Mr. Ink and I have already bought our tickets for the 3d IMAX Tim Burton Experience this weekend.

My favorite picture from the last roll. A quick snap taken while crossing the street that happened to be framed well.

[Analogue photography workshop at the Lomography Gallery Store in WeHo]

The products of my second roll of film on the Diana Mini have come in, and they are not bad.

OK, I need to stop trolling the internet whenever I get a little nick or cut because it makes me think I’m dying EVERY SINGLE TIME.

I got a tiny, minuscule thorn prick from a residual Valentine’s Day rose when I was tossing them into the trash yesterday. The prick didn’t break skin, and I could barely even figure out exactly where it made contact with my thumb. So naturally, because I am a giant wuss, I ran to my friend and primary care physician, the internet, to see what could be the worst possible outcome of this devastating injury.

Did you know that people can DIE from rose thorn pricks? There’s a huge cache of thorn prick-related obits out there. Granted, I couldn’t find many that were published after 1926, and all of them seemed to be caused by actual skin-breaking, dirt-drenching, bloody gardening wounds, not by packaged roses bought from Trader Joe’s; nevertheless, it sent me through a routine panic.

Some rational part of my brain acknowledges that an (albeit poetic) death does not await me, just as it hasn’t awaited me the last eighteen hundred times I’ve been through this, but I still can’t help but freak out. (I mean, deep down, I know the only reason I continue to blog about it is so that someone will know what happened to me if I suddenly die). I hate this. I hate this so, so much. Being a hypochondriac, mysophobe, whatever you want to call it, is like being forced to ride a roller coaster when you really hate roller coasters. You know you’re going to come out fine, but there’s still a lot of screaming on the way down. You’re strapped in for a scary ride that’s beyond your control, and you just have to keep telling yourself that it will all be over soon and you’ll be OK, really.

Ugh. It sucks. In other news, check out how blunt obits were back in the day: “Her suffering was intense.” Is it any wonder the internet makes me freak out over little things?

hipsterpuppies:

arlo says the bullshit “no taping” policy at bb king’s blues club is a “third reich thought police tactic” and that it’s a tragedy this ween show will go undocumented

[photo via kyle f]