Projects

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ARCHERY (Compound)

🎯 Cables, Cam Timing & Controlled Chaos: My Mathews Halon X Setup (a.k.a. Engineering with Arrows) 🏹

They say archery is a calm, meditative sport.
Those people have clearly never tried tuning a compound bow at 11PM while surrounded by Allen keys, broken nocks, and a growing sense of regret.

Welcome to my latest experiment in precision, patience, and probably too much money — my Mathews Halon X, in glorious white, dressed with custom strings and firing Easton X27s like a laser-guided art project.

🏹 Step 1: The Bow — Mathews Halon X (White, Because Style Matters)

Let’s get this out of the way — yes, it’s white, and yes, it looks absolutely lethal in the best possible way.

The Halon X is a masterpiece of engineering: smooth draw, stable hold, and enough let-off to make you question physics.
It’s the kind of bow that doesn’t just shoot — it commands respect.

And when you pull it back and hold it steady, there’s this perfect moment of silence before release — followed immediately by a noise that can only be described as “expensive satisfaction.”

🧵 Step 2: Custom Strings — Because Stock is Just a Suggestion

Factory strings? Cute.
Custom strings? Now we’re talking.

I went all in — hand-made, color-coordinated, tuned to perfection.
Because if I’m going to miss a shot, I at least want to look good doing it.

They’re smoother, faster, and quieter than the originals, and honestly, they might be the only part of my setup that hasn’t caused me emotional damage during tuning.

🪶 Step 3: Arrows — Easton X27s (a.k.a. Silver Lightning)

Ah, the Easton X27s.
Straight, consistent, and so shiny they make my quiver look like a sci-fi movie prop.

They’re built for precision — which means every miss is now 100% my fault.
They cut through the air with that satisfying “whoosh” that makes you feel like you’ve just solved physics, even if you were aiming for the center and hit the 8-ring.

Custom fletched, perfectly weighted, and probably more aerodynamic than my car.

🛠️ Step 4: Tuning — A Test of Patience and Sanity

Tuning a compound bow is like defusing a bomb with feelings.
Paper tuning, cam timing, peep alignment — it’s all very zen until something’s 1mm off and suddenly you’re questioning your life choices.

But once it’s dialed in, oh boy.
The shots group so tight you start wondering if it’s legal.
Every arrow feels like a high-five from physics itself.

☕ Final Thoughts

Owning the Mathews Halon X with custom strings and Easton X27s is more than a hobby — it’s a relationship.
There’s drama, joy, maintenance, and that one magical moment when everything clicks and the arrow just disappears into the target.

Here’s what I’ve learned:

Tuning teaches patience better than meditation.
Style matters. White bow = instant confidence boost.
Easton X27s don’t miss — you do.

At the end of the day, this isn’t just archery.
It’s mechanical art, perfectly balanced tension, and the sweet satisfaction of saying,

“Yeah, I built this setup myself.”

Because whether it’s servers, soldering irons, or strings — there’s nothing better than the feeling of engineering something that just works. 🎯

VSCODE on MACOS

☕ Mac, Code & Coffee: My Accidental SQL Adventure on macOS 💻

So, there I was — sitting at my Mac, pretending to be one terminal command away from becoming a data wizard. Spoiler: I was not.

But I did manage to set up SQL on macOS using VS Code without breaking my laptop or my will to live. And as most of you know — if it’s not Mac-native, good luck making it work. (Thank you, Homebrew, for being both my hero and my villain.)

I fired it up, ran a few queries on the default database that came with the SQL install via Docker, and messed around for a bit. So yeah… accuracy.

But once I moved on to real sample data, I started to see how SQL feels a bit like mind-reading for databases. Ask it a question, and it answers — unless you forget a semicolon, in which case it just screams at you in ALL CAPS.

☕ The MacBook SQL Vibe

Learning SQL on macOS with VS Code feels oddly empowering.
Or maybe it just looks empowering — you know, sitting in a coffee shop with fancy syntax highlighting on your screen, nodding like you understand the data gods, while in reality you’re just staring at colourful tables that make absolutely zero sense.

But hey, you get to break things, fix them, and feel like a data detective — minus the trench coat and existential dread.

