We’ve got a new door girl. We’re talking, she says, I hear you have a blog. What’s it called? I tell her. She says, cool, I’m gonna read it right now. No, no, no, no, no, no. Don’t do that. I can’t take it. I’ll just stare at your face, wondering why you’re not laughing more.
I seriously have a thing about this. People watching/reading my shit in front of me. I’ve gone to premieres before for movies I’ve been in, and the sides of my arms are drenched in sweat. Why didn’t they laugh at that part? Shit. That was supposed to be funny. Oh hell, I’m horrible in this, everybody hates it. It devolves from there.
In general, I don’t like watching things I’ve been in. I haven’t seen most of the shit I’ve acted in. I’m just too critical. Ok, I’ll watch it, but only in the confines of my bedroom. ALONE.
I look over at the door girl. She’s on her smartphone. Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, I say. What are you doin over there? Jesus. I’m just texting.
Fine, I say. You can do that.
From my heart to yours,
Clint Curtis. Bartender.