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I live in Los Angeles, the attention-whore capital of the world. That last part was just about me. This is ALL about me. I need attention—a lot of it. I'm not a full-blown narcissist, but I definitely need to be liked.
And heard. And seen. And applauded and lauded and published and filmed and projected into a billion television screens all over the world so that I know that I exist and have value as a human being. I have a long and sordid history of attention whoring. I performed the complete Flashdance "Maniac" routine including a knee slide in a 30 pound dress with a cathedral train at my wedding. And, perhaps most shameful of all, I performed improv comedy—in public—for nearly 15 years.
The last endeavor landed me a spot in the prestigious Sunday Company at the world-renowned Groundlings theater. It was great. I totally felt like I existed. When I got kicked out for not being funny enough six months later it was like I lost my heroin dealer and couldn't find another one. I spent the next three years crying, having panic attacks and muttering to myself, "No one knows I'm here. Part of me knows that I'm smart, hilarious, likable and not an ogre.
The other part of me is sobbing for attention on the inside because I haven't been able to land a part in a single one of the ish commercials I've auditioned for over the last four years. I got really close last year.
It was a non-speaking role described as "Woman, not necessarily overweight, but unathletic—and willing to eat meat. I thought the world would finally know my gift again. I'd finally be seen again. But another unathletic meat eater booked the part at the last minute. So, I remain in utter obscurity desperately trying to tell the funniest story at every party and work function and write the most hilarious and provocative Facebook status updates to acquire enough "likes" to justify my existence.