💡 My Advice for Fellow SQL Survivors

1. Don’t overthink it. Seriously, don’t.
If you can wrap your head around SELECT and FROM, you’re already doing better than most people who gave up after installation.
For a solid week or two, I lived on those two commands alone — making messy tables that I didn’t understand but still stared at proudly like, “Wow, look at that chaos I created.” Did it make sense? No. Did it look cool? Absolutely. 🤣

2. Don’t panic when you crash the database.
Wont lie to you — I’ve done this more than a few times. I had access to a test environment and went full mad scientist on it. It’s definitely a learning curve figuring out which tables not to pull in full (especially when your CPU starts crying).

3. Take screenshots when it works.
Because tomorrow? It won’t. and we all know it doesn't.

TBC

DOCKER Running Containers

🐳 Docker & Chaos: How I Accidentally Became a Container Whisperer on macOS ☕💻

There’s a special moment in every tech enthusiast’s life when they hear about Docker and think,

“Oh cool, I’ll just install that real quick.”

And that, my friends, is the start of a journey filled with containers, confusion, and the occasional “why is my internet gone?” panic.

🧱 Step 1: Installing Docker on macOS (or: Summoning the Kraken)

If you’ve ever installed Docker on macOS, you know it’s both magical and mildly terrifying.
You download it, double-click, and suddenly your laptop sounds like it’s trying to launch a small rocket.

Docker basically lets you run mini virtual machines — or “containers” — inside your system. It’s like Russian nesting dolls but for code.

Once it was running, I felt unstoppable. Like, “Yeah, I can totally run databases, DNS filters, and a full smart home system from my laptop. What could possibly go wrong?”

Spoiler: a lot.

🧠 Step 2: Meet My Container Zoo

Let’s talk about the residents of my new digital zoo:

🗄️ SQL

Old reliable. My training wheels in the world of data. I ran it in a Docker container because — let’s be real — I didn’t trust myself to install it directly on my Mac again after last time.

It actually worked great. Until I forgot to mount the volume correctly and realized my entire “test database” was living its best temporary life in a deleted container.

So yeah… persistence matters. (Learn from my pain.)

🕳️ Pi-hole

If you’ve never used Pi-hole, it’s basically an ad blocker for your entire network — the digital version of “talk to the hand.”

Running it in Docker on macOS was surprisingly easy… until I accidentally blocked my own DNS and spent 20 minutes wondering why nothing loaded.
Note to self: blocking *.apple.com is a bad idea when you use a Mac.

🏡 Home Assistant

Ah, Home Assistant. The reason my lights blink at random times like a haunted house.
Running it in Docker was smooth — until I started automating things. Suddenly, I was 3 YAML files deep, trying to figure out why my smart bulbs were stuck in “party mode” at 2AM.

It’s fun, though. You get to feel like Tony Stark… if Tony’s suit kept disconnecting from Wi-Fi every five minutes.

⚙️ Step 3: Docker-Compose — The Symphony of Organized Chaos

Once I discovered docker-compose, everything changed. One YAML file to rule them all.

You can spin up your entire digital empire with a single command:

docker-compose up -d

and watch as your laptop becomes a server farm.
Of course, when something breaks, it all breaks together — but hey, that’s part of the charm.

☕ Final Thoughts

Running Docker on macOS is like juggling flaming swords:
it looks cool when it works, but you’re probably going to lose a finger (or a container) along the way.

Here’s what I’ve learned:

Back up your volumes. Always.
Don’t mess with DNS unless you like chaos.
Label your containers. Because when you’ve got eight of them running, you will forget which one’s which.

But honestly? Docker’s amazing. You get to spin up complex systems, break them, fix them, and look like an absolute genius doing it.

At the end of the day, being a “tech person” is less about knowing everything and more about keeping a straight face while Googling “why is my container not containering?”

3D Printed crash bars

🏍️ Print, Pray & Protect: My 3D-Printed Crash Bar Adventure 🧠🔧

There’s something dangerously empowering about owning a 3D printer. One minute you’re printing keychains and cable holders, and the next thing you know, you’re staring at your motorbike thinking,

“Yeah, I can definitely engineer safety equipment with melted plastic.”

And thus began my journey to 3D-print crash bar protectors — a bold mix of engineering, guesswork, and mild delusion.

