“People don’t buy what you do; they buy why you do it. And what you do simply proves what you believe.” — Simon Sinek
Mother fucking fuckity fuck.
One time I used the term “mother fucker” around a buddy from Britain. He got somewhat pissed and said something along the line of, “That’s something that you don’t say in London unless you want to get your ass kicked.” I say something like, “Ahhhhhh… so that’s why y’all use the word cunt.” He nodded his head and confirmed. Was he accurate? I dunno. Have I bothered to look it up? Nah. Did I think about that at all til just now? Yup.
I want to get some automation written so I can quickly post random shit. Such as memes, or striking ocular visuals, or clothes in the wild, or random words of whatever the fuck I want, whenever the fuck I want to, because writing in this journal — while a pleasurable experience — is a questionable solution to microposts.
Then I can get masturbataory dopamine squirts resulting from the doing of something you wanna get done. Like posting a post of potentially questionable taste of some sort. Doing things for me that make me feel good. To an extent. Gotta be positive-ish. Hopefully.
That string of fucks above are the fucks of not having the tool that I want to solve that pain. To solve that problem.
Alas, my focus has been very much pointed at sorting through stuff to make space. Physically. I guess emotionally too. Which seems to proving to be quite a challenging and emotionally charged experience. Catalyzed by sifting through the memories of the relics being evaluated for disposal. Some positive. Some painful. Many bittersweet.
But, automation is on my mind because I have that lot of random shit I cram into my journal app… but it’s kind of a pain in a butt to get added to this blog. Not a literal pain in the but. It’s a virtual or metaphorical pain. My ass is fine for now.
Enough of a pain in the butt that I’d rather write long-form blog posts that I wonder if anyone other than me will read someday.
I’m sure someone will.
This is the fucking internet.
And this domain is pretty fucking awesome.
There’s a world of other ways to do what I want automation wise, so I may pursue something else. I gotta fuck around with something like iOS Shortcuts.
It’s just a matter of making the time to make them. The money to have it made for you. Or a team to make it with. Also the letters IOS always meant something different to me until Apple appropriated it.
One day, way back when, I watched the movie Amelié. It was kinda cute. I swear there was a scene that basically implied that repetition is what kindled love.
I may be inaccurate though. I haven’t watched it since it came out. Maybe I ought to watch it again. Dunno. Maybe.
Repetitio est mater memoriae. Repetition is the mother of memory.
For a while now I’ve been espousing that, “Repetition breeds familiarity, familiarity breeds intimacy, and intimacy leads to love.”
Not necessarily sexy love.
Sometimes when I think or say things like that I think to myself, “There’s no way you came up with that yourself.”
So I search for it. Now, while I didn’t quite find that concept worded that way, I did find out about the concept of “familiarity builds contempt." Which is interesting. Related to the mere-exposure effect in social psychology, and a pretty nihilistic take on things (which may be be inaccurate). I guess it all depends one’s motivation.
Hey, neat. I just learned about “motivation.”
The concept, as interpreted by me, is that familiarity fosters intimacy. It can form and strengthen relationships. And then as time crawls on, intimacy deepens and familiarity builds through myriad activities such as the sharing, and creation, of stories. Of events. Of tastes and sights and sounds. Of mannerisms and quirks.
Of each others virtual, metaphorical, and literally physical shit.
Eventually the honeymoon period of novel experiences becomes less pronounced. The relationship normalizes into routines and rituals of some sorts.
Stories are told about each others lives. Oftentimes many times.
I know it frequently takes me multiple exposures for many of the details to stick.
Slowly those same stories shared with others — outside of the relationship or in — may begin to become stale. Become repetitive. The story begins to morph into something that annoys the shit out of others within the relationship being subjugated to it for the thousandth time.
Not having a routine is a routine or so it seems. This is not based on scientific fact though. Unless it is and I just haven’t learned about it. That how it be. You don’t know til ya do.
The story may be new to someone else. Interesting. Fascinating. They might empathize with the speaker of the story more rapidly. The similarities of situations and what’s been shared between each other rapidly building deep rapport. Forming feelings fast.
Assuming the story sharer is giving the new people the space to respond to the story. Or the story sharer is able to command attention more than anyone making an effort to hijack the conversation. And then give others the space to share their own stories. But that’s a complicated gestalt of thoughts to be written about another time. Probably. If I remember. I’ll probably remember.
The story becomes a stimulus. Repetition normalizes the stimulus. Then, over time, the stimulus is no longer novel… and it may be annoying the fuck out of them.
The quirks that were once cute become more torturous than fascinating. Investing time in situations that the story is echoed becomes a perceived waste of time.
Or potentially the story is a story that denigrates them in some way… one that others may find funny or interesting or maybe even cute, but one in which other participants within the relationship may be being presented in a way that makes them feel uncomfortable.
Each repetition of the story, of the situation, of the event, poking them with that stimulus.
Driving a whole suite of negative emotions.
Driving contempt.
Which is pretty fucking nihilistic.
Apparently the contempt that may brew based on familiarity can be combatted by curiosity.
At least that’s what some random blog post on some random psychology blog that I also randomly linked to above says.
I can imagine how that applies to stories. I wonder how you may maintain curiosity behind mannerisms and quirks… 🤔
But in the big scheme of things, it’s not that all of that really matters, it’s that I like to walk around Downtown Portland.
Well I really like to walk around anywhere really.
And when I walk around I quite frequently find clothing. So I take pictures of it. It’s not just in cities though… it’s anywhere that has random clothes.
Like hiking trails.
Today I ran into a hoodie that has a message I really appreciate.
“Trust yourself in the process.”
I like that. Trusting in the process fucking sucks. Especially when you have no fucking clue what the fucking process is.
Apparently I really like using the word fucking today.
Trusting yourself in the process seems like a better way to approach things.
Who knows what the “process” is that someone is going through, so trusting themselves to go through whatever process seems like a better interpretation of a positive fate.
I barely know what the fuck is going on around me. Theoretically.
That automation I was writing about earlier?
I wanna make it shrink these gigantic photos. This journaling software is really questionable at formatting. And by questionable I mean sucks for blogs.
