New Sudden Realisation.

Happiness just happens. Sadness, often is, a pattern.

Nothing more. I don't have to share bitter diatribes here every time, son. 

Don't Fall off the Horse. Do Not Fall off the...

Getting up on the horse is hard. But, what's harder? Getting back on that damned thing. Building momentum is hard. Losing it is easy. And, regaining it is even harder. Ask me. After a year of running and blogging every day, I'm here. I'm busier than before, but I know that's still an excuse. A good excuse but it's an excuse.

So, kids, please remember this. This blog will be back. I will be back in the running shoes. And, if you're trying to pick a habit, make sure you stick to it, cause once you lose your momentum, you are as good as done.  

Giving Up Gracefully.

Hey, man. How are you doing? You've come a long way. Way further than most people thought you would. Well, who gives four flying fucks about what people think? Anyway, you've got much further to go. You will get there. But let's talk about all the places you aren't going to get to. No, I am not talking about you working as a double agent or a spy. Or your dreams of being a professional gamer. It's about those other things. It's about the things you wanted to do with your life. The other side dreams. These beautiful sub-projects you had but...

But, you know these will be just mere thoughts. Or afterthoughts. Or daydreams inspired those who will be living your dreams. These are just fireflies in a jar. They will burn bright but they will die out. And, die, they must.

What will you do then? Grieve? Of course, why wouldn't you? But, don't grieve too much. It's not worth your time. You don't feel bad for not being the next Kimi Raikkonen. Or the next Misty Copeland. Cause you just weren't meant to do those things. Or be great in those ways. And, that is okay.

You are meant to be great in different ways. Your story will have a happy ending. But not every chapter of it will end happily. So, suck it up. It's okay, really. Besides, you will get where you have to far more quickly without carrying the baggage of broken dreams. Physics, right? Not your strong suit. I know that. But, its laws apply. To everything.

It Takes Little to be Happy.

This is just in...people in their 20s are irrevocably flaky, lose with their words and their morals and it can be tough to interact with them, to call them friends/family and more-soever to love them. The easy thing to do is to do is maintain safe distance. To not get attached. And, although it would do you good in the long run, I think, every once in a while, you have to be bold. You have to dare to actually give people an honest chance and try and love someone and then realise, 'Damn, it's 2015, self-driving cars are here. People worth loving? Nada.' But in such moments, dear reader, do not lose hope. Ludovico Einaudi, yes, your favourite classical pianist would do a flawless cover of your favourite pop song and you would realise all over again, 'Things will be fine.'

Carbs Are Bad. And So is Certainty.

Certainty is safe. Certainty is your comfort blanket. Certain keeps you on your usual day job. Certainty keeps you on the track. Certainty ensures you amount to something...but nothing great. Certainty stops you from breaking the mould and rebuilding your world. And in turn ours. So, head out now. Embrace the uncertainty that comes your way. Who knows apart from making you a little anxious and getting your heart to beat faster, it could perhaps lead you to greatness.

Keep Talking.

You can't talk to someone if they are just trying to make you guess what they have to say. 

Also, sometimes, it just makes sense to stay put then. 

Charles and Ray Eames Sum Up My Life.

Life is work is life is work is life.

And although that's not a healthy outlook. And yes, there's more to work than life, I think I like the sound of it. The spartan simplicity of the thought gives me comfort. Never mind the fact that I'd grow to loathe this line of thought eventually. 

The Best Bits from Louis CK's New Stand-up.

It's not my opinion, it's the truth. Louis CK is the best stand-up comic out there. He is one of those rare comedians who use observational humour to make you laugh and throw some light on what makes us human. So his jokes aren't basically about the things we do and the things that happen to us, he makes his act seem relevant in the larger scheme of things. Granted his new special 'Louis CK: Live at the Comedy Store' does not contain the fireworks from his previous specials, but when he does hit the right note, he completely nails it. Here's a glimpse of my favourite zingers.

'One of my hobbies is I collect dust.

That's the first joke from Jay London's opening act and with a start like that, you know you're in for something good. On a side note, although Jay's whole clueless comedian bit is a little hacky but he makes it work like a charm. Look him up.
'My baby was really upset on the plane, and this guy, some businessman on the plane, 'cause businessmen always think that every flight is a private plane of theirs that we're all, like, piggybacking on.