🧱 Step 1: The Idea (and a Healthy Dose of Overconfidence)

I looked at the metal crash bars on my bike and thought, “They could use a bit of protection.”
A normal person might go online and buy a set.
Me? I opened BLENDER and decided to design my own.

Because nothing says “responsible adult” like protecting expensive machinery with something you made in your living room while eating crisps.

🧠 Step 2: Designing the Dream

The plan was simple:

Measure the crash bars (twice, because the first measurements were “vibes”).
Model a clamp that fits snugly.
Add a nice rounded exterior so it looks professional (translation: hides the imperfections).

I spent more time trying to align one fillet than I did actually riding the bike that week.

When I finally hit “slice,” I felt like an aerospace engineer about to launch something critical. Except instead of a rocket, it was a lump of PETG destined for my garage.

🖨️ Step 3: Printing (and Waiting... and Waiting...)

The printer fired up, the filament started flowing, and suddenly I was in business.
There’s something hypnotic about watching a 3D printer at work — until the nozzle clogs at 97% completion and you consider throwing it out the window.

But after a few false starts (and one print that looked like modern art), I had a set of crash bar protectors that actually looked legit.

I held them up to the bike like a proud parent.

🔩 Step 4: The Fit Test

Now, this is the make-or-break moment — literally.

The first test fit was… optimistic. Let’s just say the tolerances were “more of a suggestion.”
But after a bit of sanding, a touch of brute force, and a lot of creative language, they snapped into place perfectly.

Suddenly, my bike looked tougher, cooler, and about 10% more “engineered.”

🧠 Step 5: The Real-World Test

I haven’t (thankfully) tested them in an actual crash, but they’ve survived road grime, rain, and a few overly enthusiastic garage bumps.
They’re doing their job — or at least looking like they’re doing their job, which is basically half of motorbike ownership.

Plus, every time someone asks where I bought them, I get to say,

“Oh these? I made them.”
and watch their respect levels instantly double.

☕ Final Thoughts

3D printing crash bar protectors taught me three things:

Measure properly. “Close enough” is not a unit of measurement.
Patience is key. Especially when your print fails at hour six.
Nothing beats DIY pride. It’s like crafting, but with a slight risk of injury.

So yeah — if you’ve got a 3D printer, a motorbike, and questionable judgment, I highly recommend giving it a go.
Because at the end of the day, engineering isn’t about perfection…
It’s about printing it three times until it finally fits. 🛠️🤣

Motorbike SATNAV

🏍️ Wired, Wild & Well-Mapped: My DIY Motorbike Satnav Setup 📱🗺️

At some point every rider decides they “need” a satnav. Most people just buy a Garmin.
Me? I decided to build my own — because clearly I enjoy making life harder in the name of innovation.

The plan: a Samsung Galaxy Tab Active 3 running OsmAnd, mounted using a RAM Mounts GDS dock, powered by a custom 12 V → 9 V DC converter that I wired in myself.
Because nothing says “professional” like a homemade electrical system strapped to a vibrating metal frame.

🧠 Step 1: The Device — Samsung Galaxy Tab Active 3

The Tab Active 3 is the perfect riding companion. It’s rugged, waterproof, glove-friendly, and probably tougher than I am.
It shrugs off rain, dust, and that time I “gently dropped” it onto tarmac during testing.

It also runs OsmAnd beautifully — offline maps, route tracking, custom overlays, and more buttons than I’ll ever understand.
Plus, let’s be honest: having a tablet on your handlebars makes you look like you’re hacking the Matrix while cruising down the motorway.

🧩 Step 2: The Mount — RAM Mounts GDS Dock

Enter the RAM GDS mount: the unsung hero of my setup. It holds the tablet tighter than my budget holds my wallet.
It’s solid, adjustable, and even handles charging through its docking pins — so no loose cables flapping around like spaghetti in the wind.

Installing it, however, was an Olympic event. Between the awkward angles, tiny bolts, and my bike’s refusal to cooperate, it was more yoga session than install job.
But once it clicked into place, it looked chef’s kiss — like it actually belonged there.

⚡ Step 3: The Power — Custom 12 V → 9 V Converter

This part? Pure wizardry (and mild anxiety).

My bike gives me 12 V, the dock wants 9 V, and the universe said, “Good luck.”
So, I built my own step-down converter, soldered everything neatly, heat-shrunk it like I was filming an instructional YouTube video, and wired it straight into the ignition.

