I keep having unsolicited interactions from companies that are way too invasive and seem to think we have some sort of relationship that we don't. It's a big paradigm shift, I don't like it, and it's done been pissing me off.
Yes, I would like to order a pizza. No, I don't think it's neat that you are cross referencing my address from my phone number you creepy ****. I'll let it slide, though. I see the utility of it, but more importantly the safety aspect for your business to curb phony orders and protect your drivers. Stop there, though.
No supermarket, department store, sporting goods store, lingerie shop for crying out loud, (no making that up) I don't want to give you my information and sign up for your membership card.
No Lowes, you don't need my phone number. Gimme my damned can of paint and **** off. I don't hand that out to hot slutty chicks so the chances of me giving it to a hardware store are very miniscule. We are not starting a relationship. I'm going to buy this, then I'm going to walk out. If we ever meet again, please think of that Heart song and pretend we've never met before.
It's nice of you, Safeway, to show me how much extra you are going to charge me as a penalty for not offering up my personal data and shopping history, sacrificially, for your marketing acolytes to sift through and dump targeted advertising on your new shopping cult member. Take the extra money, become ok with not getting to know me and go **** yourselves.
Hey moving company, it's awfully clever to sift through public records, wardrive through neighborhoods looking for signs, whatever the hell you did to discover that this house is for sale, but it's naive to just assume I'm not going to be pissed off when you cold call me offering to help me out with my "impending move" like we are old friends and it's normal for you to have that info and initiate said contact. It's not cool. It's invasive as hell, it's repulsive and you are repulsed. Hanging up rather than answer my questions about how you arrived at this knowledge was a nice touch. It's very stalkeresque. The next time you surf the court records, look for a restraining order with your name on it listed.
Yeah, phone company lady, are you confused too? You seemed almost as uncomfortable at my response to your call as I am to it, good. Yes, I understand that it's rather simple to configure the system to "flag" international calls; that's not the question, b****; why are you flagging them? You seem nervous, let me help you with that, just answer my damned question! I understand you have to obtain my permission to "review the records," well, not really, personal privacy is dead, but I like that you are concerned enough to blow smoke up my a**. NO, you do not have permission, but I'm going to be as evasive as you and keep at you until you tell ME what I want to know. Oh, you want to sell me an international calling plan. Um, yes, I have been making international calls. No, I'm not at all thrilled that you are watching that. No, I am not the slightest bit interested in whatever you are selling. Yes, quite, I am quite angry with you for sticking your fat ****in nose in my damned business, but even more dumbfounded that you are surprised about it.
Marketers, I'm old.
I remember a time before the internet. I recall when folks didn't require validation from outside their own self thus necessitating a pervasive, self-perpetuating, voyeur culture where everyone cries "look at me" and at the same time seeks to look at others. Get the **** out of my business. I know there's little I can do to prevent it, but we can arrive at a compromise, can't we? I know you are watching me, you sad, soulless, empty, corporate automatons with your Facebook page cataloging your pathetic, vapid lives, your smartphones supplanting living breathing humans as your friends and loaded with every app known to man to prevent you from possibly having to wipe your own a**, but just act, PRETEND, you are aren't. Don't call me. Don't text me. Don't offer to do things for me that you really have no business even knowing about in the first place, nor would I need you to do. I won't be receptive. I won't be happy. I am am going to reach into your soul, find whatever contrived sense of self worth your mommy and daddy and your loser teachers instilled in you with participation trophies and validating everything you ever regurgitated onto paper with a weakly-gripped, wandering crayon by posting it on the fridge and tear is from your chest. Get away from me, scooter.
In summation.
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