Any of you who have read my first SG blog know that I eventually plan on trying out to be a Suicide Girl. (Not until after the tat retouch, though...ugggh.)
So what do I do? I go out and purchase a decent little Kodak digital camera. It's not terrific; certainly not pro-quality. But decent. And I do this because although in the past, I absolutely hated my freaking picture taken, I figure that being a model, on Suicide Girls or what have you, would entail having one's photograph taken quite a bit. And I figure I should get used to being in front of a camera.
So I allow my dear, sweet, well-meaning husband to take nude pictures of me, which he's been dying to do anyway. I take a shower, blow-dry my hair, put on makeup and choose a reasonably sexy outfit, including my favorite killer boots.
And what happens?
I find out that out of like, ninety pictures he took, like, ten are actually decent. Why?
My husband is...I hate to use the words "an abysmal photographer", so let's just say Annie Liebowitz isn't going to have to hang up her hat anytime soon. Half the pictures that got deleted COULD have been cute, 'cept they were so blurry there was no saving them. Another quarter made me look about 65 pounds heavier than I really am. Look, I'm no pixie, but come on. And okay, in about an eighth I admit I was making a weird face. Like the one where I somehow rolled my eyes back in my head and they were down to slits, which was pretty fucking scary. Brrr. And oh, yeah, he seems to be incapable of making the camera tilt in a way that would indicate Euclidian geometry was used in the creation of this house. In other words, completely fucking cocked. It was nothing short of hilarious. In the pics section, I will put the salvagable ones there for your amusement, as soon as I photoshop my hellacious red-eye out. If I can. But just so you don't feel like I'm teasing, here's one of the funnier ones.
So what do I do? I go out and purchase a decent little Kodak digital camera. It's not terrific; certainly not pro-quality. But decent. And I do this because although in the past, I absolutely hated my freaking picture taken, I figure that being a model, on Suicide Girls or what have you, would entail having one's photograph taken quite a bit. And I figure I should get used to being in front of a camera.
So I allow my dear, sweet, well-meaning husband to take nude pictures of me, which he's been dying to do anyway. I take a shower, blow-dry my hair, put on makeup and choose a reasonably sexy outfit, including my favorite killer boots.
And what happens?
I find out that out of like, ninety pictures he took, like, ten are actually decent. Why?
My husband is...I hate to use the words "an abysmal photographer", so let's just say Annie Liebowitz isn't going to have to hang up her hat anytime soon. Half the pictures that got deleted COULD have been cute, 'cept they were so blurry there was no saving them. Another quarter made me look about 65 pounds heavier than I really am. Look, I'm no pixie, but come on. And okay, in about an eighth I admit I was making a weird face. Like the one where I somehow rolled my eyes back in my head and they were down to slits, which was pretty fucking scary. Brrr. And oh, yeah, he seems to be incapable of making the camera tilt in a way that would indicate Euclidian geometry was used in the creation of this house. In other words, completely fucking cocked. It was nothing short of hilarious. In the pics section, I will put the salvagable ones there for your amusement, as soon as I photoshop my hellacious red-eye out. If I can. But just so you don't feel like I'm teasing, here's one of the funnier ones.
That thing? On which it appears I'm resting my head?
That's my boob.
Don't ask where the other one went. I haven't the foggiest idea.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
You probably do need a photographer....