September 2nd, 2006

life begins - me

Photoshop icon tutorials

I finally caved and came up with two tutorials for colourings. They're the same basic methods but with very different results. Made using Photoshop 7 but are transferable to other programmes I think. So...

From this to Collapse )

And another one! From this to Collapse )

And another one! I got a lot of appreciative comments about the colouring of this icon when I first posted it, unfortunately I don't have either the PSD file or the original screencap anymore… So I remade it. It's the same method and is close...

From this to

Collapse )

Any questions - fire away! I don't have access to Paint Shop so I probably won't be able to help with that I'm afraid. All finished icons are shareable with credit.

life begins - me

Stop me. I'm drunk

Haven't eaten much today and am concentrating too much on where the keys are to be sober...

Ah screw it, I'm going to spam you anyway - and talk about my insane mental health in a non-flocked post! Yay!

I really, really, love Supernatural. In case you hadn't picked up on that over the last few days. This is the kind of show I nearly emigrated for. Me and a friend from Uni were going to be Chris Carter's P.A.s (y'know, before he picked up that whole sexual harassment of his P.A.s lawsuit thing). We were going to fly out to BC and set up shop there - I think there was talk of a coffee shop called C32 but I may be mixing up tales... - and break into the media business.

And then we graduated and my mum got sicker and I never spoke to that friend again. And now I work in a library in a job that doesn't even earn me the average graduate wage for the year I graduated, never mind the average wage now.

I'm an idealist, I know this, my world will never come about, I said this to Monkey on Friday and he joked about it. Why can't there be a world where everyone gets by doing what they like? Doing what they're good at?

2 Legs Good. 4 Legs Better.

Man... now I actually have tears in my eyes.

I can make websites pretty. I can write - sometimes. I can make photographs look better. Why the hell can't I get by doing that?

Shouldn't we be able to make this world what we want it to be? Why can't we just be happy? Why do we have to struggle in jobs that drain away our soul piece by piece until all we have left is work? Why do we have to become these soulless beings slaving away to be able to get to the jobs which drain away our essence? Why do we have to restrain ourselves into something we physically hate, which makes us ill, which denies who we are?

We are willingly surrounding ourselves with the chains that Marx saw.

The Workers of the World United. They cast off their chains.

And they became Middle Class, which has its own set of chains.

And dammit, I can't cast them off.

I want to be a better person, I really do, I want to live up to the ideals my dad instilled in me, but I just... I'm educated, I'm not rich but I'm not on the bread-line, I'm middle class and I hate that. I'm a socialist who is a little too fond of what she has to walk out of a job that doesn't serve any purpose than to serve the State. I'm not helping the next generation, I'm not providing the tools that will help someone cure cancer, I'm sitting at my fucking desk bitching about how much I hate my job. I'm a cog in a machine that should have been modernised aeons ago. A machine that should be running on some superfast accelarated reactor instead of a waterwheel. A machine that wouldn't miss a cog if it broke.

I am somebody, dammit. I am me. For all that's worth, I'm me.

I need to get out. I need to find who I am and find where I fit.

I fit, right?

Nikki? I miss you. I think I saw you on the underground a few years ago so I guess you never made it to BC either. I miss who we were. I miss those nights when you would crash in my room at the Halls and I would type up your essays for you on Jen's crappy word processor. I miss the stupid packets of dried pasta you would give me when I ran out of money to buy food - and I miss the fact that I didn't even have enough money to pay for the milk those dry pasta packets needed and I wouldn't tell you because you would only have bought me that milk if I'd said anything.

Most of all, I miss that 17 year old rock chick who was going to find out how the world spun and make it dance to her tune. She called herself Sho. If anyone knows where she's at, can you tell her I'm looking for her?