I AM NOT A BRAND

I'm not an event-driven out-of-box experience for the aspirational ages. I'm not a product to be placed, pushed, soft launched, hard launched, or focus-grouped after a power lunch. I'm more than the sum of my metrics, my likes, my rates of converting, bouncing, clicking-through, or my number of fucking "followers". 

I'm not some multiple hyphenate jingoistic bit of chintz pushed by the Middle Man Class onto the perceived-to-be irrational great unwashed mass who don't need any more crap in their tiny apartments; let alone another dollar they owe racking up 100% interest on a mountain of debt unlikely to be climbed or collected, only leveraged to buy food and pay the electric, and maybe buy a few Snuggies™ off the TV for when they shut off the heat.

I'm no persona or demographic to be mousetrapped or re-targeted either. Your cookies and spiders and bots are all worthless. I'm chaos, Prometheus. Fuck it, I'll say it, I'm Jesus. Flipping over the tables stepping back throwing my arms out like "WHAT?"

Your big data analysis is not too big to fail, it's guaranteed to. Your Social Media Ninjas are virgins and your CCO's a shut-in who's socially anxious. Your CFO, as instructed by your CEO, is funneling your on-the-books earnings offshore so you don't have to pay to maintain the roads you drive to work on. But, naturally, he's secretly stashing the petty cash in his personal account in the Caymans 'cause he's great at his job. 
The Big Cheese feels like he's Mr. Big Stuff, a big man, too big to jail. But It's only a matter of time till your reckoning, I promise ya, boss. The only thing BIG about you is your hubris.

Status update: I am not a brand.

I'm not an impulse-buy at the Point of Sale by the Head of Household. I'm not Extraverted, Agreeable, Conscientious, and definitely not Emotionally Stable. You'd do well to get Open to the Experience of my defying your personality profiles. 

Resign yourself now to your future fate you creators of desire: like all parasitic symbiotes you will be absorbed by the cells of my body politic. I need you and you need me. I realize this. I'm an artist, not some kind of hippie.

I'm a maker, a digger, occasional leader and joiner, a liker, a laugher, a writer, a son. I'm a loafer, a luster, a once-a-week drunkard, an egotistical blowhard, an insecure misfit. I'm a giver and taker, I'm stardust, a dreamer, I'm X% water, I'm zero and one.
I'm particles entangled with atoms once shat out by Einstein while he came up with the phrase "spooky action at a distance".

I'm a Goddamned universe of contradictions expressed in the tiniest slice of a fraction of time; a fractal in motion, an aggregation of collections of instances of nearly impossible instants.

I'm not a brand. I'm a human being. 

I'm not a brand and neither are you. 

Anyone who tells you different is selling something.

{With a nod to the great George Carlin and great thanks to you, the reader, for allowing me some poetic license at the end of a long week. A side note to marketers: I realize I just gave you all you need to market to me effectively. See you when the next incredible new innovation in toothbrushes comes out.}