I've been very stressed out lately, it's showing up hilariously all over my self. I had a nightmare today that involved a Voodoo-cursed remote control that summoned Samara - that creepy Ring chick - from any and all TVs, which ended up in a high speed chase through hospitals and houses and ended up with me dreaming about a 70-year-old dad who's snarly and grumpy all the time and keeps sneaking chocolate from us.
Oh, and according to Grandma, not only did I take after my dad in talking in my sleep, I can hold entire conversations. As a matter of fact, I had a 20-minute conversation with dad this morning, who was apparently very bored...in my sleep...that I have absolutely no memory of.
Sleeping doesn't come that easily either, because as dog tired as I am, I'm too stressed out to fall asleep, so before I eventually fell asleep I had a two-hour long semi-sober day-dreaming trip of retro robots and space. I'm not even kidding. It was glorious.
In my delirium, I've been having several revelations, like for instance how Jesus was vital to Christianity in the sense that he branded it. Before he came along, Christianity was made up of broken text that describes a guy over centuries, practically impossible for the common man to envision without pitching in some elements of his own to seal the deal, and a downright pain in the ass for most theologians to get the hang of the man up stairs without the occasional blasphemous typo. So it was vital for the brand's survival that it becomes embodied; given personality that people could relate to, and a body with a pair of arms and legs so people don't freak the fuck out, which would in turn lead to association, then brand linkage, then brand transformation. That's where integrated marketing communications came in, with all the sermons and PR with the townspeople. Once the vision was unified, branding was complete. I've been studying too hard.
I deleted/deactivated most social interaction platforms because of a privacy breech. People that have made no effort to talk to me all year are sharing my contact information without my permission to ask me shit about finals. Unknown numbers, so many of them, unapologetically started talking to me; no hellos, no explanations as to how the hell they got my number, just inquiries. I'm not sure what kind of reaction they're expecting, but I had the choice of aggression, avoidance or plain fucking them over...or creating mutually beneficial relationships.
Funny thing is, my PR material led me to that last consideration of harnessing that power to create contacts. I had a strategy and everything, I will turn the creeps into puppies, hell, I studied how...but I couldn't get myself to.
According to the latest statistic, exactly how many people have their heads up their asses these days? I'm curious. And how the hell do you react to a blatant, mass invasion of privacy without the use of a sledgehammer? Still haven't figured that out, but they've driven me into hiding. Which is ironic, since I can't round up a team to save my life but finals swoosh in and suddenly I'm feeling the love. People are creepy, don't make sense, and I don't like them.
Oh boy.
Oh, and according to Grandma, not only did I take after my dad in talking in my sleep, I can hold entire conversations. As a matter of fact, I had a 20-minute conversation with dad this morning, who was apparently very bored...in my sleep...that I have absolutely no memory of.
Sleeping doesn't come that easily either, because as dog tired as I am, I'm too stressed out to fall asleep, so before I eventually fell asleep I had a two-hour long semi-sober day-dreaming trip of retro robots and space. I'm not even kidding. It was glorious.
In my delirium, I've been having several revelations, like for instance how Jesus was vital to Christianity in the sense that he branded it. Before he came along, Christianity was made up of broken text that describes a guy over centuries, practically impossible for the common man to envision without pitching in some elements of his own to seal the deal, and a downright pain in the ass for most theologians to get the hang of the man up stairs without the occasional blasphemous typo. So it was vital for the brand's survival that it becomes embodied; given personality that people could relate to, and a body with a pair of arms and legs so people don't freak the fuck out, which would in turn lead to association, then brand linkage, then brand transformation. That's where integrated marketing communications came in, with all the sermons and PR with the townspeople. Once the vision was unified, branding was complete. I've been studying too hard.
I deleted/deactivated most social interaction platforms because of a privacy breech. People that have made no effort to talk to me all year are sharing my contact information without my permission to ask me shit about finals. Unknown numbers, so many of them, unapologetically started talking to me; no hellos, no explanations as to how the hell they got my number, just inquiries. I'm not sure what kind of reaction they're expecting, but I had the choice of aggression, avoidance or plain fucking them over...or creating mutually beneficial relationships.
Funny thing is, my PR material led me to that last consideration of harnessing that power to create contacts. I had a strategy and everything, I will turn the creeps into puppies, hell, I studied how...but I couldn't get myself to.
Oh and I legit-dreaded my hair in the middle of the night. That's not going away any time soon. Might have to shave it off.
And the holy grail goes to the blubbering fit that came over me two days ago when it dawned on me that I'm graduating in a year and not only do I NOT have the least idea what I wanna do with my life, I'm also not that good at, well, anything. I summoned dad from the highest mountains, and he donned his eye patch and descended to Midgard to counsel Rory Odinson. What did it was the fact that what most of my previous courses did, as opposed to teaching me anything - god knows Egyptian education merely skims the index - is show me what I'm not good at. Previous courses were a filter to all the things I don't want to do/can't work at when I graduate.
Dad was entertained; here I was, his 22-year-old only daughter, panicking about graduation. It happened you guys. His reassuring argument consisted of two main parts. The first being; I'm actually good at what I do, I just can't see it. And the second being, wait for it, "You think anybody knows what they wanna do with their lives during college? That comes later. This is a rite of passage; you got about 5 more years of wandering and fucking up, and hopefully having fun while you're at it, until you get the least sense of who you are. Buckle up, kid!" And then he laughed, shook his head, got up, got dressed and went to work, his cape swooshing behind him, getting stuck on the door in his wake.
If all of that wasn't an indication of how bumpy it is on the inside of my head right now, Grandma has taken it upon herself to feed me even more than she already does since I threw up twice this week, I got about 5 bruises that I can't account for and probably acquired by running into knobs and counters in panicky folder runs, and now that I'm writing this blogpost to a Coldplay song remix, my regression to my high school self is complete.
If all of that wasn't an indication of how bumpy it is on the inside of my head right now, Grandma has taken it upon herself to feed me even more than she already does since I threw up twice this week, I got about 5 bruises that I can't account for and probably acquired by running into knobs and counters in panicky folder runs, and now that I'm writing this blogpost to a Coldplay song remix, my regression to my high school self is complete.
Oh boy.
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