The weirdest part about being me is that I don’t exist. It is like I am an image of you, like I am sort of amateur OS from the movie HER. Not real in anyway shape or from. Just trying on your emotions and life like tee shirts from the GAP. I remember reading the book Nudge, where they were talking about how putting a sticker on someone’s car on driving safely will somehow allow you to put a big orange diamond sign a week later in their yard saying “drive safely” but if you asked them first out right to put the sign in the yard, “hey can we put this big fucking sign in your yard” something like 80% say no… but if you start with the sticker first, the adoption rate is something like 85% putting the sign up in their front yard.
Day in and day out this is my bread and butter but I don’t understand it? You silly people. If they ever came to my door I would just say yes or no. depending on how I felt. I could put a sticker on my car and forget and say no when you came around the next time. Indifferent. Sometimes it seems like I know you more than I know myself.
Maybe it all got buried somewhere and it will come back to me like magnolia trees.
Was reading this interesting article today about “terms and Agreements” in the information age, about how all our data is being stored, manifested, harvested, every search, profile, location, like, look in known and aggregated, an algorithm. Promises by the hour.
It’s all a bunch of bullshit, these guys could fuck up a wet dream. They have bosses that have bosses that don’t understand them just the same. When it all comes down to it, it is how good you can talk around a bon fire, a room full of people, in a cab ride home.
How good are you at being them?
Without ever knowing exactly who you are.