Sex weight-loss affiliate. Government penis, school bullying debt. Erection! Mortgage acne diet! Jobs, trade policy breast. Social media. Credit wireless economy. Newbies, advertising management hackers.
There, that should save a lot of time for some people.
PS: penises again.
Ha! According to Google, I’m a male between 25-34 who wants to see ads for movies. This underscores my longtime suspicion about demographic research (on or offline) — no matter how many cookies they install, or how they try to track our behavior, they have no idea who we really are.
I almost clicked the opt-out button, but I think I’ll just leave it on and enjoy knowing that I have a small hand in skewing their statistics.
(By the way — if you click the “x” to get rid of a Facebook ad, when they ask you, “Why don’t you like these adverts?” if you select “Other,” you get a text field in which you can write ANYTHING YOU WANT. ANYTHING!)
Google allows us to edit our advertising categories to make sure we’re being targeted correctly. Facebook wants me to fill in a survey “to help us show you better adverts.” Everyone wants to figure out the best way to monetize every pair of eyes by gearing the ads as precisely as possible. My question is this: How many people really care? Frankly, I’m not concerned about whether I’m getting the “right” ads or not. In all the material about marketing techniques that I’ve seen, the common assumption on the part of the marketers seems to be that we take this game as seriously as they do.
The “right” ads? Please. The “right” ads are the ones that don’t make noise, get in the way of what I’m trying to read, or suck up all the bandwidth with silly Flash animation.
I’m OK with the opt-out policy. By “OK,” I mean “resigned to the fact that marketers will just try to find more ways to get more information regardless.” Yes, they should let us know what they’re doing and why — no one likes to be spied on. Then again, many people already suspect that they’re being watched most of the time anyway.
In a sense, though, “privacy” may have to be redefined. We enjoy many benefits of living in the information age, and we can’t assume that we’re somehow above becoming part of the information stream simply because we see ourselves as unique, deep-thinking individuals. Not that we aren’t individuals (most of us, anyway), but we’re also cogs in the machine.
We can be both. We can also click from a bodybuilding site to an online astrophysics document repository to a Vimeo collection of raw sewage videos to beedogs.com and let the demographic specialists sort THAT out.
I had the comments turned off for awhile, since I got tired of wading through all the stupid spam.
But some of the spam is…special. I’ve grown to love a few of you spambots like my very own brothers. (I don’t have any.) You’re kind of charming, in a not-at-all-normal way of being charming little Mister Spammys.
So I turned the comments back on.
I missed you guys. Come on back! I’ve got cake.
What could possibly be taking so long? Are you done performing your necessary body functions? Yes? You do realize that there are people out here who would like a turn to do so as well? Go fix your makeup or do your hair or put powder on something that’s too moist or moisten something that’s too powdery somewhere else. If you ARE NOT done performing your necessary body functions, IT’S NOT NORMAL FOR IT TO TAKE SO LONG. GO SEE A GOD DAMN DOCTOR.
Don’t give me the sheepish “I’m so pretty” look when you come out. That might work on daddy, but I’d run over you AND your daddy with a dump truck at this point if it would help me get in the bathroom stall sooner. Come on, Powderpuff, move it.
AND — while we’re making potty talk, we need to discuss these seat protectors. If your perfect, precious, germ-free butt-skin can’t touch a toilet seat, fine, but that doesn’t mean that your perfect, precious, germ-free finger-skin can’t pick up the butt-skin cootie-infested tissue and put it in the trash. ‘Cause when you leave it lying on the seat, I have to pick it up for you, and somehow, that’s just doubly gross. Fucking princess. (Dear Long-Suffering Janitors — THIS is why there are boot prints on the toilet seats. Not because we’re getting up to some kinky shit in the stalls. Just because we have to kick these germy princess-butt-tissues down into the bowl with our feet.)
And don’t look at me like that — no, I’m not going to spend all day washing my hands.
Why not?
BECAUSE I DIDN’T GET PISS ALL OVER THEM.
What the hell is wrong with YOU, hand-washer? Didn’t your mom teach you to do it neatly? Gross.
If any men would like to offer a counter-perspective of what men are doing in the bathroom, I would welcome your viewpoint. Also, can I use your bathroom? I promise not to look. Or point.
Hungry. Munchy.
Chips! OOh, chips! I like chips. Let’s see…
The copy on the back of my Salsa Verde Doritos:
“Experience that BALLISTIC Doritos (Brand) crunch as it UNLEASHES an explosion of salsa verde heat and intense flavor in your mouth!”
Holy-Jesus-god-almighty, no! The last time anything Balls-y unleashed anything that exploded in my mouth, I bit down really hard and the screaming went on for days.
Never mind; I want Froot Loops.
1. This is the BEST IDEA EVER.
2. I love this painting.
3. I wish this would go faster.
4. I’m getting a little tired of looking at this painting.
5. I have to pee, but I can’t, because I’m painting.
6. For the love of Gods, just let me finish it.
7. I swear, I’m going to devote all my time from now on to actually useful things, just as soon as I’m done painting.
8. I hate this painting.
9. Why did I think I could do art? This is like a weasel seizure on canvas.
10. I HATE THIS FUCKING PAINTING.
11. Oh, good, it’s almost done. Soon I can stop crying.
12. This is actually a pretty good painting.
13. THIS IS THE BEST PAINTING I HAVE EVER MADE.
14. THIS IS THE BEST PAINTING IN THE WHOLE FUCKING WORLD.
15. It’s DONE!
16. I will store it behind the bookshelf.
Ok, I’ll tell you what… if you want to take your shiny Porsche (and by the way, that’s “Porsh,” not “Por-sha,” not “Portch“) out into Bumble-fuck Nowhere, 3 hours away from Next to Nothing, I suggest you at least bring your Chilton’s along with you and learn how to use a wrench.
‘Cause no, you don’t qualify for the helicopter air-lift rescue squad.
And bring something to eat, too, or you might just have to eat your poodle-dogs.
No one is really in charge of anything. The Blob has no head.
So I’ve been spending so much time trying to drum up freelance business, work on my clients’ projects, get my Second Life world and store up, working on Grey School classes… my own daily work has had to take a back seat.
It’s not that I don’t have anything to say — I just keep forgetting to say it. And, my, but this blog needs rennovating.
Currently listening to: Shoutcast Stream http://74.63.47.82:8302/
Recent work:
As far as daily life goes, I keep thinking of clever little quips that should go in here, and promptly forgetting them.
What?
My definition:
When the class you’ve always had overshadows your desperation to hang on to something that was never yours to keep.
© 2012 DREAMS OVER ZERO -- a great big Grimagix production