I know what’s going to happen. I’ll try to go to bed with fear of failure flapping like a fruit bat in my head. I’ll sleep for half an hour. The clock will ring at six. I’ll wake up in the shower with a stomach full of bricks. So I won’t have any breakfast, maybe just a little tea. Like when you have to go and get a colonoscopy, which incidentally isn’t half as disconcerting or upsetting as going for a part you know there’s no way that you’re getting. But anyway, I’m heading downtown for the audition, where everything I’m dreading will be coming to fruition. And here’s what’s going to happen. I’ll walk in weak with hunger, and there’s a dozen girls who look like me but 10 years younger. I’ll go into the bathroom and I’ll try to vocalize. And I’ll be singing minga, minga, minga, minga ming, but I’ll be hearing Sandy sucks, she really sucks, she really, really, really blows. And she’s old, and she’s lame, and then someone calls my name. And here’s what happens. I’ll walk into the room. The gross fluorescent lighting is inviting as a tomb. Then everybody smiles. They’ll say it’s good to see you. But all I see is judges and they’ll all look like Scalia. And then a little banter as they look me up and down. And somewhere through the fog of insecurity and hate, I’ll try to convince them that I’m charming and I’m clever, and I’m fun to have around. But I’m starting to unravel. In my head, I hear the gavel — guilty. They’re going to throw the book at me, ’cause I’m guilty of coming in and wasting all their time. Guilty of almost every other showbiz crime, not young enough, not thin enough, not pretty enough, not good enough. We hereby sentence you to a lifetime of waiting tables and debilitating self-loathing. But wait, no, someone’s asking, so can we hear your voice? I make a lame attempt at humor, do I have a choice? I nod at the pianist. He’s always wearing black. He’s always in a turtleneck with dandruff on his back. No sooner do I get my note and open up my trap, then inevitably some mealy-mouthed assistant director’s thumbs all over his iPhone, and I know he’s probably tweeting, wow, wow, wow, this girl is crap. She’s a fake, she’s a phony, she can never win a Tony. And now I’m in a place I know quite well. I’ve left the world and I’ve entered hell. I’m this far away from a fainting spell. But just before I die, I finish a song which I oversell. Somebody says thanks and wishes me well. The next thing I know, I’m at Taco Bell, stuffing my face with meat. [laughter] I’m trying to take it slowly. I’m trying to be my best. I’m trying to be more holy, less bitter and depressed. I’m reading Eckhart Tolle. He makes a lot of sense. I bought a Buddhist bowl. He says it helps you be less tense. [laughter] That doesn’t do a thing for me. I sit there on the floor, and watch a vivid sequence of humiliating incidents from my past go by and think what kind of masochist keeps coming back for more, when she knows what’s going to happen because it never doesn’t happen, ’cause it always, always — Michael, no! I know what’s going to happen. Don’t tell me that I don’t. And don’t say that I’ll rise to the occasion, ’cause I won’t. And don’t say I’ve got talent. And don’t say I’ve got heart. And don’t say that I’m clever, because I know I’m pretty smart. I’m smart enough to know that I’m too stupid to admit you can’t survive a diet that consists of eating shit. The trick is knowing when it’s time to pack your bags and say that’s it. You know what’s going to happen. I know what’s going to happen. Here’s what’s going to happen. I quit! I quit! I quit! [cheering]