The Sex Card

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I’m hanging out on set with no Internet access and a space heater. It’s supposed to be an easy day. A dialogue day. I hope I can get my lines done before the inevitable sugar crash, courtesy of diet coke and cookies for breakfast—almost as healthy as the breakfast cereal millions of kids across America fueled up with. I didn’t want cookies and diet coke for breakfast mind you, but that’s what was on set along with a stack of Egg McMuffins and I wasn’t sure which was worse.

After my lines I’m running off to a chiropractic appt. because I somehow broke myself, presumably while sleeping on an airplane. I’m a little wary of the chiropractor I chose. I’m not sure that being .47 miles away from a porn set counts as a qualification, but that’s how I narrowed it down. They put me on hold 4 times while they figured out whether they accepted Blue Cross and/or cash. They were amazed that I didn’t already have a regular chiropractor, and I pointed out that at 23 I probably shouldn’t need one.

Yesterday was a sex day for me. I did Randy Spears and I’d do it again. And again and again. Can I say he’s magical? He’s magical. I think I might write Wicked a thank you letter for releasing him from contract. I might send a bakery basket.

So I’ve been on set about four hours now. We haven’t shot anything yet but I did get a fair dose of porn make up and some bonding time with the crew. The make up artist brought an astrology/horoscope birthday book thing in and it looks like I was doomed from the start. It says I’m extremely driven and financially motivated, and have trouble keeping it in my pants. And then my card is the nine of clubs. The sex card.

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