I encountered a huge dilemma prior to leaving for my trip:
Take Big Boy Rebel and its awesome megapixel power... or stick to the regular lame-o Nikon CoolPix digital camera with SHIT megapixel power but conveniently sized?
I seriously tossed and turned about this one.
Big Boy is heavy AS FUCK. My neck hurts if I carry that bastard for far too long... and worst of all, it's pretty fucking expensive.
I treasure that son of a bitch like... well, more than anything I own, really. I waited ten years to own such a bad motherfucker... I guard that shit with my life.
After polling the majority of my family, the answer was clear:
Take Big Boy! When will you have that opportunity again?
So I took Big Boy.
This is where I sigh and shake my head in regret.
All was fine. All was GREAT, actually.
I was snapping photos like a... stalker.
I don't know what the heck Dad has told people at his church, but Pocahontas and her husband's first words to me were:
"Usted es la que toma fotos hermosas con su camera, verdad? Toda una profesional."
You're the one who takes beautiful photos with your camera, right? A total professional.
Uh... not quite...
Next thing I know, they're making me in charge of ALL photography.
Fucking moochers.
What frustrated the FUCK out of me was that they'd CONTINUOUSLY tell me to whip out my camera and take this shot!
Don't direct ME, you jerk! Take out your OWN fucking camera. I don't want to sit here and take portraits of everyone every two minutes. Fuck you, bro.
I wouldn't normally be this uptight, but it was really irking me to have to take out that massive camera from my bag like some OCD person. Packing, unpacking, packing, unpacking. I'm not a saint... it gets fucking aggravating and I get irritated.
And I just don't like people telling me WHAT to photograph. Suck my balls. I got this. Leave me alone.
I wouldn't mind if it were a pro directing me... but when it's a person who barely understands how to turn on a laptop, I prefer you just shut the fuck up.
ANYWAY.
My first three days went great with Big Boy and the scenery.
Then came day four:
The day my camera committed suicide.
Technically, it was assisted suicide.
It was Beach Day.
I was packing somewhat light. I was also the only person carrying a bag...
As mentioned before, we stopped at a store to buy some goodies.
MY goodY was that ONE fucking beer I was shamed into NOT purchasing... so I ended up with NOTHING.
But Pops... that man... that ogre...
Dad bought a shitton of snacks... as if he was not going to live to see tomorrow.
Seeing how I had a bag, he made ME in charge of carrying his shit... in my bag... Big Boy's home.
All was well... I still managed to take photos at the beach... I did my thing.
Beach Day was a LONG day... which was actually cut short after a bad phone call (Maggie, the pet bitch of the house... was left in the care of Frank's mother-in-law. The bitch was in heat, ran out of the house, and was gang-banged by five street dogs. The mother-in-law freaked out and tried "rescuing" Maggie's slutty-ass... and that's where the lady was bitten. So we got the phone call, the daughters started to cry, and our excursion was cut short... all because of a bitch in heat... fucking bitches). The news had all of us worried... so I kind of forgot about my camera.
The following morning I made the horrifying discovery:
My dad's goodies had melted in my bag... the tamarind candies, to be specific. Motherfucking tamarind candies.
My camera was covered in sugary BULLSHIT... and I tried as best I could to clean it.
It felt like I was scrubbing clean a petrol-covered sea otter with a toothbrush: heart-crushing!
The photos I could still view... but then came the photo-taking test.
FAIL.
Fail.
FAIL.
My heart raced... tears began to sting my eyes... and then my hands tightened around the lens.
I wanted to chuck that shit against the wall... have a major Hulk moment.
FUCK YOU, CAMERA! FUCK YOU, TAMARIND! FUCK YOU SUGARRRRRRRRRRR!!!
Now, it's not completely busted... it just... snaps a photo when it wants to.
The lens is stuck. The stabilizing unit is also fucked. The shutter struggles. It doesn't focus... or it focuses on whatever the fuck it wants.
I'm devastated.
... but not devastated enough to go purchase a new lens and see what happens.
Soon we'll hopefully go back to our good days.
I have faith in you, Big Boy (but I'm KIND of crossing my fingers to upgrade to the latest model which has ridiculous resolution... I'm sorry, dude)!
