February 1st, 2005

insane

Logic pie

I ended up cutting the workout short a bit last night. For some reason, it was excruciating and I had not enough energy to pull through. Still got a decent workout in, just not as much as I usually do-- like a little over an hour, instead of 1-1/2 to 2.

Picked up a cheap little sewing machine at Target. A Singer. It's not a heavy-duty or fancy machine by any means, but for what I need to do I think it will work. I experimented a bit last night and found a zigzag stitch that seems to work really well with the screen. And I think as long as I keep it to light-duty materials, it will probably be fine.
It did take me a while to set up though. And I discovered that I cannot sew through two layers of gaffer tape. I think I finally got to bed a little before midnight, so it was probably a couple of hours of experimenting with the sewing machine and screen and tape and hot glue.

I also got a couple of work lights. Not expensive, but being able to see is a Good Thing®.

Dreams last night involving going back to school and trying to get a Master's in metaphysics. I remember a bit talking about the existence of a fan being about the probability of the fan's molecules remaining in cohesion. It was all very quantum mechanics-y. Then there was a party at someone's house later, playing strip poker with a bunch of college girls and talking about hitting the hot tub later. All in all fairly innocuous.

Work is being a bitch. A slimy, lacerated bitch with tentacles. I'm about out of energy, and we're hitting the überstride of crunch time. Bad timing. I'm fatigued, and I'm making little mistakes-- catching them, but still making them in the first place. My sense of vigilance is diminished. And I have more work to do, and it's the whore-lass of all the stuff that people decided to put off until later to make the schedules look good. Do it right the first time, people!

I need a break. The kind of a break that involves a lot of massaging and cuddling and pampering. I also need to make movies-- Uwe Boll is getting paid to make movies over and over again, and he makes Ed Wood look like a disciplined genius.

Here's a hint: Hollywood doesn't give a rat's ass whether a film is good. All they care about is whether it makes money. Hey, don't get me wrong: I want to make money, too. But I want to make money because the film is a good film and people want to see it. Or because my product is good and people want to buy it. I don't want to get caught up in the corporate mindset of Profit über alles.

I have another love-rant building inside me. The past few weeks have had me tossing a lot of internal salad about relationships yet again, and it's about to burst like an emotional abcess, spilling its pus and blood all over my newly-mowed carpet.

(Sorry for the mixed metaphors there, but I'm feeling a mite twisty. And doubly sorry if you were eating a salad.)