I love CK and his take on aviation.

'I was on a plane once and there was two babies on the plane. And other people, it wasn't just...It wasn't just me and two babies. That would be weird.

You can't imagine how off-the-wall the rest of the bit is.

'...Cause a dog dying is an opportunity to deal with death with your kids. It's like a dry run for Grandma.

On the death of his dog.

'Self love is a good thing, but self awareness is more important.

Can't really stress enough on something like. 

Your Confidence Should Have Nothing to Do With Your Body.

Ah, Amy Schumer. The second most-talked about female comic talents after Lena Dunham. She is surprisingly frank in her stand-ups. Opening about her brash sexual encounters the way you discuss the cafeteria food with your colleagues. Now she’s going to star in Judd Apatow’s next. What’s more, she even wrote it. Here’s her speech from the Gloria Awards Gala last night. And she speaks about something that’s actually both relevant to both guys and girls. She reveals how being slightly overweight made her doubt her own personality. Not her ability to seem attractive but her own confidence. Although body image and confidence are perceived to be problems that are exclusively female, I’m sure even guys doubt themselves because of their looks. Amy’s message that your looks shouldn't define how confident you feel is one both guys and girls should pay heed to.

*

Here I go, and if it doesn't go well, please just don't blog about it.

Right before I left for college, I was running my high school. Feel it. I knew where to park, I knew where to get the best chicken-cutlet sandwich, I knew which custodians had pot. People knew me. They liked me. I was an athlete and a good friend. I felt pretty, I felt funny, I felt sane. Then I got to college in Maryland. My school was voted number one ... for the hottest freshman girls inPlayboy that year. And not because of me. All of a sudden, being witty and charismatic didn't mean shit. Day after day, I could feel the confidence drain from my body. I was not what these guys wanted. They wanted thinner, blonder, dumber ... My sassy one-liners were only working on the cafeteria employees, who I was visiting all too frequently, tacking on not the Freshman 15, but the 30, in record-breaking time, which led my mother to make comments over winter break like, "You look healthy!" I was getting no male attention, and I'm embarrassed to say, it was killing me.

But one guy paid me some attention — Matt. Matt was six feet tall, he looked like a grown-up von Trapp child, and he was five years older than me. What?! An older boy, paying attention to me? I must be okay. Uff. I made him laugh in our bio lab, and I could tell a couple times that we had a vibe. He was a super senior, which is a sexy way of saying "should have graduated, but needed an extra year." He barely spoke, which was perfect for all the projecting I had planned for him. We grew up in the same town, and getting attention from him felt like success. When I would see him on campus, my heart would race, and I would smile as he passed. I'd look in the mirror and see all the blood rise to my face. I'd spend time analyzing the interaction, and planning my outfit for the next time I saw him. I wanted him to call. He never called. But then finally, he called.

It was 8 a.m., my dorm room phone rang. "Amy, wassup? It's Matt. Come over." Holy shit! This is it, I thought. He woke up thinking about me! He realized we're meant to start a life together! Let's just stop all this pretending that we weren't free just to love one another! I wondered, would we raise our kids in the town we both grew up in, or has he taken a liking to Baltimore? I don't care. I'll settle wherever he's most comfortable. Will he want to raise our kids Jewish? Who cares? I shaved my legs in the sink, I splashed some water under my armpits, and my randomly assigned Albanian roommate stared at me from under her sheets as I rushed around our shitty dorm room. I ran right over to his place, ready for our day together. What would we do? It's still early enough, maybe we're going fishing? Or maybe his mom's in town, and he wanted me to join them for breakfast. Knock-knock. Is he going to carry me over the threshold? I bet he's fixing his hair and telling his mom, "Be cool, this may bethe one!" I'll be very sweet with her, but assert myself, so she doesn't think she's completely in charge of all the holiday dinners we're going to plan together. I'll call her by her first name, too, so she knows she can't mess with me. "Rita! I'm going to make the green bean casserole this year, and that's that!" Knock-knock. Ring ring. Where is he?

