![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMqFKXIkhk6bUdVoHyz4V2ng3OgYgwjNY96IdFLyu7lWkWv_gVQBO5FtjLeupzdRcYFaOpSXXQKCOKJlJhH4MphXlFeJv46p7XngQJaI4D_x4EAOXSF9Focy9t1s8fmbQkzJAqjlPQx2VH/s320/IMG_0113.jpg)
It wasn’t supposed to be that hard – taking pictures and handing out business cards. But once I got inside, I quickly started feeling like just another girl with a camera rather than a club photographer. And when different club photographers, with lenses as big as rockets, started showing up, my confidence dropped to giving-up-level. I figured I wouldn’t be shooting pictures tonight; the only thing I was shooting at was my superhot image as a club photographer.
Along with my career as club photographer, I threw in my dignity and put my camera where a the camera of a writer belongs; out of sight, out of use and out of my dreams.
Maybe taking pictures is not my thing. Maybe getting my picture taken and writing about how horrible I look in it is more my thing.
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