There was one “learning experience” involving reversed polarity and a small puff of smoke — but hey, that’s just part of the magic.
Now it powers up perfectly with the key, and watching the tablet come to life as the bike roars awake gives me more joy than it probably should.

🗺️ Step 4: OsmAnd — The Real MVP

Forget the flashy GPS units — OsmAnd is where it’s at.
Offline maps, turn-by-turn navigation, GPX routes, elevation overlays, and even traffic data (if you’ve got a connection).

It’s open-source, customisable, and slightly overwhelming in the best possible way.
I’ve got it showing speed, altitude, ETA, and occasionally, existential dread when I miss a turn.

And since it runs offline, I don’t have to rely on mobile data or the faint hope of 4G in the middle of nowhere.

🧩 Step 5: Final Setup & Flex

When it all came together — the tablet snug in its dock, cables hidden, screen glowing with the world’s prettiest contour lines — it looked like something straight off a rally bike.

I can zoom, plan, record routes, and even switch to night mode so I can pretend I’m in Tron.

And the best part? It’s mine.
Built, wired, and configured by hand. Every time it works flawlessly, I feel like a genius. Every time it doesn’t… well, that’s what zip ties and Google are for.

☕ Final Thoughts

Building this setup taught me a few truths about DIY bike tech:

Electricity demands respect (and patience).
RAM mounts are worth every swear word.
OsmAnd is a game-changer — once you stop being intimidated by the menus.

Now I’ve got a rugged, weatherproof, offline satnav that charges automatically, looks professional, and makes me feel like I’m piloting a spacecraft every time I ride.

Could I have bought something ready-made? Sure.
Would it have been this fun? Absolutely not.

At the end of the day, it’s not just navigation — it’s navigation with character, powered by caffeine, curiosity, and a little bit of chaos. 🛠️📡

Whole House Ethernet 2016-2018 Project

🌐 Cables, Connectors & Chaos: My Whole-House Ethernet Project 🖥️🔌

There’s a point in every tech enthusiast’s life when Wi-Fi just isn’t enough.
For me, that moment came during college (2016–2018), when I realized that “stable internet” was basically a myth in my house.

So, naturally, I decided to rewire the entire house with Ethernet.
Because who needs Netflix buffering when you can have pure, wired perfection… at the cost of sanity and maybe a few fingers?

✂️ Step 1: Learning to Cut Ethernet Cables

It all started with one cable, a pair of wire cutters, and the overwhelming optimism of a college student who “knows a thing or two about tech.”

Turns out, cutting Cat5e/Cat6 is easy.
Stripping the ends without destroying all eight wires? That’s where it becomes a delicate mix of engineering and mild panic.

After a few trial runs (and some colorful language), I finally had neat, clean ends ready for the magical RJ45 connectors.

🔌 Step 2: RJ45 Connectors — Tiny Plastic Brilliance

Crimping RJ45 connectors is basically a rite of passage.
Too loose? No connection.
Too tight? You’ve just destroyed $0.50 of cable in one go.

I spent many late nights learning the proper T568A/T568B wiring standards, muttering to myself like:

“This will be worth it… eventually.”

Eventually came — after a lot of trial, error, and discovering that some connectors just refuse to cooperate.

🏠 Step 3: Ethernet Wall Sockets — Fancy Touches

Once I mastered cables and connectors, it was time to make the house look professional.

Ethernet wall sockets were installed in every room — living room, bedroom, kitchen (because who doesn’t need LAN in the pantry?).
Punching down the wires, securing the sockets, and labeling everything felt like I was running a miniature ISP from my dorm.

By the time I finished, it was a full-on wired paradise: neat, stable, and ready for anything.

🧠 Step 4: Purpose & Satisfaction

The entire goal was simple: reliable, stable internet through the house.

No more “Wi-Fi drops because someone opened a microwave” moments.
No more arguments about who’s hogging bandwidth during gaming night.

It worked. Beautifully.
Every device had a wired connection. Every ping was low. Every download completed without buffering.

And yes… it made me feel like an absolute hero.

