it’s 8:23pm and i’d be pretty stoked if anyone other than me was ready to go home.

i’m convinced the people in this office sleep here (or don’t sleep at all). that’s probably why there’s a pool table right outside the elevator door.

[true story: the first time i ever came here, i walked off the elevator and thought i’d taken a wrong turn into a bar. or someone’s bachelor pad.]

this place is like the black hole of labor. they must pay their staff a completely offensive amount of money to come here 7 days a week and pretend that they never want an hour off. ever.

there’s a photo of me on the wall that some random chick took 3 days before i ventured off for the cross country job.

[these crazy awesome non-sleeper-over-workers are the ones who sent me into the great unknown a few months back. and for that i owe them all the time in the world they want right now. and maybe even a kidney. and they owe me a beer. which is funny because just as i said that, the producer -- who i adore -- walked in with 3 shopping bags full of beer. ask and you shall receive.]

i look ridiculously perky in that photo. the one on the wall.

and really rested.

there is hardly any point to the photo above except that this window is on 1 of 4 walls of a warehouse that i’m shooting in on monday and unlike the billion photos i take for other people, this one i took for only for myself.

it’s a funny little place where this short guy named andrew takes people like me up and down the elevator giving tours of the space in hopes that our higher-ups will drop a stupid amount of money to film here.

i don’t think his real name is andrew and i’m not going to elaborate on this because you will call me a racist racial profiler and i’m just not going there. and maybe i’m wrong and his real name is andrew. but i doubt it.

one time, he made me scale the outside walls of the building in category-5 winds just so i could see the roof.

i felt like spiderman, but i almost peed in my pants.