So my tenants started moving in at summer’s end: aspiring actress;
aspiring director/producer/actor; Molly Ringwald’s distant
cousin/aspiring actress; a pair of newlyweds who were aspiring for
nothing – strange; hot aspiring actor (Nick, we’ll come back to
him); slightly less hot aspiring actor roommate (William, we’ll
come back to him too); three separate UCLA students who soon all
attached to one another, then eventually hated one, as these things
go; aspiring actor; aspiring actress; teacher – who knows how she
got there; Hollywood heiress running away from her parents on their
dime after being kicked out of the Chateau Marmont; model (that’s
right, not aspiring, real model); writer; aspiring writer; agent;
aspiring agent; aspiring actor; aspiring actress; actress. It’s a
mouthful but I more-or-less remember all of them. I was younger than
any of them but I was always sure to present myself as someone older.
Coupling the position and the dim wits of all my new aspiring friends
it was an easy sell.
It’s an interesting situation that I
was in. Doesn’t it feel like a social experiment? Take the
antisocial girl and throw her into an ant farm in West Hollywood.
It’s not that I was antisocial per se, being alone was just what I
was used to and I liked it. The setup of this new situation was
perfect for me though: I was in control. I was the lady in the best
apartment hovering over everyone and snatching away their monthly
rent checks. It was great.
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