☕ Final Thoughts

Looking back, this project taught me:

Precision matters. One miswired cable = hours of frustration.
RJ45 connectors are deceptively tricky. Respect the crimps.
Label everything. Otherwise you’ll be tracing cables like a detective.
Patience pays off. Watching the entire house hum with stable internet is oddly magical.

Sure, I could’ve just relied on Wi-Fi and a few repeaters.
But where’s the fun in that?

At the end of the day, this wasn’t just a networking project — it was a lesson in patience, engineering, and showing that even in college, a little ambition (and a lot of cable) can make life better.

The Minecraft MC server Project 2011-Present

💾 Blocks, Backups & Burnt Out Fans: My Custom Minecraft Server Saga 🧱🖥️

Every now and then, a simple idea snowballs into a full-blown engineering project.
Mine started with:

“Hey, I’ll just run a little Minecraft server for friends.”

Fast forward a few weeks, and I’m now running a Dell PowerEdge T130, managing Spigot builds, custom backup schedules, virtualized environments, and remote RDS access like I’m running NASA’s IT department — for a game made of cubes.

🧱 Step 1: The Hardware — Dell PowerEdge T130

Ah, the T130. A small, unassuming tower that sounds like a jet engine when it wakes up.
It’s old-school reliable — kind of like that one mate who still uses Windows 7 and refuses to upgrade because “it just works.”

I grabbed one, maxed out the RAM, threw in a few drives, and suddenly I had my own little home lab that could survive the apocalypse (or at least a night of 10 players loading chunks at once).

☕ Step 2: The Magic — Spigot Server Setup

Instead of running vanilla Minecraft like a normal person, I went straight for Spigot — the optimized, plugin-friendly server variant.
Because who doesn’t want to spend three hours tweaking configs to make sure the cows spawn correctly?

Once it was running, I loaded a few plugins for better performance, protection, and a dash of chaos.
Before long, I had a stable, lag-free world — and the smug satisfaction of saying, “Yeah, I host my own.”

🧠 Step 3: The Virtual Playground — Hypervisor & OS Wonderland

Now here’s where things got nerdy.
I decided one OS wasn’t enough, so I installed a hypervisor and spun up multiple VMs — one for Spigot, one for testing, one for backups, and one for “experiments” (read: breaking stuff safely).

I’ve got Windows Server, Ubuntu, and Debian all living peacefully side by side like some kind of tech United Nations.
Need to tweak something? I just remote in via RDS from anywhere — or, you know, from the sofa while pretending I’m “doing important work.”

💾 Step 4: Backups — Because I’ve Been Hurt Before

If you’ve ever lost a Minecraft world to corruption, you’ll know that pain cuts deep.
So, I built a custom backup system with scheduled snapshots and rolling archives.
Every few hours, it saves the world, compresses it, and copies it to another drive.

I even added off-site backups because I’m now officially the type of person who worries about “data redundancy” for digital sheep farms.

The end result? If anything breaks, I can roll back faster than a Minecart on powered rails.

🌐 Step 5: Remote Control & Pure Power

Thanks to Remote Desktop Services (RDS), I can manage everything from anywhere.
Want to restart the server mid-ride at a café? Done.
Need to add a plugin from your phone? Sure, but maybe not while you’re supposed to be “socializing.”

The best part: the T130 hums away quietly in the corner, serving blocky joy 24/7 — while I pretend it’s a “production environment” for my “networking research.”

☕ Final Thoughts

Building this Minecraft setup taught me a few things:

Backups are religion. Thou shalt not skip them.
Fans are loud, but pride is louder.
Spigot is brilliant — until it’s not, and you spend an hour fixing a YAML indentation.

But honestly? Running your own Minecraft server is oddly satisfying.
It’s not just about the game — it’s about the tinkering, the optimizing, the joy of watching your friends log in and knowing your machine is keeping their world alive.

Sure, I could’ve just rented a cheap online server.
But where’s the fun in that?

At the end of the day, this isn’t just a game server — it’s a testament to overengineering in the name of fun. ⚙️🎮

Axolotl freinds

🧪 Sleepless Nights & Slimy Smiles: My Life with Axolotls 🦎💧

You know those people who say “fishkeeping is relaxing”?
Yeah… they’ve clearly never met an axolotl.

What started as a “cute, low-maintenance pet idea” somehow turned into a full-blown chemistry degree, complete with test kits, calibration charts, and the occasional emotional breakdown at 2 a.m. because the pH dropped by 0.2.

