To my mind, minced words never work. They're effectively unhelpful, much like intellectualising over power, digital vs analog and even documentary vs commercial; such arenas, if you get the drift.
Naturally, this urge to write about impending disaster starting in less than nine hours from now is going to serve as a blot on my curriculum vitae- the prima facie about this blog. The reason that dictates my asexuality and the constant urge to tear down people's head after hearing them talk about the love of their life (and scholarships that they win, visa they acquire, cats they possess- I have none). Anyhow, the last shooting I will ever embark on you starts today. In a few hours from now, I'll be struggling to record sound on Nagra, motherfucking pissant of a device that is no longer used anywhere on planet Earth but in my institute for the lack of funding available to us to upgrade to digital or actually invest in better planning of lectures that would involve 50-50 sound and visual classes. Well, fuck you all. I'm going to be doomed. Even with a Masters degree, a dissertation and few papers et al under my belt, I can't make head or tail with 50T or 200D,  I truly deserve to fail, except I can't cause these two years were fucking pissing off. Urgh. I hate everyone and everything and shooting starts in a bit and okaybye. I can't write neither can I record. I only exist when I order McSpicy Chicken Burger from McDonalds, which has now become a post bad day at college fix. It takes very little to make me happy. Calories and deep friend junk is your cue. Now go, make my day. Bring me cupcakes at the shoot tomorrow.