I see a billion wannabe screenwriters, a billion wannabe actors, a billion wannabe singers, a billion wannabe painters. Oh art, you fickle, fickle prey.
These people that are working towards their dream, supplementing it with waitress jobs, nannying jobs, door-to-door salesmen jobs. Am I a pessimistic cynic for immediately assuming that they're never going to make it? A few years from now am I going to see them on David Letterman talking about how they used to work at a movie theater and how now the smell of stale popcorn makes them hyperventilate like it was just a distant, romanticized, character-building memory?
What if I'm one of those people that are never going to make it? Will it be because I didn't want it enough? Or could wanting it never be enough because I'm too delusional to see my own bad taste? That what's clear as day to everyone else becomes invisible through my rose-colored glasses?
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