Four freakings, a bitch and a fuck

I am so borderline diabetic. I stuck a needle in my finger, bled into a piece of film and everything -- paraphernalia courtesy of bona-fide diabetic, Scully. Anyway, lemme just say that the number's so up there that my eyes sorta glazed over for a bit. Anyway, I've decided that denial is the best way to go -- a path that will no doubt land me on a hospital bed faster than you can say "one caramel sundae please" at the neighborhood Mickey D's.

Anyway.

I quit my TV gig. Which is such a shame. 'Cause one could always use the cash, ya know? And I tried -- I really did -- to put a lid on my temper, but they were so freaking useless. All they had to do was send me the freaking tapes -- and they couldn't even do that right.

Walk with me as I set adrift on memory bliss -- not! So there I was at two in the morning, making a shotlist of this stupid British India segment. There I was scribbling away, taking down (what turned out to be useless) notes like "6:29-6:38, Exterior, British India store, white on red British India sign, zoom out" and "1:13-1:24, Interior, British India stage, low angle, pan left to right" -- only to discover that the freaking interview portion had zero audio! These people sent me tapes without audio! They didn't even bother to check it before sending it my way. So I basically spent three hours watching four stupid tapes that, in the end, wouldn't help me write the script anyway. I mean, what was I supposed to do? Lip-read? Give me a break. So I was all "pick up your tapes and get outta my life".

Plus, I had to work with this new, totally-into-herself production manager who had the gall to tell me that she edited my work. She actually handed me a sample script that she penned and instructed me to follow it. My God! You should've seen my right eyebrow launch into orbit. Look, I have no problem with being edited -- I actually welcome the extra pair of fresh eyes -- but I do have a problem with being edited by someone who couldn't even string together a decent sentence. Oh, c'mon, Ophelia, you say. You sure this isn't all about a bruised ego? If you don't believe me, then read this excerpt lifted straight outta her "sample script".

"Discover the bliss of cooking, as Chef Blah translate the technical expertise of food, and the culinary world into a passion, a love of hospitality, creativity and fun here in the hippest cooking show on TV!!!"

Say what? First of all, it's "translates", bitch. But, look, I'm ready to forgive the occasional lapse in subject-verb agreement -- God knows I've perpetrated my share -- but at least make freaking sense! I know I'm not the best writer in the world -- I mean, I know this -- but I am definitely better than her. And I can say that with confidence up to here.

Anyway, now I'm poor. Fuck it. On the brighter side, I have more time to torment faceless faces with my stupid blog. Hope all is better in your world.