Of course I never had to complain about too much attention. Good lord no. If anything, when I worked for the stars, I craved for even the tiniest pubic hair of attention. To be looked at, listened to, praised, admired, seen in any sort of way by anybody, this was what I craved for. I ached, hurt, pined, longed and groveled for attention. I was starved for any of kind of image of myself, a confirmation that I actually existed and that my existence was in any way worthwhile.

In my mind, you see, I felt like Quasimodo. Or his slightly more hideous sister. Or that good old plant-eating dinosaur I just talked about. Yes indeed, I felt big heavy and unwanted. Utterly bitterly useless. I looked like crap. I felt like crap. I dressed like crap. And yet I was convinced that deep down, underneath it all, I was a genius. Yes indeed. I felt I could prove it too, if only someone would give me a chance. Sure, I thought. I’d show them if they let me. If someone discovered me.

So even as I worked, I looked upon those superstars with a knowing cocktail of contempt, envy and identification. That is, I craved to be like them even as I knew I belonged among them. The only problem, I told myself, was that I hadn’t had the opportunities they’d had. The chances. The breaks. My life had gone horribly wrong and instead of an artist I had ended up becoming an interpreter. And now I was stuck interpreting for them instead of being one of them.

What I wanted above all was the lives they had, all that attention, respect, all those openings to showcase their talent. I deserved it too I felt, probably even more than they did. Because you see, I had talent. Yes sir. Phenomenal epoch-making talent. But I never got to show it. I wasn’t given the opportunity. Instead, I was made to work as a lackey. A lowly slave. A quasi-technical appendage who was heard but never seen.

No surprise then that I felt continually miserable, unhappy, unnoticed and feverishly self-pitying as I worked. No one told me I was brilliant and gorgeous, I thought. No one laughed at my jokes. No one gave me that break I so obviously deserved. No indeed. I had to work despicably hard for everything I got. Everything in my life was an uphill climb, whether it was my work, my colleagues, my friends or my income that disappeared faster than urine on dry earth.

And then there was my body. Oh lord, don’t even get me started on that. That was the worst. I was overweight. Lord. Not by much you understand. About six kilos. But if you’re like me you’ll know that was enough. That for some insane reason, being overweight (and I’m not talking parked-in-bed obese which I’ll grant is a health hazard) is today considered to be the gravest of all sins, the most palpable of uglinesses, far worse than dropping bombs on another man’s country and murdering his children. Or ruining their lives by making them watch their parents die of endless impoverished struggle. No sir. While world leaders destroy our planet, we’re watching our weight. Go figure.

But that isn’t the point here. The point is I was no better. Fact is, I was worse. I was convinced not only that I was a thwarted genius, but also that I was ugly, worthless, stupid and a failure. That I had failed demonstrably to actualize my talents. That I was doomed to remain unknown unhappy and unrecognized unless someone somewhere discovered my hidden treasures. Sniff. And that’s when it happened. Claudie, my recruiter, called. Mia my love, she said. You’re going to Cannes!