Less Than a WEEK!
O-M-G. Orchestra trip! I'm so excited.
Well, other than that, I had to write a college essay today. Not a real one, but a practice one for Marketing Yourself. My prompt was "if you could switch places with someone for 24-hours, who would it be and what would you do"?
I wrote this:
I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be a celebrity. How it is to have the money and management for luxuries such as a swarm of make-up artists, wardrobe specialists, limousine drivers, bodyguards, agents, and screaming fans to face at your every turn. That would be the life: to be utterly loved and adored by everyone.
I can imagine it now. Five in the morning, I awake to fresh-made gourmet coffee and low-fat bagels right besides my trailer-based bed. I crawl out of bed, throw on some clothes, and begin the process of devouring the meal. Moments later, my trailer door flies open and the circus piles in. My meal is put aside and replaced with eye make-up, hairbrushes and powder. The staff begins to primp and beautify me before my bite of bagel is even swallowed. I try to say something, but my words are halted by the application of lipstick. Just as the frivolous staffers complete my mask, the wardrobe specialists arrive to pick up where they leave off. They give me garments from thousands of different designers, and I get to wear whichever one I chose. After several monotonous hours, the performance ends and the staff exits. I glance down at the doll they had just decorated, shrug my shoulders and return to my now stale bagel.
A while later, I hear a knock at my door. Exhausted and annoyed, I get up to see who it is now. My agent and directors greet me with handfuls of paper. Before I could even utter a pleasant greeting, they shuffle in and sit down. I spend my afternoon flabbergasted at the behavior of these men. The meeting develops into a secluding clique. The gentlemen argue over what appearance I’m going to star in next. Occasionally, they turn to me for an opinion, but proceed before I give it. Ultimately, they conclude with a choice I had no say in. I nod my head and thank them as they leave.
Realizing I hadn’t had a decent meal today, I leave my trailer in search for some food. I’m immediately swarmed with friends and fans wanting to see me. I try to break through the crowd, but I’m confused as to which way is out, partially due to the blinding camera flashes. I’m rescued by my large, voluptuous bodyguard and am escorted to my limo. I crawl into the back seat and try to catch my breath. Before I can direct the driver to the nearest fast-food location, my nutrition coordinator slides in beside me. She tells the driver to pull around the plaza to a designated facility of health, which means nothing but salad and water. I roll my eyes and say goodbye to my wish for a hot fudge sundae.
Once we get to the health facility, I’m guided the opposite way from the food court. Instead, my coordinator has decided it’s time for me to exercise. Since the only clothes I’m in at the moment are sweat pants and a t-shirt, I proceed into the room. I was allowed a swig of water before the class began and I jugged down the entire bottle. I spend until dusk doing yoga routines and Richard Simmons imitation exercises. Thoroughly fatigued, I excuse myself from the class and ride back to my trailer.
I walk into my trailer and throw open my fridge. I grab an apple, a cold slice of pizza, and two bottles of Coca-Cola. I pig out on the junk food that I just labored to work off. After eating so much in so little time, I feel like doing nothing but sleep. I crawl into my bed, stare up at the ceiling and think “I’m so glad I get to be the real me tomorrow”.
Well, other than that, I had to write a college essay today. Not a real one, but a practice one for Marketing Yourself. My prompt was "if you could switch places with someone for 24-hours, who would it be and what would you do"?
I wrote this:
I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be a celebrity. How it is to have the money and management for luxuries such as a swarm of make-up artists, wardrobe specialists, limousine drivers, bodyguards, agents, and screaming fans to face at your every turn. That would be the life: to be utterly loved and adored by everyone.
I can imagine it now. Five in the morning, I awake to fresh-made gourmet coffee and low-fat bagels right besides my trailer-based bed. I crawl out of bed, throw on some clothes, and begin the process of devouring the meal. Moments later, my trailer door flies open and the circus piles in. My meal is put aside and replaced with eye make-up, hairbrushes and powder. The staff begins to primp and beautify me before my bite of bagel is even swallowed. I try to say something, but my words are halted by the application of lipstick. Just as the frivolous staffers complete my mask, the wardrobe specialists arrive to pick up where they leave off. They give me garments from thousands of different designers, and I get to wear whichever one I chose. After several monotonous hours, the performance ends and the staff exits. I glance down at the doll they had just decorated, shrug my shoulders and return to my now stale bagel.
A while later, I hear a knock at my door. Exhausted and annoyed, I get up to see who it is now. My agent and directors greet me with handfuls of paper. Before I could even utter a pleasant greeting, they shuffle in and sit down. I spend my afternoon flabbergasted at the behavior of these men. The meeting develops into a secluding clique. The gentlemen argue over what appearance I’m going to star in next. Occasionally, they turn to me for an opinion, but proceed before I give it. Ultimately, they conclude with a choice I had no say in. I nod my head and thank them as they leave.
Realizing I hadn’t had a decent meal today, I leave my trailer in search for some food. I’m immediately swarmed with friends and fans wanting to see me. I try to break through the crowd, but I’m confused as to which way is out, partially due to the blinding camera flashes. I’m rescued by my large, voluptuous bodyguard and am escorted to my limo. I crawl into the back seat and try to catch my breath. Before I can direct the driver to the nearest fast-food location, my nutrition coordinator slides in beside me. She tells the driver to pull around the plaza to a designated facility of health, which means nothing but salad and water. I roll my eyes and say goodbye to my wish for a hot fudge sundae.
Once we get to the health facility, I’m guided the opposite way from the food court. Instead, my coordinator has decided it’s time for me to exercise. Since the only clothes I’m in at the moment are sweat pants and a t-shirt, I proceed into the room. I was allowed a swig of water before the class began and I jugged down the entire bottle. I spend until dusk doing yoga routines and Richard Simmons imitation exercises. Thoroughly fatigued, I excuse myself from the class and ride back to my trailer.
I walk into my trailer and throw open my fridge. I grab an apple, a cold slice of pizza, and two bottles of Coca-Cola. I pig out on the junk food that I just labored to work off. After eating so much in so little time, I feel like doing nothing but sleep. I crawl into my bed, stare up at the ceiling and think “I’m so glad I get to be the real me tomorrow”.