The Day Job: I was an American Apparel Model

Amidst crushing disillusionment, striped socks, and a bottle of baby oil, Queen Kwong is born.

The photographer hands me a bottle of baby oil, instructing me to slather it over my skin. Dressed in a tiny, sparkly lamé bikini and striped knee socks, I sit awkwardly on a stranger's bed in a dimly lit Echo Park house.

Act natural.

Open your mouth.

Lick your lips.

Relax. You're too stiff.

Open your mouth more.

I'm modeling for American Apparel. I'm not yet out of my teen years, yet I feel like a combat-weary veteran of Hollywood.

My skin is starting to break out in a pimply rash. It must be a reaction to the baby oil. Luckily, pimples are embraced in this ad campaign. The more natural youthful, the better.

After leaving Beverly Hills, it took me no time to learn that if you want to make it on your own terms in LA, behind the ill-conceived perception of glamor, there are countless shitty day jobs you must endure to have even half a chance of getting anywhere at all. I wage these battles and work these jobs against the backdrop of a non-cultured culture.