Timo Alfredsson
Alfredsson Superior Casting Solutions
1616 Monte Vista Loop
Beverly Hills, CA, 90035

Mr. Alfredsson,

I’m writing to you today to inform you of my decision to walk away from our business partnership. From this moment onward you are no longer my agent and I am no longer your client.

When I arrived in California, a giddy, naive boy with dreams as big as the ocean is blue, I put my faith in you. I shared with you my dream. I told you what I’d never told anyone before: That I wanted the be the world’s most prolific stock photo model. And yet, here I am, six years later known only for my work as “sad middle-aged man on white background” and “sad middle-aged man cooking alone.” I’m 29 for Christ’s sake.

I’d be a liar if I didn’t acknowledge the good times. I vividly remember the moment we landed our first gig, don’t you?

I was finishing up a double-shift at the bistro and you were at the bar, as always, a watery gin & tonic in hand. I was pushing the mop bucket along the orange tiled-floor when I heard the familiar, warming sonic rush that is “How Far is Heaven” by Los Lonely Boys blaring from your Blackberry. We locked eyes as you brought the phone to your mouth. I stood there, breathless, weightless, until you hung-up and sauntered over. Without speaking, you pulled the name tag off of my polo, took the sharpie out of your front pocket and marked a thick, black squiggle over “Scott”.

“You won’t be needing that anymore,” you told me “from now on, you’re known as ‘sad male employee burns mouth on coffee too hot office man.'” It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start.

That night, in preparation for the role, I stayed up through the wee hours and watched “Bar Rescue — Emotional Moments Compilation (SUPER SAD)” on repeat until the sun came up. I dried my tears and looked in the mirror. It was the saddest I’d ever been. Then I marched to the kitchen and brewed as much coffee was the pot could hold. I stuck my tongue in that vat of scolding liquid over and over and over again, each time correcting the errors of the previous tries. After an hour or so, I heard the beeping of your '98 Buick Century and hopped in, ready to take on the day. When we arrived, I distinctly remember a lighting assistant remarking to the photographer “that’s the saddest man, I’ve ever seen.” He was right. I nailed the set on the first few takes and we rode off into the sunset.

From there, though, it was letdown after letdown. When the well really dried up, you advised me to put on weight. I did — and instead of broadening my horizons, I was type-casted and niched into obsolescence. I wasn’t large enough for the prestigious “fat” tag, nor was I skinny enough to bear the “husky” keyword. Instead, I was pigeonholed as the only “plump” guy in the business. Sure, I had work, but who searches for “plump” men and under what circumstance?

While that scarlet letter held me from getting calls, I still persevered. But you? Oh, you gave up. You turned your attention to the shiny new toy in town. You left me for him, Timmy Kowalcyzk, the self-proclaimed “Polish Prince of Hollywood.” What did he have that I did not?

I don’t particularly care to know the truth and I doubt that you’re capable of it anyway, Mr. Alfredsson. Enjoy your new client but know this: you will never, ever, for the rest of your life, find someone as sad as me, as plump as me, or as me as me. For that, I feel truly sorry for you.

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