Cut!

I tell you, there is something about cutting your own showreel that makes you second guess every single move you make, makes you want to have a go at the infinite possible permutations and combinations of cuts, as if you had unlimited time, an indestructible body, and a cat that'd just sit on your lap and purr instead of walking around your keyboard putting his big grey paws on the space bar every other half hour.

Now change all the yous in that sentence to me, or I, or my, or mine... and thus you (no, not me. This you is really YOU)  have my current situation.

This is the 3rd night I'm sitting in front of the computer, at 2am in the morning, trying to put together a 2 and a half minute showreel of all my work to date, my prides and my joys, my stories and my glories. I can't quite figure out why it's taking such a long time, and I'm putting it down to the fact that self-promotion has never been my forte. Never mind the fact that I proclaim to be an undiscovered genius, that I use misoclever as one of my email addresses (the other 2 are megeniusss and absoluteliyen), that I have trained my interns to address me as 'o supreme ruler of the universe'. Never mind those, any fool knows those are just a cover up for the real insecurities that lie beneath. It's a terribly hard thing to blow one's own trumpet, especially if it's a rusty old instrument that hasn't been touched in yonks and yonks and yonks.

But the show must go on. The reel must be cut. If not to get a job that'll up my spending power by 100%, then just to prove it is actually possible for me to satisfy my toughest critic ever.

Go me!!!!!!!!!!!!!