I have no energy to exist today. If I could crawl into bed and go to sleep now I would. I always feel like this when I take the very rare almost never rest days. I really wish I was in the gym right now or out running or biking.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to go about learning to be patient. I want everything right this minute all the time. Is there an instruction manual for all these basic life skills I never mastered?
I definitely have a cold. My plan is to sweat it out and drink endless amounts of those Vitamin C tabs. There’s too much I want to do to be stuck feeling crappy for a week. But I think tonight I’ll just kick it and watch Stranger Things and Ant Man finally.
I want you to know that it is not always easy to love me. That sometimes my chest is a field full of landmines, and where you went last night, you can’t go tomorrow. There is no manual, there is no road map, no help line you can call; my body does not come with instructions, and sometimes even I don’t know what to do with it. This cannot be easy. But still, you touch me anyway.
Maybe it be easier if we all came with an instruction manual to show us when it’s appropriate to cry in front of someone else. I need an oil change every five years or else my heart stops ticking on time. A kiss on the neck mean self-destruct. Trace my back and I’ll start hydroplaning.
Thumb through this how-to-pamphlet on how to keep your fingers from shaking when you were sitting beside a boy who can say your name just right, and let me know what page I should go to when I want to know how to survive this winter without burning all of these matches just to relight my own eyes.
How do you keep the monsters at bay? Check page 67. How do you cook a Thanksgiving turkey without dropping it on the floor and making your mother cry? Turn to page 18.
What number do I call if someone replaced my bones with broken glass?, Because I don’t think insurance covers that.
I’m an old model. A 1994 edition of a car that you probably didn’t want in the first place.
This radio doesn’t have all the stations and the glove compartment doesn’t even have any gloves in it but I can promise you at least this:
I will never fail to inflate my lungs for you when you’re 100 miles deep, heading headfirst towards a telephone pole,
——— screaming ———
Because you have pulled out all your own brakes.
Shinji Moon, The Anatomy of Being —- Instruction Manual
But rarely do you ever tell people about the true depths of your loneliness, about how you feel more and more alienated from your friends each passing day and you’re not sure how to fix it. It seems like everyone is just better at living than you are.
how to use a 35mm film with lomography holga 120n - a diy manual
grateful4thelight asked me how i shot a 35mm color film through a holga which is built for medium format film. nothing easier, but what’s the clue of it? the fun is, that you 1) get visible sprockets which can add an interesting frame to your images and 2) you get the impression of panorama shots 3) you don’t need to buy the lomography sprocket rocket, too, which does exactly the same
all you need to do is to follow the following simple instructions:
cover the frame counter window on the back with black tape from both sides. use more than one layer. the more the better.
prepare a long, approx. 1.5 cm broad slip of soft cardboard, coil it up to a thickness of approx. 1.3 cm. do the same with a shorter slip to a size of 1.5 x 1.5 x 0.4cm. prepare a piece of 4mm thick felt of approx. 6 x 1,5cm size. soft cardboard is also possible.
use ducktape to fix the film roll on a medium format reel
put the film roll on its place, use the cardboard and the felt to fix it tightly. it mustn’t slip out of place even if you tighten the film.
close the back cover and go out shooting.
if you want to avoid double exposures and frame overlaps use the winding knob slowly and count 30 crack sounds. you should get perfectly seperated frames by this (valentine-winter shared this secret with me).
don’t forget, that you cannot wind back the roll. you need to remove it from the camera in a dark room, a changing bag or under a very thick blanket at night, and wind it back manually into the film can.