Finally, the door opens. It's Matt, but not really. He's there, but not really. His face is kind of distorted, and his eyes seem like he can't focus on me. He's actually trying to see me from the side, like a shark. "Hey!" he yells, too loud, and gives me a hug, too hard. He's fucking wasted. I'm not the first person he thought of that morning. I'm the last person he called that night. I wonder, how many girls didn't answer before he got to fat freshman me? Am I in his phone as Schumer? Probably. But I was here, and I wanted to be held and touched and felt desired, despite everything. I wanted to be with him. I imagined us on campus together, holding hands, proving, "Look! I am lovable! And this cool older guy likes me!" I can't be the troll doll I'm afraid I've become.

He put on some music, and we got in bed. As that sexy maneuver where the guy pushes you on the bed, you know, like, "I'm taking the wheel on this one. Now I'm going to blow your mind," which is almost never followed up with anything. He smelled like skunk microwaved with cheeseburgers, which I planned on finding and eating in the bathroom, as soon as he was asleep. We tried kissing. His 9 a.m. shadow was scratching my face — I knew it'd look like I had fruit-punch mouth for days after. His alcohol-swollen mouth, I felt like I was being tongued by someone who had just been given Novocain. I felt faceless, and nameless. I was just a warm body, and I was freezing cold. His fingers poked inside me like they had lost their keys in there. And then came the sex, and I use that word very loosely. His penis was so soft, it felt like one of those de-stress things that slips from your hand? So he was pushing aggressively into my thigh, and during this failed penetration, I looked around the room to try and distract myself or God willing, disassociate. What's on the wall? A Scarfaceposter, of course. Mandatory. Anything else? That's it? This Irish-Catholic son of bank teller who played JV soccer and did Mathletes feels the most connection with a Cuban refugee drug lord. The place looked like it was decorated by an overeager set designer who took the note "temporary and without substance" too far.

He started to go down on me. That's ambitious, I think. Is it still considered getting head if the guy falls asleep every three seconds and moves his tongue like an elderly person eating their last oatmeal? Chelsea? Is it? Yes? It is. I want to scream for myself, "Get out of here, Amy. You are beautiful, you are smart, and worth more than this. This is not where you stay." I feel like Fantine and Cosette and every fucking sad French woman from Les Miz. And whoever that cat was who sang "Memories," what was that musical? Suze Orman just goes, "Cats." The only wetness between my legs is from his drool, because he's now sleeping and snoring into me. I sigh, I hear my own heartbreak, I fight back my own tears, and then I notice a change in the music. Is this just a bagpipe solo? I shake him awake. "Matt, what is this? The Braveheart soundtrack? Can you put something else on, please?" He wakes up grumpily, falls to the floor, and crawls. I look at his exposed butt crack, a dark, unkempt abyss that I was falling into. I felt paralyzed. His asshole is a canyon, and this was my 127 Hours. I might chew my arm off.

I could feel I was losing myself to this girl in this bed. He stood up and put a new CD on. "Darling, you send me, I know you send me, honest, you do ..." I'm thinking, "What is this?" He crawled back into bed, and tried to mash at this point his third ball into my vagina. On his fourth thrust, he gave up and fell asleep on my breast. His head was heavy and his breath was so sour, I had to turn my head so my eyes didn't water. But they were watering anyway, because of this song. Who is this? This is so beautiful. I've never heard these songs before. They're gutting me. The score attached to our morning couldn't have been more off. His sloppy, tentative lovemaking was certainly not in the spirit of William Wallace. And now the most beautiful love songs I've ever heard play out as this man-boy laid in my arms, after diminishing me to a last-minute booty call. I listened to the songs and I cried. I was looking down at myself from the ceiling fan. What happened to this girl? How did she get here? I felt the fan on my skin and I went, "Oh, wait! I am this girl! We got to get me out of here!" I became my own fairy godmother. I waited until the last perfect note floated out, and escaped from under him and out the door. I never heard from Matt again, but felt only grateful for being introduced to my new self, a girl who got her value from within her. I'm also grateful to Matt for introducing me to my love Sam Cooke, who I'm still with today.

