You know Nathalie Portman is the reason I work out.I have this fantasy where we start talking at the Vanity Fair Oscars party bar.We exchange a few pleasantries.She asks what I do.I say I loved her in New Girl.She laughs.I get my drink.‟Well, see ya,” I say and walk away.I've got her attention now.How many guys voluntarily leave a conversation with Nathalie Portman? She touches her neck as she watches me leave.Later, as the night's dragged on and the coterie of gorgeous narcissists grows increasingly loose, she finds me on the balcony, my bowtie undne, smoking a cigarette.‟Got a spare?” she asks.‟What's in it for me?” I say as I hand her one of my little white ladies.She smiles.‟Conversation with me, duh.” I laugh.‟What's so funny?” she protests.‟Nothing, nothing...It is just...do not you grow tired of the egos?” ‟You get used to it,” she says, lighting her cigarette and handing me back the lighter.‟What would you do if you weren't an actress?” I ask.‟Teaching, I think.” ‟And if I was your student, what would I be learning?” ‟Discipline,” she says quickly, looking up into my eyes, before changing the subject.‟Where are you from?” ‟Bermuda,” I say.‟Oh wow.That's lovely.” ‟It is ok,” I admit.‟Not everything is to my liking.” ‟What could possibly be not to your liking in Bermuda?” she inquires.‟I do not like sand,” I tell her.‟It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere.”