🫧 Meet the Stars — The Pink Prince & The Yellow Queen

I’ve got two axolotls:

A pink male, permanently confused but silently judging me during water tests.
A yellow female, undeniably the boss of the tank, ruling with a calm, watery stare.

Together, they float around like blobs of joy — or chaos, depending on ammonia levels.

They’re strange little creatures. They don’t bark, they don’t purr — they just stare with those blank, soulful eyes as if to say:

“You will never understand me… but you will serve me.”

And honestly? They’re right.

💧 Tank Setup — The Fluval Fortress

Running their tank feels like managing a miniature life-support system for amphibian royalty.

I’ve got a Fluval filter humming like a spaceship engine, paired with UV sterilizing lights that look like something straight out of a sci-fi lab.
Every bubble, every ripple, is a reminder that one wrong move and I’m recalibrating nitrates, nitrites, and hardness levels at 2 a.m. again.

🧫 Water Testing & Excel Obsession

You haven’t known stress until you’re staring at a color chart at midnight, trying to decide if that shade is “safe green” or “slightly lethal green.”

Here’s where it gets serious: I track everything. Every reading goes into an Excel sheet:

pH
Ammonia
Nitrite
Nitrate
Hardness

Some nights I stay up plotting trends, calculating averages, and wondering if that tiny 0.1 shift in pH matters — yes, it does. Yes, I cry over it sometimes.

Lossless nights are spent adjusting parameters, swapping water, and obsessively cross-referencing charts — all to make sure my little alien friends have the perfect aquatic world.

🌙 The Love-Hate Relationship

Sure, it’s exhausting.
Sure, I’ve aged 2 years since setting up this tank.
But when I see them gently floating around, wiggling their gills like tiny aquatic aliens… it’s all worth it.

Keeping Excel sheets full of data may make me seem obsessive, but it’s part of the love. They’re strange, wonderful, and calming — like underwater therapy with attitude.

I love them to bits, even though they’ve turned me into the type of person who casually says:

“I can’t go out tonight; my ammonia levels are unstable.”

💡 Final Thoughts

Keeping axolotls isn’t just a hobby — it’s an emotional rollercoaster powered by test tubes, filters, spreadsheets, and pure stubbornness.

What I’ve learned:

Water testing consumes your life — and your Excel skills.
Fluval filters and UV lights are sanity-savers.
Tracking every parameter is obsessive, but it’s also love.
Axolotls are strange — but you’ll love them anyway.

At the end of the day, it’s not just about keeping water parameters perfect.
It’s about building a tiny alien world, watching it thrive, and knowing all the spreadsheets in the world still couldn’t capture how much joy those two little faces bring.

Because when they peek out from under their log and stare at you like:

“You did good, human,”
you realize… it’s all worth it. 🩵

Dark Room / 35mm FILM Test 2016-2020

📸 Light Leaks & Bathroom Chemistry: My 35mm Film Adventure 🎞️🛁

(a.k.a. How I Accidentally Invented Experimental Photography)

Ah, 35mm film — the purest form of photography… if by “pure” you mean messy, unpredictable, and occasionally smells like fixer fluid.

Somewhere between nostalgia and chaos, I decided to dive headfirst into film photography. I had the camera, the rolls, and the dream. What I didn’t have was any idea how much chemistry, patience, and bathroom ventilation this hobby actually required.

🎞️ Step 1: The Camera That Had Trust Issues

It all started during one summer when I picked up an old 35mm film camera — beautiful, classic, mechanical… and, as it turns out, temperamental.

Half the time, the shutter didn’t fire correctly.
The other half, it did — but not before introducing some creative light leaks that made my photos look like they’d been kissed by a solar flare.

Still, I kept shooting. Because there’s something magical about winding film, hearing that click, and hoping (praying, really) that the image will exist later.

🛁 Step 2: The DIY Darkroom — Also Known as My Bathroom

When the film rolls piled up, I did what any sensible person would do — I turned my bathroom into a darkroom.

Curtains taped shut.
Red safelight installed.
Sink turned into a chemistry lab.

It was all very Breaking Bad, but with more fixer and fewer felonies.

