I have transcribed the following from my voicemail, verbatim, except for the redacted name and telephone number:

"Hi, Jarrett, it's K____ at the Warner Brothers Feature Casting Department. We're working on the screen credits for He's Just Not That Into You and the director would like to change your roll name from "Guy 2" to "Droopy Dog." So please give me a call at (818) [555]-[****] as soon as possible and let me know if you're okay with this roll name change, uh, if you get my voicemail just let me know that you're calling and if this is okay with you."

I'm just like you. I used to dream of growing up to be (rich / famous / 5' 8" / on Dallas). And let me tell you, I was sure I was going to make it. My teachers would tell me: "You've got (talent / charisma / to start spelling 'their' correctly / issues, girlfriend)." My friends all said: "It's so obvious that you're (destined for success / pretending to have a girlfriend in Canada / totally crushing on the Ecuadorian janitor / too young to be taking AP Physics)." It felt good. But it wasn't enough. Because it was my father who always said, ("You'll never make it" / "While I can see your side of the argument, I refuse to stop beating you" / "There's no money in juggling" / "Snoop fell off years ago"). No support from Mom, either. She was constantly (drunk / dead). I resolved myself to making them pay for not believing in me. We all claim it's about the art. But don't believe it for a moment. All actors are motivated by (wanting revenge / needing free jeans / getting to the level of Operating Thetan IV / this one Tony Robbins tape they all share).

My first taste of the limelight came in my senior year. I was the lead in my high school's production of (Phantom of the Opera / Mama Mia! The Abba Musical / Nick and Jessica: Newlyweds / Bad Lieutenant). And I was good. People noticed. Even my hometown newspaper raved about (my commanding performance / my thugged-out pirouettes / my understated krumping / the cheap shrimp at Costco). I must have read it fifty times. There's nothing like the rush of first seeing your name in (print / lights / Variety / Vibe). And people started to treat me differently, too. Better. Even my ex-(girlfriend / boyfriend) (called / emailed) to (beg me to get back together / beg for forgiveness / beg to borrow season 3 of 24 / beg my pardon, but was my refrigerator running?). If this was fame on a small scale, then I was ready for the big leagues.

So I made what is commonly referred to in the industry as "the big move": it was non-stop, one-way to LAX. I remember watching our in-flight movie and thinking, ("Someday, that'll be me up there" / "Final Destination is an inappropriate in-flight movie" / "Oh no, I'm going to cry when Tim Robbins escapes" / "If Rob Schneider makes movies, in three months I shall be a billionaire").

The first year in Hollywood. Nothing prepares you. Good luck finding a decent apartment in L.A. (for less than a grand / where your neighbors appreciate trance music as much as you do / within walking distance of both the beach and the Staples center / in a Hispanic-free section of Echo Park). Of course, you can always live in the Valley if you (moved here to do porn / wouldn't melt in a kiln / are a teenage drug dealer / feel like giving up before you try).

Auditioning. I've heard it all, from ("no" / "no thanks" / "not for us" / "not this part") to ("turn around and run" / "never have kids" / "how can you be happy being you?" "here, swallow this large, black pill"). And every time you walk out thinking, ("I nailed it" / "That was so good they didn't even need to see the second scene" / "Who cares if Jude Law's name was on the sign-in sheet" / "I'll have to watch this to see if I booked it"), you hear the feedback from your manager: ("They said you're a little 'green,' but that you'll go far" / "They said you're a little 'yellow,' and then they said you're a coward / "They said wear anything but red shoes, and what did you fucking do?" / "They said you should take 'acting' off of the special skills section of your resume"). But you never quit. Because you know. That perfect role is out there. I found mine.

I know you remember me. I had my moment. I still hear it walking down the street: "Hey, aren't you (that guy who said, 'I loves me some yummy burritos' in those Baja Fresh ads / that guy who tried to molest Dakota Fanning in The Misadventures of Little Ms. Adventure" / that guy who taught a small town about life and love by playing Dance Dance Revolution / James Van Der Beek)"? Fame. Ain't it a bitch. Remember when AJ Benza (said that / was on TV / got sooo drunk at that party / slapped that little league player)? He's wrong. Being famous was awesome. Money, fans, and hangin' (poolside / outside / inside / upside-down) at the (Chateau Marmont / Vons in Whittier / set of Meet the Press / jungle gym) with (Ashton / Wilmer / Debra Jo Rupp / Bonnie Turner). Those were the days. I wish I had known how fleeting they'd be.

Success often comes in a flash. Failure is always a slow dawn. My next project, a (modern-day retelling of American Pie / Hezbollah dramedy / biopic of Ludacris, starring me as Ludacris / David Schwimmer anything), flopped. Then, my role in (Kevin Smith's Star Wars Reference: The Movie / Woody Allen's No Rewrites / Martin Lawrence's Rest and Chillaxation / Pixar's Wristwatches Who Talk) was completely cut out. My agent (dropped me / starting using a Chinese accent whenever I called / enrolled at DeVry / said "Let's hug it out, bitch" so many times I dropped him). You cling to hope while you lose your faith. That phone might ring any day, right? But one day you wake up and years have gone by. It's time to acknowledge it: (you'll never work again / white people and black people are different / both Kill Bill movies are horrible / Undeclared was a fluke).

My career now? Let me quote Morrissey: ("I know it's over" / "A boy in the bush is worth two in the hand" / "Heaven 17 are simply dreadful" / "Fuck my ass"). The money's all gone. My business manager convinced me to sink it all into (Amanda Peet films / Andy Richter Controls the Universe / Quintuplets / the film rights to Andy Richter Controls the Universe). Work? Yeah, I'm working. Come see me starring in the role of (manager / cashier / janitor / second assistant director of cinematography) at (Wendy's / Chili's / Hardee's / Aaron Sorkin's shroom dealer's Winnebago). Don't pity me. Learn from me. You headed to Tinseltown? Remember: (it could happen to you / it's "the 405," not just "405" / Budweiser costs seven dollars at a bar / if you're moving to West Hollywood, avoid eye contact. In prison that's a sign of aggression. In West Hollywood, it's the opposite, but the outcome is exactly the same).