Michael came up with a neat idea of shooting something you saw today, posting it and explaining what happened. I’m in for any and all challenges, except I saw nothing and said nothing. I woke up two hours before my scheduled wake-up time and was appropriately grumpy about it. I shot myself. See below.
Today, I woke up hot. Not sexy hot (because I’m always that —
wishful positive thinking), but hot hot. If you’ve been so unfortunate and bored as to follow my complaints about malfunctioning radiators, you’ll be surprised to hear this. I was surprised to feel this. At first, I thought I’ve grown tough and got used to being constantly at the brink of dying of exposure.
So I hopped off to take my morning shower, positively beaming with hotness, and as I reached for my towel, I burnt my hand on the radiator. This made me and the cat jump. What’s just happened? How has the radiator that was ice-cold like my heart yesterday become as boiling as my brain today? Have I taken one pill too many? Have I slept through winter and is it summer again?
It remains a mystery. The most logical explanation is that the radiator man who failed to come yesterday because he was playing Godot fixed my radiator remotely. I know it doesn’t make sense. If you have a more reasonable explanation, go ahead and tell me. Also, if you’ve sent me blankets, I’m good now. Instead, you can send thongs. If thongs are flip-flops for you, please send me European size 38, smart look. If thongs are panties for you, please give me size XS, cute look. Thank you.
Here’s the ultimate proof that I’m hot. I was practising my morning yoga barefoot. I am aware that yoga shall always be practised barefoot, but that doesn’t bar me from wearing toeless socks when it’s cold.
I specialise at taking bad photos. Scratch it. I specialise at taking the worst photos ever. Since the internet is full of how-to articles on taking better photos, I thought I’d contribute with my valuable experience of how to take worse photos. And since I recently blogged an anti-recipe, let’s continue with an anti-manual.
Taking photos that suck something fierce is an art, like everything else. You’ll need to practise it to perfect your skills—but remember that the practice for crappy photo skills consists in taking pictures as little and as far apart as possible. The next you’ll need is to equip yourself with the appropriate gear (the cheaper the better) and to follow a few principles, listed below.
Gear for the Worst Results
Use your phone camera. If you own an iPhone, give it away to that homeless guy at the corner. If you’re serious about worsening your photo skills, you can’t hope to achieve it with an Apple device. Get the cheapest generic brand phone that is available to you. Make sure to treat it poorly. An important warning: never clean the phone lens! When you get your lens soiled and keep it that way, you’ll be always taking dirty photos. Cool trick, right?
Forget about sweeping panoramas and people portraits. These are unsuitable subjects for a photographer who seriously sucks. Pick as lowly subjects as possible: a manhole, a candy wrapper in the gutter, a supermarket floor. Advanced students of the art of shockingly bad photography may proceed to selfies. Be careful though, your selfie must never contain a face! Aim at your feet, hands or crotch. For illustrations of the appropriate method, see examples above.
Cancel your subscription to Photoshop. Forget about Lightroom. Forget about any post-production at all. Your astonishingly bad photos must be presented as-is, #nofilter. Crooked horizons and tilted walls are highly desirable. Once you master the skill of snaps that suck, you’ll be able never to take a straight picture in your life again. If you publish your work on Instagram, don’t forget the elite tags: #random #whatever #icanteven. Happy shooting!
I used the word shit in the post title. I wonder if there will be repercussions. Will I get reported as a threat to society? I’m terrified so say anything these days because I never know what I’m allowed to say to keep it politically correct, gender neutral, family friendly and whatnot. But when thinking of pretty much anything in life, the only word that comes to mind is shit (also, crap, but that doesn’t solve the problem).
I’m currently prepping for a school reunion tomorrow, where I don’t want to go but socialising is good for my mental health (I don’t think so, but my psychiatrist does). It’s a one-day trip, I’ll be home for the night (unless I get mugged and murdered), so I’m putting just a few basic things in my handbag. When I contemplate my labour, I’m thinking, Shit, (here it goes again) I have some baggage (my psychiatrist agrees).
Here’s the setup of my handbag, minimum requirements, but the handbag is still more of a hand-carried backpack than a ladies’ purse.
- Several open tissue packs (sometimes I try to consolidate the packages into one, inevitably tear the wrapping and end up crying over it, ultimately using the tissues right away).
- Lipstick, lip gloss and lip balm (I have a serious addiction to lip balm, jokes aside, I urgently need to reapply it at least once an hour. It’s probably a nervous tic.).
- A cute white and red pocket mirror (let’s gloss over the fact that it was a freebie from my preferred tampon brand).
- Phone, earbuds, wallet (the size of a handbag of its own), keys on a ring (some of the keys I carry around solely as talismans because I have no idea what they open).
- A book to feel good about myself (which will never be open even on public transport because, duh, I have mobile data to keep me entertained).
- A bottle of water, a flask of slivovitz in winter (drink or freeze, I’d rather be drunk than frozen, much more pleasant).
- Cigarettes, lighter, a spare lighter (seriously; also, smoking kills—ultimately—which is a disadvantage it shares with life).
