You are indeed the star of the movie of your life (yay!)
That movie is a low-budget Canadian B horror flick.
The director refers to himself unironically as an Auteur between puffs on a suspiciously malodorous cigarrette, to this film as his Magnum Opus, and to the production as his Revenge on Hollywood (he’s stroking a pet ferret during the diatribe, and you’re not really sure whether the poor beast is still alive, but it’s hard to tell since the smoke smells actually worse than the most ambitious dead thing could possibly do in its wildest dreams).
The meagre budget has been entirely spent by the director on LSD and blow; it’s unclear whether his “entourage” is even being paid, which raises troubling questions vis a vis feeding, lodging, and perhaps most emphatically the aforementioned ferret.
The director has just this morning had a fatal heart attack involving ten dollar bills and leathery, poorly-aged mammaries, and has been replaced at the last minute by an AI program built by a graduate student with a sadistic sense of humor and low programming skills.
The script is being rewritten between takes by a drug-addled George R.R. Martin, whose desperation to do everything except finish his novel cycle has led him to the most godforsaken film lot in Calgary.
You’re pretty goddamn sure that you have sustained a stubborn case of herpes, if not syphilis, doubtless related to a series of unfortunate events that you weathered in the effort to land what you thought would be the role of a lifetime, and possibly true love to boot (unclear whether this was related to the late Auteur, the ferret, George, or quite possibly and most disturbingly all three).
This film has been rescued from development hell and has been acquired by Hallmark Channel. The entire non-union cast and crew is being replaced, and production is moving to a sound stage in Atlanta. You have no idea what is next in the coming days of starvation, cannibalism, and hitchhiking across a continent, but at least you know it will fuel your “art” in some way. Perhaps you can steal an iPhone and become an Influencer.
Somewhere, in a very dim room that smells faintly of cheese and regret, M. Night Shyamalan is cackling to himself and continues to type frantically…
Image used under license from 123RF.com