Take Big Boy Rebel and its awesome megapixel power... or stick to the regular lame-o Nikon CoolPix digital camera with SHIT megapixel power but conveniently sized?
I seriously tossed and turned about this one.
Big Boy is heavy AS FUCK. My neck hurts if I carry that bastard for far too long... and worst of all, it's pretty fucking expensive.
I treasure that son of a bitch like... well, more than anything I own, really. I waited ten years to own such a bad motherfucker... I guard that shit with my life.
After polling the majority of my family, the answer was clear:
Take Big Boy! When will you have that opportunity again?
So I took Big Boy.
This is where I sigh and shake my head in regret.
All was fine. All was GREAT, actually.
I was snapping photos like a... stalker.
I don't know what the heck Dad has told people at his church, but Pocahontas and her husband's first words to me were:
"Usted es la que toma fotos hermosas con su camera, verdad? Toda una profesional."
You're the one who takes beautiful photos with your camera, right? A total professional.
Uh... not quite...
Next thing I know, they're making me in charge of ALL photography.
Fucking moochers.
What frustrated the FUCK out of me was that they'd CONTINUOUSLY tell me to whip out my camera and take this shot!
Don't direct ME, you jerk! Take out your OWN fucking camera. I don't want to sit here and take portraits of everyone every two minutes. Fuck you, bro.
I wouldn't normally be this uptight, but it was really irking me to have to take out that massive camera from my bag like some OCD person. Packing, unpacking, packing, unpacking. I'm not a saint... it gets fucking aggravating and I get irritated.
And I just don't like people telling me WHAT to photograph. Suck my balls. I got this. Leave me alone.
I wouldn't mind if it were a pro directing me... but when it's a person who barely understands how to turn on a laptop, I prefer you just shut the fuck up.
ANYWAY.
My first three days went great with Big Boy and the scenery.
Then came day four:
The day my camera committed suicide.
Technically, it was assisted suicide.
It was Beach Day.
I was packing somewhat light. I was also the only person carrying a bag...
As mentioned before, we stopped at a store to buy some goodies.
MY goodY was that ONE fucking beer I was shamed into NOT purchasing... so I ended up with NOTHING.
But Pops... that man... that ogre...
Dad bought a shitton of snacks... as if he was not going to live to see tomorrow.
Seeing how I had a bag, he made ME in charge of carrying his shit... in my bag... Big Boy's home.
All was well... I still managed to take photos at the beach... I did my thing.
Beach Day was a LONG day... which was actually cut short after a bad phone call (Maggie, the pet bitch of the house... was left in the care of Frank's mother-in-law. The bitch was in heat, ran out of the house, and was gang-banged by five street dogs. The mother-in-law freaked out and tried "rescuing" Maggie's slutty-ass... and that's where the lady was bitten. So we got the phone call, the daughters started to cry, and our excursion was cut short... all because of a bitch in heat... fucking bitches). The news had all of us worried... so I kind of forgot about my camera.
The following morning I made the horrifying discovery:
My dad's goodies had melted in my bag... the tamarind candies, to be specific. Motherfucking tamarind candies.
My camera was covered in sugary BULLSHIT... and I tried as best I could to clean it.
It felt like I was scrubbing clean a petrol-covered sea otter with a toothbrush: heart-crushing!
The photos I could still view... but then came the photo-taking test.
FAIL.
Fail.
FAIL.
My heart raced... tears began to sting my eyes... and then my hands tightened around the lens.
I wanted to chuck that shit against the wall... have a major Hulk moment.
FUCK YOU, CAMERA! FUCK YOU, TAMARIND! FUCK YOU SUGARRRRRRRRRRR!!!
Now, it's not completely busted... it just... snaps a photo when it wants to.
The lens is stuck. The stabilizing unit is also fucked. The shutter struggles. It doesn't focus... or it focuses on whatever the fuck it wants.
I'm devastated.
... but not devastated enough to go purchase a new lens and see what happens.
Soon we'll hopefully go back to our good days.
I have faith in you, Big Boy (but I'm KIND of crossing my fingers to upgrade to the latest model which has ridiculous resolution... I'm sorry, dude)!
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