- Cleaning cloth for my glasses, hand sanitiser, hand cream in winter (my hands are just as dry as my lips, and both are just as dry as my creative juices).
- Lexaurin in case I get an anxiety attack and think I’m dying (which I, in the last analysis, am since I’ve been born).
- Umbrella (even in winter because I bloody hate the cold white shit of snow in my hair and a cap doesn’t come in question because I do my hair with care and won’t have it messed up).
I hope I have packed all I need. Now please excuse me, I need to reapply my lip balm, go paint my nails and otherwise make myself presentable so my schoolmates think I have my shit together (both I and my psychiatrist disagree).
Part of WordPress’s photography course Developing Your Eye II.
The photo prompt for today is asking for a picture of nature. The extra task is to focus on strong leading lines. Nature photos are boring, so I took a snap of a bit of nature in the civilisation: my new heather plants. I tried to do something with the pattern of the shopping trolley and the floor. Like, make it into leading lines or what. Also, I’m kidding, I took this totally on random.
Two days ago I felt like cutting my wrists but didn’t act on the impulse because unshaved, with no make-up and chipped nail polish, I’d make an ugly corpse. Therefore, the next day I proceeded to paint my nails, and today I removed my fur and also had a haircut. I’m back to being a person rather than an unkempt animal. Now I am perfectly ready to slit my wrists, alas, I don’t feel like it today. As I like to say: I painted my nails. The world is as it should be now.
I suspect I’m bipolar (a fancy term for extreme mood swings). Mental note (literally mental): notify my psychiatrist of my new diagnosis. On this note, I idly googled the number of the diagnosis I have in my psychiatric documentation and discovered that I was labelled with a Mixed Personality Disorder. Even Google is unsure what the heck that means. Besides that I’m a psychopath, of course. Another mental note: don’t google your diagnoses. Ever. It will just scare the shit out of you.
Also, thank yous and acknowledgements: I was genuinely surprised and very happy with the encouraging and witty comments on my previous somewhat depressing suicidal post. You actually cheered me up, guys. Thank you for taking the time and effort to do so, rather than doing something far more interesting.
Do you have a yoga pants radius around your home too? Or a sweatpants or underpants radius, or whatever it is that you wear at home?
A yoga pants radius is defined as an area encircling your home where you judge it to be alright to walk around in yoga pants as opposed to normal pants. Like your home, it’s an area where you don’t feel the need to be presentable.
My yoga pants radius has about 300 metres in diameter and includes: the postbox, the bins, the nearest petrol pump station and the nearest supermarket. It also includes a hospital, a pub and a tenement sprawl, none of which I frequent.
I hate changing clothes and I hate the time it takes to make myself presentable, hence I appreciate my cleverness in setting up a yoga pants radius. Also, I’m perfectly entitled to wear yoga pants because a) I actually practise yoga, twice a day, b) I’m skinny, hence can afford to wear tight-fitting clothes in public.
Otherwise I’m meticulous to take care of my appearance before I venture out of my yoga pants radius. I deem it common decency to transform myself from a wild cat lady in a hairband and torn shirt (because cat) into a regular person fit to be seen by others. That much to my defence, in case I need one.
We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and—in spite of True Romance magazines—we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way.
― Hunter S. Thompson
The first thing after I wake up is to look at my phone, with anxiety, to check what bad news, complications and problems have arisen while I was indisposed sleeping. What I found today on the phone though was uplifting comments from fellow bloggers on my yesterday’s post. I was almost pleased. (I’m depressed, hence I don’t posses the capacity to be wholly pleased.) I think it’s therefore commendable to say thank you to my readers. It was quite a warm welcome back to the community after I’ve been AWOL forever. One feels less alone online.
I’ve always known I’m crazy. What’s new is that now I’m certified crazy. If you’re concerned that the condition might be contagious, I advise that you keep clear of this place.
I was wondering the whole summer how long one can last a fourteen-or-so-hour workday every day before ending up in the mental asylum, and in autumn, I got the answer: I managed about three months. Then I indeed ended up in a mental asylum.
Should you be curious about the technicalities, one day I decided I just couldn’t, so I turned myself in at the local hospital in the middle of the night, was admitted as an emergency case and put away on the locked floor B in the psychiatric ward. After a week, I graduated to the open floor C and took a six-week survival course. I was let go a week ago, with depression, anxiety and four kinds of meds.
Because my depression experience might sound depressing, for comic relief, here’s a list of fun facts I found out about the madhouse while in there:
- If you weren’t suicidal before, hospital food and their so-called white coffee will make you so.
- The local madhouse indiscriminately prescribes cryotherapy by not heating properly.
- If you didn’t smoke before, you’ll start smoking. If you did smoke before, you’ll start chain-smoking. Nurses will make you company because they smoke the most.
- Psychiatric patients do idiotic things not because they’re mental but because it’s therapy. It involves arts and crafts, breathing exercises, role playing, deliberate daydreaming, diary writing and other crap.
As I broke down from overwork, I was prescribed, among other things, returning to my hobbies. Which is why I’m finally getting down to blogging, albeit in a mad manner. I can afford that though, since I’m certified mad.