Now I feel strong and beautiful. I walk proudly down the streets of Manhattan. The people I love, love me. I make the funniest people in the country laugh, and they are my friends. I am a great friend and an even better sister. I have fought my way through harsh criticism and death threats for speaking my mind. I am alive, like the strong women in this room before me. I am a hot-blooded fighter and I am fearless. But I did morning radio last week, and a DJ asked, "Have you gained weight? You seem chunkier to me. You should strike while the iron is hot, Amy." And it's all gone. In an instant, it's all stripped away. I wrote an article for Men's Health and was so proud, until I saw instead of using my photo, they used one of a 16-year-old model wearing a clown nose, to show that she's hilarious. But those are my words. What about who I am, and what I have to say? I can be reduced to that lost college freshman so quickly sometimes, I want to quit. Not performing, but being a woman altogether. I want to throw my hands in the air, after reading a mean Twitter comment, and say, "All right! You got it. You figured me out. I'm not pretty. I'm not thin. I do not deserve to use my voice. I'll start wearing a burqa and start waiting tables at a pancake house. All my self-worth is based on what you can see." But then I think, Fuck that. I am not laying in that freshman year bed anymore ever again. I am a woman with thoughts and questions and shit to say. I say if I'm beautiful. I say if I'm strong. You will not determine my story — I will. I will speak and share and fuck and love and I will never apologize to the frightened millions who resent that they never had it in them to do it. I stand here and I am amazing, for you. Not because of you. I am not who I sleep with. I am not my weight. I am not my mother. I am myself. And I am all of you, and I thank you.

Speech excerpted from Vulture.com

The Millennial Work Ethic Conundrum.

I am actually a millennial myself. So, hold your horses before you call me a geyser. Besides, this isn't another 'The olden days were the golden days' type post. I want to talk about some of the problems I've observed in my millenial co-workers. 

The first bit - money. Us millenials had it easy. It's not really our fault. Every generation gets a better life than the one they precede. So, yes, the internet's first generation had a lot of things handed to them for free. And, they grew up with a sense of entitlement. So when they step into an office, they expect big bucks even before proving their mettle.

The entry-level salaries in advertising and media are beyond pathetic. So, if by any means a 20-something manages to overlook this major inconvenience, they have to start putting in major hours. That's exactly what a life in advertising demands. Any writer worth his salt will tell you that quality comes from quantity.

 I am the defacto guy for training juniors, interns and trainees. I share with them the same advice Luke Sullivan gave to Sally Hogshead. Which is, for every headline you need, write a 100 options. Sounds a lot? It isn’t. 

My first boss, an old hand made me do it. I scoffed at him. Gave him some 10 odd options and patted myself on the back. Then, I came across Sally Hogshead online. And guess what, she did listen to her boss Luke Sullivan and did write a 100 headlines. Here’s some of the ‘ground-work’ she put in for BMW before writing some award-winning ads. Eventually I followed suit and 2 awards later, I'm better for it. The grind will do you good, my 20-something friends.

100 Headlines by Sally Hogshead from School of Visual Concepts

The problem I feel with millennials is that they don’t want to put in that much work. They feel that their salaries should merit the amount of hard work expected of them. What they don’t realize is writers are paid for their writing skills. And these skills improve, the more often you write. Most newbies in advertising only write a couple of options. They think it's beyond them to churn out a 100. And this pisses off a lot of seniors. I've myself been a little put off by the amount of effort it takes to get some juniors to put in some real effort.

So, if you are just starting off, remember this golden rule of writing.

Now, if you will excuse me I have to make my juniors see the merit of writing more every time they need to write.

PS: I usually prefer Dorothy Parker’s version – ‘Writing = ass in the chair.’

Without Consistency, You'd Get Nowhere.

I nearly bleeping did it. For 5 days in a row, in an advertising workweek, I ran every single day. It sounds a little exaggerated. And to a certain degree it is. But after days of trying, I managed to get up early every day. Even on days when I was burning the midnight oil in office, I pulled myself together for a run. And then as usual shit went wrong. Went out with my colleagues after a particularly long day at work, had a commitment to keep on the wrong side of town in the morning and I couldn't run. Aaaargh.

The point to remember is, we need rituals. Rituals dictate rhythm. Rhythm builds momentum. And with momentum on your side, anything's possible. With that, I hope to call it a night and try and run 7 days in a row this coming week.

Why You Should Really Listen to the Quiet Ones.

I work in marketing and communications. You know that by now. Which means I'm basically 24/7 surrounded by individuals who love the sound of their own voice. Individuals who mistake the sheer volume at which they share opinions for the value of their opinions. The sad part being such bombastic, overtly confident souls do get heard. Both clients and management regard their confidence. The problem being more than often that the most confident people in a room are indeed the least knowledgable ones. I'm not making this up. There's research to back it up. People who study a topic in-depth feel there's so much they still don't know. This, in turn, stifles their confidence and their speech. So the loud mouths step in.They interrupt those gentle unsure souls who whisper words of wisdom.

