It was all too simple in the movies.

The evil overlords and their corresponding cronies were clearly marked; each muscled goon sporting their own distinctive yet all too familiar mask of androgynous anonymity. The mightily heroic imbeciles, on the other hand, carried their structured angst hidden beneath carefully prepared, beautifully whitened (albeit unnatural, and unhealthily so) sets of pearly whites. And, as their faces were arranged in the appropriate clenched-jawed look of pure unadulterated determination (not to be confused to the lust-hazed-half-lidded-seduction attire specially prepared for the end credits), well-intentioned fans tittered at the cinematic genius in which a lone sweat drop perfected his-rugged-manliness in hushed admiring tones. This was later to be forgotten as the impeccably-timed explosions and other forms of dramatica left your average popcorn muncher on the edge of their seats.

Goodness knows we all need a little mindless bloodshed every once in a while.

Trouble was that after you walked past the glorious sweet scented popcorn, the dimmed lights, the plush red velvet seats into the cluttered sets, frenzied production assistants and multi-million dollar budgets…

There simply wasn’t enough room for the actor’s twisted little tortured body to squeeze into.

This and this alone was the sole reason constricting dresses (and other such “fashion accessories”), such as the stringy black killer draped luxuriously across my own body, existed. To inflict pain and remind us fellow actors just what place we held in these hallowed halls; we are but faces, puppets present for your viewing pleasure.

It was an ever-constant, digging, chafing reminder digging into our very backs, drawing blood when necessary, and forcing strained grins at the very fanatics which controlled your monthly income influxes.

That’s it, just smile, wave, and pretend to enjoy the blinding flashes capturing you and all your hastily covered imperfections. In the morning they’ll splay it across the front page and nitpick at your lack of taste, those extra few pounds you picked up over the holidays and, just perhaps, the many dirty secrets and clandestine affairs you have entitled to your name.

“Introducing, ladies and gentlemen, your very own Adrianna Dayle!”

At your service; cue heartbreaking smile and all of that nonsense.

On the other hand, notice the slippery little clause dictating ownership, notice and weep my friends, for despite all the small-town beginnings and soppy rags-to-riches story of a country gal, this Adrianna Dayle smiles, simpers and bends to your every whim.

Complete with stilted phrases and stuttering speeches for your very own amusement.

“Thank you so much. It really is an honour to be here.”

More so if I had anything better to do.

“Really. I just want to thank my manager, Russell Brown. There he is! Come on folks. Let’s give him a hand.”

Or two. Maybe four if you fancy it. Goodness knows he needs all the support he can get at this point. You can always trust the bloke to get himself completely inebriated on the debut of what would be this year’s cinematic brilliance. Really, you got to love the man in spite of his many numerous mind-blowing downfalls, it was just who he was!

The very fact that he’d earned you your place upon the golden screens was next to nothing on his list of accomplishments compared to his astounding ability for the fanciest of parlour tricks even when inebriated he really could pull off that slight of hand thing quite well; disappearing and reappearing coins, actors, trinkets and the like.

Then again, he always seemed to be enjoying himself; that in itself is a talent worth cultivating.

“On behalf of the rest of the talented cast, the directors and all those backstage, without which this production would never have been the success that it was, I’d like to present to you...”

The resulting mass of several months worth of toil, blood, sweat, and other (more intimate) bodily fluids (courtesy of that pretty little inane thing -Rose, Lily or something offensively flowery or the like-whose acting was a little bit lacking)...

But, no matter! What she lacked in talent she made up with enthusiasm- and I mean much enthusiasm- behind closed doors, between panting grunts, and below a quivering tub of lard otherwise known as the director.

Well, at least the kid had zest.

That much could not be said for the rest of “our talented cast”, lurking enviously at the shadows, snapping politely at the “help” with barely concealed sneers of imagined superiority. Simpering in that infuriating ditzy manner, accompanied by full out flailing, drunken slurs and whispered insults; they managed to pull together a very fitting image of the youth of today’s preferred role model; with this, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the future of tomorrow.

Basically, for those in need of clarification; we’re screwed.

“So enjoy yourself folks! Thank you for having us here tonight!”

Cause tomorrow you’ll be strutting around with those trash magazines in hand (or maybe a tabloid, that is, if you’d had the indignity to purchase something without glossy full-page spreads), exclaiming over the newest celebrity gossip, fussing over unflattering pixelated headshots with hushed whispers; just who’s pregnant? Who’s cheating on whom? And who’s the slut that’s dating that trashy boy band whore on the down low? Wait just a minute.

That slut- so familiar- but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

Wait. I’ve got it.

That’s me.