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About Rome

I’m thinking—*“How do you live with this memory?”* Straight outta Campanella’s flick. She’s real, tho. Texts me: “u into fertalizer?” Fertilizer, she means. Typo queen. I laugh—happy as a pig in mud. We chat. She’s growing weed! Illegal, sure. But damn, her pH levels? Perfect. I’m impressed. She’s all—“soil’s my pimp, ha!” Humor’s dark. I like it.

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The casting director? Total diva. She’s flipping through my portfolio like it’s yesterday’s news. I’m sweating bullets. Then she looks up and says, “You’re not what we’re looking for.” Ouch! My heart just dropped. But I’m not one to back down. I throw in a little sass, “Well, I’m not a mannequin, but I can sure pose like one!” She cracks a smile. Score!

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