paper or plastic

I want the good life. I want champagne and special treatment. I want to constantly be on my Blackberry checking e-mails about casting calls and shoot locations and date changes and costume questions and not just because I want to check my Facebook. I want people to ask my opinion on the new films that are coming out. I want Sundance. I want Tribeca. I want Cannes. I want assistants. I want to know what I'm talking about. I want desperate calls at 3 a.m. in the morning informing me that our lead actor was just arrested on Sunset for driving under the influence and possesion of a controlled substance. I want agents and lawyers and cut-throat managers. I want to be stressed. I want vacations in Europe and weekend trips across seas. I want period pieces and dark comedies. Dramas and documentaries. Independent. Studio. I want coffee and Variety in the morning. New York and Los Angeles. Big
talent and no names. I want to yell "Cut!" and "Action!" and "Let's do it again." I want my name in lights, credits and dvd cases. I want my own chair. I want fame and money and cars and houses and fans and controversy and tabloids and parties and work and research and clout and comfort.

I want to be happy.