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My Business

Monkey Business

It's about me, but I wish it wasn't.

This page is about me, well--us if you count those other two. I prefer not to talk about them because frankly, they're more talented than me, and Mom loves them more.
My father is an accountant. My mother sells insurance.
They'd never say it, but they hate their jobs. I grew up seeing that a job is equivalent to slaving away. Upon discovering the advertising program, I became enamored with the idea of doing something that allows me to use put my personality and natural skillset. As far as dreams...I'm not sure--but I know I love what I'm doing right now and I want to keep doing it!

Aspiring Discipline: Copywriter

I pondered quite a bit about how I would present myself to the judge, jury, and executioner. Respectively those being Pat, Chris, and Jeff. It is a heavy responsibility to be my own advocate. How to go about this...I suppose i’ll present my whole self as described in antiquity. Welcome to my Mind, Body, and Soul.

The Mind

              I love my right brain, all the wacky thoughts it thinks and how much it kicks my left brain in the pants

           There is no better storyteller than my brain—and nobody screws them up quite like my mouth.

             I love how trying to capture an idea from my brain feels like grabbing a                                                                    speeding car from the Daytona 500 and putting it in my pocket.

             My mind is a dairy cow that I milk for all it’s worth 7 days a week and it still                                                         refills its wonderful udders with more. 

                                               I don’t know my minds relationship to the ether, but I know that they must                                                          be pals. I’m just glad the two decide to bring me along sometimes.

                                                 I love how quick things go up there—it’s like everyone travels by private jet, but o                                             only 6 years olds are allowed to drive.

                                                 I love how it makes ideas that it never intends to fin--

The Body 

I am 6’2 but I’m 6’3 when a pretty girl asks --It’s just high enough to see right over    every toilet stall and lock eyes with those in the mirror     

I have ears that stick out on either side --like 2 funnels, they cover a wide scope,          gathering all the noises I don’t want to hear. Like the sound of Sam Jorgensen                chewing an oddly textured burrito for at least              

45 minutes on the one day I forgot my airpods.            

I love my feet  and nails that sometimes become ingrown. Beauty is pain people.  .      

I love my hair and the follicles that are slowly dying. Whenever I run my fingers         

through my hair in the shower, it is a lovely reminder that my                     

father, and his father before him were hopelessly bald. These dying                      

follicles motivate me to date nice ladies before they                      

notice how terribly bald I will become.                      

    I love my smile, crooked and charismatic—the teeth therein have                    7

7 cavities, 1 Brazilian root canal followed thereafter by 1 American root canal                      I love my back that carries the weight of my potential.                           

—it even sprouts pimples and little hairs in odd places!                              

The Soul

I have achieved Nirvana three and a half times while listening to Simon and

Garfunkel sitting on park benches.

         My soul is at peace really, truly, and completely when I am watching a video of an                           orangutan eat a honkin' pile of lettuce.

        Whistling a showtune fills me with enough joy to power a small generator.

           The soundtrack of my soul is Willy Wonka and the Chocolate factory on VHS (and we                     don't talk about the boat scene...

              My soul is nourished and strengthened by buying a tube of Quaker Oats and splitting                    them 50/50 between myself, and my feathered brethren at the BYU duck pond.

                I sit in my car after work and turn on Frank Sinatra and belt his lines from my Ford                         Fusion longing to be an (Italian) superstar.

                     No Little Caeser's pizza can serve both my body and soul; for either it will hate the                        one, and love the other; or else he will hold to one, and despise the other.

Here, I used this to wipe
ink off of my shoes--I
write neat, but I copy sloppy.

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