So, do this the next time you are in a meeting. See that shy colleague making doodles, looking up at the bombastic project manager whenever he sets up an unrealistic goal? Bring the meeting to a halt. A small break, if you will. Take your shy colleague in confidence, ask what they think. When they open up, reveal their point to the entire team. Give them a channel to amplify their voice. Give them a chance to shut that loudmouth up. Rescue your team from the man whose inflated sense self clouds his objectivity.

Misinterpreting Conflict.

Far too often you will try to run away from conflict. Be it at work or in life. You would hold your breath, bite your tongue, nod peacefully even when you want to bang your hand on the table and denounce the world. You, after all, don't want to disagree. Or be the Devil's Advocate.

So you play along instead. Help make the case for consensus. But by avoiding conflict you are dismissing any possibility of making the end result better, So, why not try and get others to see the bright side of conflicts?

Why not ask them that instead of actively focusing on the antagonistic and disagreeable part of conflicts, we could step back for a moment, and really see conflicts as springboards. Opportunities for interaction and understanding. A chance for dialogue. A chance to make a more rounded discussion where all points are considered.

Now of course like everything else, this is easier said than done. But isn't it time that poor conflict got its much deserved makeover. One that will see it not as an unwanted visitor in a conference room but as that avuncular presence who makes all family gatherings seem bearable.

Rituals Matter.

They keep you in line. They remind you what you really need to do when you have too much to do. With grace and  commitment, a ritual eventually becomes a rhythm. A heightened balance that sees you accomplish the goals you set for yourself.

Rituals ensure that when you set up challenging goals like blogging every day , you don't do it while battling heavy eye lids that crave sleep. You do it at a fixed time every day. Otherwise you just end up losing steam. Your line of thought goes awry and then you just....zzzz.

Life. Let's Keep It Simple.

A good life motto: Seek simple pleasures. Pursue big goals.

Whether you admit it or not, one time or the other you will find yourself in this race. To make more money. To see more things. To have more things. To get more likes on your last Instagram. To have more 'check-ins' than your friends. And if you fall into the giant mass that they call the Indian middle class, a good deal of your time will be spent in trying to make money. All I can say to you is don't. 

Instead of trying to get richer, focus on having a richer life. The former is tough and often achievable. The latter far more simpler and far more satisfying. 

We were in this discussion at office for a rather boho lifestyle brand. And we all agreed, you don't need a lot of money to be happy. I think I'm irreconcilably minimalist. I like movies that are economical in their shot lengths. I like writers with precision in their prose. Except you McEwan, you do your thing. I like it when musicians go on daring solos but I know exactly when they have worn out their welcome. 

So, the pleasures I seek are quite simple too. Dipping my feet at the beach with the sand beneath me playing hide and seek with my toes. A well-made movie. A well-composed song. Yes, Florence Welch, I'm talking to you. A photo that leaves my knees caked with dirt, my neck strained and my heart, completely occupied. 

These are just some of the little things that make me really happy. So, tell me, what little things make you happy?

We Should All Sing a Little More.

I got a new job. It has stretched my already long commute by 20 minutes or so.  To top it, my folks are out of town. So I have to shoulder a whole new bunch of  'domestic' responsibilities now. All this doesn't help make my morning mood better. Not that I was ever an early morning person. I firmly believe that all morning-loving people should be gathered and made to live on Antarctica. (Will add to my To-Do List once I become the emperor of the world.)

But this doesn't concern that. It actually concerns a janitor who works on the washroom of our office's floor. Every morning when I step in to just splash some water on my face, I see him. Actually I hear him. Scrubbing the loo, rinsing the sink. All the while humming a jolly tune. Just a crinkle of a smile on his lips.

Not that he's a good singer or anything but he sort of shut me up for good. I mean at least my whiny interior monologue. I used to sing a lot too. Not aloud. Well, not aloud all the time, at least. I still hum to myself while commuting or while just doing random chores. It's just something I do. It lifts my spirits. Actually even research shows that singing helps you be healthy. May be it's the kind of shitty Yo Yo Honey Singh music being doled out today or the fact only EDM gets any acclaim that I don't have anything to sing to. But it's true, I haven't been singing much.

