The only thing to do when you’re a wannabe photographer with a nosebleed? Whip out the camera and try to forget about the drips hitting your white t-shirt.
Badass?
The only thing to do when you’re a wannabe photographer with a nosebleed? Whip out the camera and try to forget about the drips hitting your white t-shirt.
Badass?
I’m visiting my family and friends in Ohio until
I’m going to get so many presents, eat so many of those sugar cookies with the Hershey’s Kisses pressed into the tops of them, and do so many gay things with my best friend.
Like so:
I’ll miss you, blogfriends!
It’s just an accident that my work slippers match my tights today.
But it sure is a happy accident.
I haven’t legitimately dressed up for Halloween for ages. Everybody else is already the Internet meme of the moment, and spending the night sweating in a rented gorilla costume doesn’t seem fun, and I don’t have enough boob to be Slutty Strawberry Shortcake or whatever.
But this year, my costume idea happened so organically I couldn’t not do it. My friend Anthony and I were sitting at lunch one day, discussing an article I’d just read about Zooey Deschanel. I may or may not have been rambling, and he may or may not have said Zooey’s name in an offensive voice just to shut me up, and it may or may not have come out sounding like “Doughy Deschanel”.
Okay, actually, it did come out sounding like “Doughy Deschanel”, and I said, “That’s the name of Zooey’s fat sister.”
And then we were both like, “Oh, crap, that’s the greatest Halloween costume ever.” So I bought myself a faux-vintage Modcloth dress, donned my pink velvet shoes that I so rarely get to wear, and used it as an excuse to buy a black wig and have straight hair for a night.
Great Halloween costume or greatest Halloween costume?
I bought a tripod recently from my long-time blogfriend, Kat, who was leaving the country and offering up all of her belongings. I was like, “Hey, sure, I’m new to this photography stuff and could use a nice tripod at a discounted price.” And then I was like, “HOLY CRAP, NOW I HAVE TO ACTUALLY MEET HER.” After, you know, five years of living in the same city and at least eight months of even living on the same subway line, like, six stops apart. But it went fine, and now I have a fancy tripod.
Which is clearly a big mistake, because this is the very first thing I did with it:
Pretty sure that first look could cut a bitch.