use a band-aid or go to the hospital.  I looked at the finger and saw the open wound.  The bleeding died down, but that zinger was still there.  God damnit.  So I dug back in.  This time I bit harder and my eyes got wider.  By the time I turned on my car, I was picking hair out of my teeth from my knuckles.  Maybe it was time for that band-aid.