So I swear today to sing. To sing as often as I can. To inflict upon the world my off-key croaky drone. Because if the janitor on my floor has something to sing about, we all sure as hell can find something to sing about too.

How to Stop Peeping Toms from Looking at Your Cell Phones.

Works like a charm every time. Although the middle aged man next to me said he was only peeping because he was checking out the Swype keypad on my phone. Maybe that's one less guilty suspect but I have seen guys with Swype on their phones peep into my phone. So yes, you are better off with this trick.

Thanks for All the Effort, Sonakshi.

I just saw Lootera - the much-hyped, much-hated, deserved-to-tank film everyone was crazy about. It's a decent enough film but it would have worked better had it been a painting. It's filled with beautiful pictures alright. There are shots where snow just magically trickles down on the actors (actors, not characters) and the beauty and technique of it reminds me of the way raindrops fell in Raavan. There's also this bit about how these two lovers at the heart of the film meet during in the summer of their youth in rural Bengal and after heartbreak and years of growing older, possibly wiser reunite in the cold winters of Dalhousie. Nice touch, that. Oh there are nice touches dime-a-dozen in Lootera but where it implacably fails is in the acting prowess of its leads.

Ranveer Singh does his best or at least there's a modicum of effort involved but Sonakshi Sinha doesn't even put the slightest amount  of strain on her vocal cords. This is the first film of hers which I have seen and no, thanks, I will not watch Dabangg unless it's played on a long-distance bus and I can't jump off. This woman has already acted in two hundred crore grossing films but I fail to think that it was her acting that delivered the numbers. Here she struggles on every note. Her anger is measured and far worse is her coughing. You see she plays a character called Pakhi who's fighting a losing battle with asthma. Now I have some firsthand experience with asthma. I had my father ferry me to the hospital at 2 in the morning thanks to it. Its stopped me from bagging even a single certificate albeit the participatory ones when it comes to athletics. It has seen me up at nights, gasping for breath, praying that my parents won't wake up and I won't miss college the next day.

Then I see Sonakshi huff and puff here with asthma. By jove, she not only is a disgrace to acting but to the mere act of coughing too. Put your lungs in it, lady. It's not that hard. Am not expecting you to do something as complicated as Holly Hunter in Broadcast News. No punching yourself in the stomach and saying, 'Damn it, he's only a guy.' I just want you to cough and pant like your life depended on it. 

The very casual way in which Pakhi's affliction is portrayed and how Sonakshi hams her way through it shows a major flaw with films in general. In cinema, diseases and the death that follows are used as an easy crutch to take the plot forward. No room for any poignant journeys to the end of the road. This is asthma we are talking about and it had me raging. Makes me wonder how cancer survivors must be seething when they see a cancer patient make magical recoveries after finding love. So yeah, if someone does die in a film I write, it won't be for shock and awe. It would be for a reason. To pardon the delusions of my grandeur, I would do it to highlight an aspect of the human condition. And no matter how I choose to portray death and disease in any work of mine, it would be far more moving than Sonakshi Sinha's half-assed coughing in Lootera.

There's a Little of Me in Mumbai. There's a Little of Mumbai in Me.

By all means live in Mumbai. Live here for a few years. Hate the rains. Hate the traffic. Hate the Mallus, the Marathis, the Bihairis, the Punjus and the Gujaratis. Start hating the city. Even then you would still stay here. And if you ever do, I will tip my hat to you. Here's to not living in the best city in the world. Here's to living in the only city in the world, I can call home.

What if Salesmen Said No?

So I did something I don't do very often. I went shopping. Picked a slightly tacky looking shirt off the rack just to confirm my suspicion if it was just colourful or plain tacky. In comes a salesman who tells me that it was the colour of the season. That I really could pull it off. That it has been selling like hot cakes. That I should buy it because it's slightly loud and how loud was now the order of the day. Just to mess with him I picked up another really loud shirt and asked for his opinion. He reacted by telling me that this was actually a far better choice than the one I made before.

I then politely declined his sartorial advice and walked out. Only wondering if a salesman were to walk up to you and told you that a certain piece of clothing didn't become you - that there were alternatives, better ones, he would gladly introduce you too. Would you listen? Would you even make a purchase due to this honest human customer experience?