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Exciting Update on My Movie Stardom

[As we all should currently know, I am right about to become a movie star. I’ve been invited to star in some dude’s student porno, and as such the phone calls have begun. Most of my friends know I’m not a big phone guy, so I don’t get a lot of calls.

Then again, most of my friends wouldn’t call me even if I liked being on the phone.

The phone isn’t the problem, though; it’s my increasing paranoia about the weirdness of this whole film thing.

Anyway, the Filmmaker called my cell phone today while I was in class; I got the message on my way home, and I figured, “Bleh, I’ll see him in class tomorrow, so it’s no rush to call him back.” Apparently this assertion was inaccurate, as he called my house a few hours later and left a similar message (I didn’t pick up the phone because the caller ID was a number I didn’t recognize from somewhere in the Loop—the phone number he left on my cell phone didn’t match).

So I called him back after Buffy, and I answered the questions he posed on my VoiceMail (1. Would working over spring break be a problem?; 2. Can we get together this weekend to discuss the project?). Then, he told me that when we got together he’d show me “the space,” which is a “dank concrete room in the place I work” (his actual words). He volunteered lunch (goddammit, he better pay!—I don’t go dutch on the first date) before the tour of the space and the details of the project, so I guess we’re doing that Sunday.

Based on the choice of pronouns and his general demeanor, I got the distinct impression that (1) I’d be the only one attending this little soiree, (2) it’d for some reason take four hours for him to explain the complexities of his three-minute film, and (3) the “dank concrete room” would be the perfect place to torture and anally rape me, though I’m not sure why anybody would want to.

These confusing leaps of logic sprang to my mind, but I’m terrible on the phone. Part of the reason I hate it is because I’m apparently so bewildered by the technology behind telephony that I find it difficult to do things like, for example, ask the questions that spring to mind. “Where exactly is this space?” “Where are we having lunch?” “Why will this take four hours?” “Are people who aren’t you and me going to be there?”

Of course, I asked none of these questions. For some reason, I do much better in person than on the telephone, so when he gives me “details” tomorrow in class, I will be sure to ask them.

Until then, I’ll prepare an elaborate ball of toilet paper and cotton balls to soak up the blood.

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