I mixed the developer, stop bath, and fixer like I actually knew what I was doing.
Standing there, watching images slowly appear on film strips in the dim red glow, was equal parts thrilling and terrifying.
Because you don’t know whether you’ve made art — or just expensive grey rectangles — until it’s done.

💡 Step 3: The Scanning & the Surprises

Once developed, the negatives got scanned — revealing a gallery of unexpected art.

Some frames were perfect.
Some looked like they’d survived a small explosion.
Others… well, let’s just say the shutter and I were clearly not on speaking terms that day.

Light leaks turned out to be my uninvited creative collaborator — streaks of pink, gold, and orange that gave every shot an accidental vintage dreaminess.
You could almost call it “aesthetic” if you ignore the panic that came before it.

🌤️ Step 4: Summer, Sunlight & Serendipity

Most of the rolls were shot during summer — long days, warm evenings, everything glowing just right.

Even when half the photos didn’t work out, the few that did captured that perfect nostalgic summer energy: friends laughing, bikes in the sunset, quiet streets that felt infinite.

Film might be unpredictable, but that’s the charm — it’s like photography with a personality.

☕ Final Thoughts

Building a darkroom in a bathroom taught me:

Patience is not optional. Neither is good ventilation.
Film doesn’t forgive mistakes — it romanticizes them.
Light leaks are just happy accidents with extra character.
Scanning film feels like opening a time capsule… one that may or may not contain disasters.

Sure, I could’ve just shot digital and skipped all the chemicals and confusion.
But where’s the fun in that?

At the end of the day, this wasn’t just photography — it was an experiment in chaos, chemistry, and creativity.
Every flawed frame has a story, and every light leak feels like proof that sometimes the mistakes make the magic.

Because in that little red-lit bathroom, watching the images appear for the first time — that’s when I realized…

Maybe perfection is overrated anyway. 🎞️

Camera's and water definitely do not mix 2014-2017

📷 Rust, Regret & a Screwdriver: The Resurrection of My Canon 100D ⚙️💧

(a.k.a. How I Almost Became a Camera Surgeon — and Failed Gloriously)

Every good story starts with a bad idea, and this one begins with my beloved Canon 100D, a camera that decided to take an unexpected bath.

It was my trusty companion — my go-to for photos, memories, and the occasional “artsy” shot that accidentally turned out nice.
But one unfortunate splash later, it was less “creative tool” and more “tiny brick with buttons.”

Still, I wasn’t ready to let it go.

💧 Step 1: The Incident — The Day the Shutter Stopped

It happened fast — one moment everything was fine, the next, my Canon 100D was having a full-on electrical panic attack.
Buttons froze, screen flickered, shutter refused to move.

Basically, my camera went from “professional gear” to “expensive paperweight” in about five seconds.

Naturally, I did what any rational person would do:

“I can totally fix this.”

🔧 Step 2: The Disassembly — Chaos & Curiosity

Armed with a set of precision screwdrivers and misplaced confidence, I began the teardown.

Screws everywhere. Springs I didn’t know existed.
At one point, I’m pretty sure I held the camera’s soul in my hand — or maybe it was just the image sensor.

The goal was simple: dry it out, clean the corrosion, and free the seized-up mechanisms.

The reality? A delicate mix of curiosity and danger.
Electricity, metal, and lingering moisture — what could possibly go wrong?

⚙️ Step 3: Did It Work?

Was it fun? Yes.
Did it work? Absolutely not.
Was it dangerous? 50/50, depending on your definition of “safe.”
Did I learn how a camera works? Semi.

Somewhere between reassembling it wrong twice and losing a screw that I’m convinced teleported to another dimension, I realized something important:
Sometimes “fixing it” isn’t about success — it’s about the process (and the smell of burnt circuits).

☕ Final Thoughts

Here’s what I learned from trying to resurrect my Canon 100D:

Water and electronics do not mix. Ever.
Tiny screws are sentient — they will hide.
Learning how something works often means breaking it first.
Failure is still experience… just slightly smokier.

Sure, the Canon didn’t make it, but I came away with a deeper respect for how intricate cameras really are.

So, was it worth it?
Definitely.
Because sometimes the best way to understand your gear is to completely ruin it first. 😅

RIP, little Canon — you died a hero of curiosity and bad decisions. 📸

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