Conversations With Myself

Hello darlings.
It's good to be back.
I haven't been gone that long, you say?
I know. I know, but any time away from you seems like an eternity. My heart yearns to tap my fingertips lightly on each key as if I'm sending pure love into cyberspace with every stroke.
That's stupid, cheesey, and slightly pathetic, you say?
Well, you said it, not me. You just don't appreciate the pure poetry that exists within the confines of this blog, and I pity you. I pity you.
I should pity myself, you say?
That's just not very nice of you, and I think I will end this little exchange of unpleasantness before I resort to verbal assault on your moral character (most likely referring to your complete lack of tact and possibly your free-wheeling attitude when it comes to sexual practices).
No retort? Yeah, I thought so.

What I've learned this weekend is that sleep isn't all that important as long as you have enough natural adrenaline to keep you going.
What do I mean, you ask?
Good question (and I'm glad we got past the whole "pity yourself" thing really quickly). This weekend I managed to survive 48 hours with a mere 3 hours of sleep under my belt, but I powered through it. The secret, my friends, is motivation.
What kind of motivation, you ask?
The good kind, my friend, the good kind. The reason I was able to keep my eyes and my limbs functional on 3 hours of sleep for 48 hours is that it was because I was doing something that I love (filmmaking). With pleasure and excitement, comes adrenaline. If I was getting up after 3 hours of sleep to watch sheep graze, I would become the fastest case of spontaneous narcolepsy ever on record.
What's narcolepsy, you ask?
Look it up, lazy ass. Who do you think I am? Your mother?
Why do I have to be so mean, you ask?
I don't know, maybe it's because I have to talk to idiots like you.
You don't actually exist, you say.
That's a very good point...
I'm the most brilliant and creative mind that has ever functioned and anything and everything that I think about lights up like a thousands suns everytime I mention its very name, you say?
That's more like it.
I'm being very pretentious, you say?
That's not really the word you were looking for, but we'll work on that later. You're lucky you have me, man, or you'd be just another one of my idiot personalities.

So I broke my camera this weekend. Unfortunately, this happened the night before the big production day, so I never got to take any still photos. It was probably for the best, as it might have been a distraction.
How do I know it's broken, you ask?
Well, unless a camera is supposed to make a little crunching sound every time the lens extends or retracts, I think it's broken.
Just fix it, you say?
Who do you think I am? R. W. Canon. I can't fix lenses. Can you open up a point-and-shoot, tap out all of the micro-shards of optic lens, melt them down into a little puddle of glass, and pour it back into the camera? Ta-da! Fixed!
I don't have to be so sarcastic, you say?
Actually I do.
No, I don't, you say?
Yes. Yes, I do. I very much do.
Do I realize that I'm still talking to myself, and therefore, I am just mocking myself, you ask?
Yes. Yes, I do. Now.

I would like to apologize to anyone reading this for it's weirdness. I would also like to apologize to those who are now slightly scared of me because they read this. Please don't be. I'm actually a very nice person and I keep my insanities mostly to myself. That's such a lie. I'm sorry.
Why would I lie, you ask?
Because while I never lie about important things, and I value honesty above anything else, I am actually quite a gifted liar.
That's getting pretentious again, you say?
It's not pretentious if it's true. Think about it.

BOOK RECOMMENDATION

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson