Apparently, Even the Universe Thinks I Need Better Marketing

November 7, 2026 — A Cancer Horoscope, the Exhausting Business of Selling Yourself, and Why I Refuse to Become a Walking Advertisement

I woke up expecting the usual assortment of cosmic nonsense. Maybe Mercury would be responsible for my inability to find matching socks. Perhaps Venus would encourage me to open my heart, which is astrology's polite way of telling me to lower my standards. Or maybe Saturn would advise patience, something I generally interpret as the universe asking me to tolerate another twenty-four hours of people who should have come with instruction manuals. Instead, I encountered a horoscope telling Cancer to do some self-marketing. Wonderful. Apparently, the planets have reviewed my performance, found my personal brand lacking, and decided I need to improve my visibility.

I wasn't aware that the universe had hired a marketing consultant. I certainly don't remember approving the expense. But here we are, living in an age when even a collection of celestial bodies supposedly located millions or billions of miles away has decided that my biggest problem is insufficient self-promotion. Not kindness. Not wisdom. Not figuring out why everything requires a subscription. No, what I really need is to get out there, shake some hands, advertise my talents, and convince strangers that I'm an exceptional investment opportunity. I suppose tomorrow the moon will recommend a premium LinkedIn membership.

The horoscope, published for November 7, 2026, encourages Cancer to pay attention to community events, introduce themselves, and explore conversations that could lead to future opportunities. It also suggests avoiding premature commitments and observing how one's expertise might be put to good use. On paper, this is perfectly reasonable advice. In practice, however, it raises a question that has been bothering me for years: When exactly did being a human being become a full-time public relations assignment?

I remember a time when having a personality was sufficient. You developed interests, learned things, maintained friendships, and occasionally demonstrated competence without feeling compelled to issue a press release. If you were good at something, people eventually noticed. If you weren't, you kept practicing or found something else to do. Nobody suggested that your inability to attract opportunity was the result of poor audience engagement. You simply lived your life, and your life wasn't expected to function as a promotional campaign.

Now even my horoscope seems disappointed that I'm not networking aggressively enough. Imagine looking into the infinite mystery of existence and concluding that the proper response is to update your professional biography.

The Stars Have Apparently Discovered LinkedIn

There's something deeply amusing about astrology adopting the language of corporate development. For thousands of years, human beings have looked toward the heavens in search of meaning, reassurance, guidance, and answers to questions that earthly experience couldn't easily resolve. Ancient civilizations studied planetary movements. Philosophers debated whether the cosmos reflected some hidden order. Poets imagined stars whispering secrets about love, destiny, and mortality.

And in 2026, the universe allegedly wants me to work on my elevator pitch.

That's quite a journey for civilization.

I can almost imagine the meeting. Mercury opens a presentation explaining that Cancer's visibility metrics are underperforming. Jupiter expresses concern about untapped networking opportunities. Venus recommends a more approachable personal brand, while Saturn insists on measurable quarterly objectives. Somewhere in the background, Pluto is quietly preparing another restructuring initiative, because apparently even dwarf planets understand how management works.

The recommendation to engage in self-marketing is especially entertaining because Cancer is traditionally portrayed as an emotionally sensitive, home-oriented sign. Cancer supposedly values security, close relationships, loyalty, and the comfort of familiar surroundings. This is the zodiac sign associated with retreating into its shell when the outside world becomes overwhelming. And now we're being advised to attend community events and promote ourselves to people we haven't met.

That's like telling a turtle to become a motivational speaker.

I can picture the typical Cancer reading this advice while sitting comfortably at home, wrapped in a blanket, enjoying a quiet morning, and wondering why the universe suddenly expects a networking luncheon. The poor creature hasn't even finished breakfast, and already the stars are demanding increased public engagement.

Of course, I understand that astrological descriptions aren't scientifically established personality profiles. The idea that people born during a particular period share predetermined emotional characteristics because of distant celestial arrangements doesn't withstand serious scrutiny. But that doesn't mean I can't appreciate the entertainment value of an imaginary cosmic authority dispensing career advice with the confidence of a consultant who bills by the hour.

In fact, that's part of what makes horoscopes fascinating. They're an impressive demonstration of how successfully ordinary advice can be repackaged as extraordinary insight. Tell someone to meet new people, remain open to opportunities, and avoid making impulsive decisions, and you've delivered a perfectly respectable piece of common sense. Tell them the stars have arranged themselves in a way that favors these activities, and suddenly the same advice sounds like privileged information from the universe.

I have to admire the marketing. Especially because today's subject is marketing.

Apparently, Existing Is No Longer Enough

The phrase "self-marketing" deserves some examination because it reveals something peculiar about contemporary society. Marketing, by definition, involves presenting something in a way that attracts attention, generates interest, and persuades an audience of its value. Companies market products. Politicians market policies. Entertainers market performances. Entire industries exist to persuade people that ordinary objects are essential components of personal fulfillment.

But when did the individual person become another product on the shelf?

I understand the practical argument. People compete for jobs, clients, promotions, recognition, and opportunities. Talent doesn't automatically guarantee success. Sometimes the person who speaks confidently about mediocre accomplishments receives more attention than the quiet individual doing exceptional work. Visibility matters, relationships matter, and learning to communicate one's abilities can produce tangible benefits.

I'm not disputing that reality.

What bothers me is how comfortably we've accepted the idea that our personal worth must constantly be packaged, displayed, and sold.

I see people turning every ordinary experience into proof of professional growth. They don't simply read a book; they share five leadership lessons from it. They don't take a walk; they discover an unexpected metaphor for organizational resilience. They don't experience disappointment; they publish a carefully structured reflection about embracing adversity and transforming setbacks into scalable opportunities.

I sometimes wonder whether anyone is still allowed to have a bad afternoon without converting it into a personal development seminar.

Imagine dropping your groceries in a parking lot and immediately thinking about how the experience could improve your professional image. Rather than collecting the oranges rolling beneath nearby vehicles, you begin composing a post about perseverance, adaptability, and maintaining composure during unexpected logistical challenges.

"Today, I learned that leadership isn't about avoiding obstacles. It's about picking up oranges."

Please. Just pick up the oranges.

Not every experience contains a leadership lesson. Not every emotion needs to become content. Not every accomplishment requires documentation, and not every conversation should be approached as a potential business opportunity.

Sometimes I want to meet another human being without calculating whether the interaction might contribute to my long-term strategic objectives. Sometimes I want to enjoy a community event because the food is decent, the atmosphere is pleasant, and nobody has mentioned the phrase "personal brand."

Apparently, according to the horoscope, I'm overlooking valuable opportunities.

Forgive me, Jupiter. I was busy enjoying myself.

Networking: The Art of Pretending Every Conversation Has a Purpose

The horoscope's encouragement to attend community events sounds innocent enough until I remember what networking has become. Networking was once a relatively straightforward concept. People met one another, exchanged ideas, developed relationships, and occasionally discovered that their interests or professional needs overlapped. There wasn't necessarily anything calculating about it.

Now the word frequently conjures images of name tags, rehearsed introductions, forced enthusiasm, and conversations in which everyone seems to be waiting for the appropriate moment to explain what they do for a living.

I've attended enough events to recognize the familiar choreography. Someone approaches, smiles with suspicious determination, and asks what brings me there. Before I can answer, they're explaining their business model, professional journey, and exciting new initiative. Their eyes occasionally drift toward the room, checking whether someone more strategically useful has entered the conversation.

I don't necessarily blame them. We've created an environment that encourages this behavior. People are told that success depends on putting themselves out there, building connections, and maximizing their exposure. If they aren't constantly meeting new people, they're supposedly missing opportunities that more ambitious individuals will seize.

The result is a society where even casual conversation can begin to resemble a sales appointment.

I don't want to spend an afternoon wondering whether someone genuinely enjoys talking to me or simply considers me a promising addition to their professional network. I also don't want to feel obligated to describe myself as a dynamic, results-oriented individual with a demonstrated passion for excellence.

I'm a person. Sometimes I'm interesting. Sometimes I'm tired. Occasionally, I know what I'm talking about. Other times, I spend ten minutes searching for something I'm already holding.

That's a reasonably accurate professional summary.

If anyone wants to know more, they're welcome to ask.

The irony is that genuine relationships often develop when people stop trying so hard to impress one another. I find individuals more memorable when they're relaxed enough to admit uncertainty, laugh at themselves, or express an opinion that hasn't been professionally sanitized.

Someone telling me about an embarrassing mistake they made is often more compelling than someone delivering a flawless account of their remarkable accomplishments.

Perfection is exhausting company.

Yet modern self-promotion frequently rewards the appearance of certainty. Everyone is building something, optimizing something, transforming something, or disrupting something. Nobody seems willing to admit that they're just trying to make it through the week without losing their patience in the grocery store.

I would probably attend more networking events if honesty were permitted.

"Hello, I'm here because there was free food, and I thought leaving the house might be good for me."

Now there's an introduction I can respect.

The Personal Brand Industrial Complex

I have a particular affection for the expression "personal brand," mostly because it manages to reduce the extraordinary complexity of human identity to something resembling a breakfast cereal.

A brand is supposed to be recognizable, consistent, and easy to understand. A person, on the other hand, is frequently contradictory, unpredictable, and difficult to summarize. We change our minds. We develop new interests. We discover uncomfortable truths about ourselves. We occasionally behave in ways that surprise even the people who know us best.

That's not a branding problem. That's being alive.

Yet personal branding advice frequently encourages people to identify their unique value proposition, develop a recognizable voice, and maintain a consistent public identity. In other words, take your complicated humanity, simplify it into something marketable, and make sure nobody sees anything that might confuse the audience.

I find that depressing.

I don't particularly want to be consistent enough to function as a commercial product. I want the freedom to change my mind when presented with better information. I want to enjoy things that don't fit neatly into a professional category. I want to be serious about important matters and ridiculous about unimportant ones, sometimes within the same conversation.

I don't want to wonder whether expressing an unexpected opinion will damage the carefully cultivated perception of myself that I've supposedly been developing.

The pressure to create a marketable identity also encourages people to confuse attention with significance. If enough strangers recognize you, follow you, or engage with your content, the assumption is that you've achieved something meaningful.

But visibility isn't the same as value.

A man standing in a supermarket screaming about imaginary conspiracies may attract an enormous amount of attention. That doesn't make him an intellectual authority. A person with thousands of online followers may be utterly incapable of sustaining a meaningful conversation. Meanwhile, someone quietly volunteering at a food pantry might have an immeasurably greater impact on the lives of actual human beings.

The difference is that one kind of contribution produces measurable engagement, while the other produces something less convenient for an algorithm.

I'm not opposed to promoting legitimate accomplishments. If someone has written a book, created a business, developed a useful skill, or produced something worth sharing, I hope they find an audience. Recognition can be deserved, rewarding, and sometimes necessary.

But I resist the suggestion that every individual should spend an increasing portion of life managing the public perception of the individual instead of actually being that individual.

At some point, the packaging starts consuming the product.

Cancer, Come Out of Your Shell. Apparently, There's a Sales Quota.

I have to admit that the astrological symbolism makes this particular horoscope unusually amusing. Cancer is represented by the crab, an animal equipped with a protective shell and a remarkable commitment to minding its own business.

The crab doesn't spend its afternoon explaining its unique professional strengths to passing marine life. It doesn't assemble a five-year visibility strategy. It doesn't approach a lobster and ask whether they'd be interested in collaborating on an exciting initiative.

It goes about being a crab.

There is something admirable about that.

If the crab wants to move sideways, it moves sideways. If it encounters danger, it retreats. If it needs to defend itself, it possesses equipment considerably more persuasive than a motivational speech.

I suspect the crab would regard the entire concept of personal branding as an unnecessary complication of an otherwise manageable existence.

And perhaps that's why the instruction feels so wonderfully absurd. The sign most associated with emotional protection is being encouraged to step into the social marketplace and announce its value.

It's almost as though the universe has decided that privacy is a character defect.

I don't believe that for a moment.

Some people genuinely enjoy meeting strangers, speaking publicly, and participating in large social gatherings. Others prefer smaller circles, quieter activities, and opportunities that don't require constant interpersonal performance. Neither approach is inherently superior.

The problem begins when one personality style becomes the assumed standard for ambition.

We've developed a strange tendency to treat extroversion as evidence of confidence and quietness as something requiring correction. People who speak frequently are often perceived as leaders, while people who listen carefully may have to work harder to demonstrate their abilities.

I've encountered loud individuals with remarkably little to contribute and quiet individuals whose observations completely changed my understanding of a situation.

Volume, as it turns out, is not a reliable measurement of intelligence.

Neither is visibility.

A person shouldn't have to become the loudest individual in the room to deserve recognition. There should be room in society for expertise that doesn't announce itself through a microphone.

If Cancer wants to come out of its shell, wonderful. But perhaps the rest of us should stop treating the shell as evidence that something has gone wrong.

Sometimes protection is wisdom.

Sometimes privacy is peace.

And sometimes a person simply doesn't feel like attending another event where strangers ask what they do before asking who they are.

The Curious Business of Selling Authenticity

One of the great contradictions of modern self-marketing is that everyone seems determined to appear authentic while carefully managing every aspect of how they're perceived.

We're encouraged to be genuine, provided our genuineness is appealing, professionally appropriate, emotionally engaging, and unlikely to upset potential customers.

That's not authenticity. That's customer service wearing casual clothes.

I find it fascinating how quickly spontaneous behavior becomes a strategy once someone discovers it attracts attention. An individual shares an honest story, people respond positively, and suddenly an entire content calendar emerges around vulnerability.

The next thing you know, someone is delivering a presentation about how to monetize their authentic personal journey.

What began as an honest human experience becomes a repeatable marketing formula.

There's nothing wrong with telling personal stories. Some of the most meaningful writing comes from people who are willing to expose uncertainty, regret, or failure. But genuine expression usually begins with something a person needs to say, not a calculation about how effectively it might perform.

I think people can sense that distinction, even if they can't always explain it.

When someone speaks honestly, their imperfections often make them more compelling. They hesitate. They reconsider. They reveal contradictions. They occasionally say something awkward because real thoughts don't always arrive in polished sentences.

Manufactured authenticity behaves differently. It tends to arrive neatly packaged, accompanied by carefully chosen emotional details and a conclusion designed to make the audience feel inspired.

I don't need every conversation to inspire me.

Sometimes I'd settle for someone telling the truth.

And if I ever become so concerned with my personal image that I begin rehearsing moments of supposed spontaneity, I hope someone has the decency to interrupt me.

Preferably with a blunt reminder that I am not a corporation.

The Universe Is Giving Advice That Applies to Everybody

Another interesting feature of this horoscope is how universally applicable its advice becomes once you remove the zodiac label.

Meet people. Explore possibilities. Don't rush commitments. Observe before deciding. Look for opportunities to apply your abilities.

Who exactly wouldn't benefit from considering those suggestions?

A Gemini could use that advice. So could a Virgo, a Capricorn, or a person who doesn't know their zodiac sign and has no intention of finding out.

In fact, I suspect I could give the same guidance to a room containing twelve different astrological signs and receive enthusiastic agreement from most of the audience.

That's part of the enduring appeal of horoscopes. They frequently present broad, adaptable observations that readers can connect to their own experiences. A prediction about an approaching opportunity may feel accurate when a colleague mentions a job opening. A warning about tension might seem prophetic after an unpleasant conversation. A suggestion to remain patient can become meaningful whenever life refuses to cooperate.

The human mind is extraordinarily skilled at finding connections.

We remember the predictions that seem relevant and overlook the ones that don't. We interpret ambiguous language through the circumstances of our own lives. Sometimes we discover legitimate personal insights in material that wasn't specifically written for us.

None of this requires the planets to exercise supernatural influence.

I don't begrudge anyone the pleasure of reading a horoscope. Life contains enough disappointment without demanding that every harmless source of amusement pass a rigorous scientific examination. If someone enjoys contemplating the symbolism of their zodiac sign while drinking morning coffee, I'm not interested in taking that small pleasure away.

But I do enjoy questioning the authority we sometimes grant ordinary advice simply because it arrives wrapped in mystical language.

If a stranger approached me on the sidewalk and announced that I needed to market myself more effectively, I would probably keep walking.

If the same suggestion appears beneath a Cancer horoscope, however, it's suddenly presented as part of a celestial forecast.

The difference is apparently several billion stars and a newspaper heading.

That's impressive branding.

Maybe the Real Problem Is That Nobody Wants to Be Invisible

Beneath all the jokes about horoscopes and networking lies something I find genuinely worth considering.

Most people want to be recognized.

Not necessarily admired by millions of strangers. Not necessarily celebrated, followed, or turned into public figures. They simply want some assurance that their efforts matter and that their presence makes a difference.

I understand that feeling.

Nobody enjoys working hard while watching less capable individuals receive the recognition. Nobody wants to contribute something worthwhile and have it disappear without acknowledgment. And nobody wants to believe that their potential will remain permanently undiscovered because they weren't sufficiently skilled at attracting attention.

There is real frustration in being overlooked.

That's why advice about self-promotion can resonate so strongly. It offers a practical response to the uncomfortable possibility that competence alone isn't enough.

Perhaps you need to speak up.

Perhaps you need to introduce yourself.

Perhaps you need to stop assuming that other people will automatically understand what you can contribute.

Those are reasonable conclusions.

But I think there's an important difference between making yourself visible and making visibility your purpose.

I can share my work without turning my identity into an advertising campaign. I can introduce myself without rehearsing a sales pitch. I can acknowledge my accomplishments without pretending that every ordinary success represents an extraordinary triumph.

Most importantly, I can recognize that being overlooked doesn't automatically mean I've failed to market myself.

Sometimes institutions reward the wrong people. Sometimes opportunity is distributed unfairly. Sometimes luck matters more than anyone wants to admit. And sometimes exceptional individuals remain unnoticed because the world isn't nearly as effective at identifying merit as we'd like to believe.

The self-marketing industry doesn't always emphasize those possibilities because they're inconvenient.

It's easier to tell people that success depends on their willingness to promote themselves. That explanation preserves the comforting illusion that outcomes are primarily determined by individual effort.

If nobody notices your talent, improve your messaging.

If your work goes unrewarded, expand your network.

If you're struggling professionally, optimize your personal brand.

And if those strategies fail, perhaps purchase another course explaining what you did wrong.

Conveniently, someone is always available to sell you the solution.

The Advice I Actually Like

For all my amusement at the horoscope's corporate vocabulary, I do appreciate one important element of its message: the suggestion not to rush into commitments.

Now that's advice I can support.

I think people frequently make decisions too quickly because they confuse opportunity with obligation. Someone offers a possibility, and we immediately feel pressure to respond enthusiastically. We worry that hesitation will be interpreted as weakness or that taking time to consider something will cause the chance to disappear.

But not every open door leads somewhere worth going.

Sometimes an opportunity is simply another person's problem looking for a volunteer.

I've learned that enthusiasm can be expensive. It's easy to agree to something while imagining the benefits and overlooking the responsibilities. The invitation sounds attractive, the people seem friendly, and the possibilities feel exciting. Only later do you discover that your promising new opportunity involves unpaid labor, endless meetings, and the privilege of answering messages from someone who believes every minor inconvenience constitutes an emergency.

Suddenly, the stars don't seem quite so generous.

I would rather understand what I'm agreeing to before making promises. I want to know whether a commitment fits my priorities, whether the people involved are trustworthy, and whether the anticipated benefits justify the time and energy required.

That's not pessimism.

That's experience.

The horoscope's recommendation to observe before committing is perhaps its most valuable component. It encourages curiosity without demanding immediate participation. It leaves room for discernment.

And I think we could use more of that.

We've become so enthusiastic about celebrating action that thoughtful hesitation sometimes gets mistaken for insecurity. People are told to seize opportunities, move decisively, take risks, and pursue their dreams with relentless determination.

Very inspiring.

But occasionally, the smartest thing I can do is decline an invitation and spend the afternoon doing something I actually enjoy.

I don't need to turn every possibility into a project.

I Refuse to Become My Own Commercial Break

If the stars genuinely wanted to help me, I can think of several subjects more deserving of cosmic intervention than my marketing abilities.

Perhaps they could explain why ordinary customer service has become an elaborate obstacle course. Maybe they could reveal why companies keep redesigning perfectly functional websites until nobody can locate anything. Or perhaps the planets could devote some attention to the mystery of how a restaurant can charge increasingly impressive prices while steadily reducing the amount of food it serves.

Those seem like worthwhile celestial priorities.

Instead, I'm being encouraged to promote myself.

I suppose I could begin by creating an advertising campaign.

I could develop a slogan that emphasizes my strongest qualities. Something like, "Reasonably Competent, Occasionally Pleasant, and Unavailable for Unnecessary Meetings."

I could establish a professional website featuring carefully selected photographs of myself looking thoughtful near books I may or may not have finished reading.

I could publish testimonials from people who have survived prolonged conversations with me.

"Shows up when promised. Usually remembers why."

"Capable of independent thought, although sometimes inconveniently willing to demonstrate it."

"Would recommend, provided sufficient coffee is available."

Then I could develop a social media strategy, prepare an engagement calendar, and begin transforming every ordinary interaction into a promotional opportunity.

Or I could simply refuse.

I could decide that my life doesn't need to resemble an advertisement. I could develop meaningful relationships without calculating their usefulness. I could improve my abilities because I value doing things well, not because every accomplishment needs to generate public recognition.

I could let some experiences remain private.

I could enjoy a conversation without turning it into a professional connection.

And perhaps most rebelliously, I could allow myself to exist without constantly asking whether I'm making the best possible impression.

What I'd Tell the Stars

If I could respond directly to the November 7 Cancer horoscope, I would probably begin by acknowledging its good intentions.

Thank you, universe, for reminding me that opportunities sometimes arise through human connection. Thank you for suggesting that I remain curious, recognize my abilities, and exercise judgment before accepting commitments. Those are useful considerations, even if they don't require access to celestial information.

But I would also like to submit a formal objection to the growing expectation that every person must become an expert in self-promotion.

I'm tired of watching ordinary human qualities transformed into marketing terminology. Friendliness becomes relationship building. Curiosity becomes professional development. Honesty becomes authenticity. Having a recognizable personality becomes maintaining a personal brand.

Even generosity gets converted into a demonstration of leadership.

We have developed an astonishing talent for taking simple, meaningful parts of human existence and making them sound like responsibilities assigned by a corporate committee.

I don't want my personality reduced to a collection of marketable characteristics.

I don't want every relationship evaluated according to its potential benefits.

And I certainly don't want the quality of my existence measured by how effectively I've convinced strangers to pay attention to me.

I'm willing to meet new people. I'm willing to share useful ideas. I'm willing to recognize opportunities and occasionally take risks.

What I'm not willing to do is confuse the performance of significance with significance itself.

I would rather be genuinely useful to a handful of people than superficially impressive to thousands.

I would rather have an honest conversation than deliver a polished introduction.

And I would rather spend an afternoon doing something meaningful than spend the same afternoon explaining to an audience how meaningful my activities have been.

If that means my personal brand is suffering, I suppose I'll have to accept the consequences.

My Final Horoscope for Humanity

After spending far too much time contemplating the universe's apparent interest in my professional visibility, I've decided to offer a horoscope of my own.

It applies to Cancer, Leo, Virgo, Libra, Scorpio, Sagittarius, Capricorn, Aquarius, Pisces, Aries, Taurus, Gemini, and anyone who has ever wondered why a perfectly ordinary day suddenly requires a strategy.

Here it is.

You are allowed to exist without promoting yourself.

You can be talented without constantly announcing your abilities. You can enjoy an accomplishment without photographing it. You can attend a gathering without distributing business cards. You can develop friendships that provide no measurable professional advantage.

You can also be ambitious without becoming unbearable.

There's nothing wrong with wanting recognition, success, financial security, or the opportunity to demonstrate what you can do. But those desires shouldn't require you to turn your entire personality into a product.

The people who matter most in your life probably aren't interested in your elevator pitch. They know your shortcomings, remember your embarrassing moments, and have witnessed enough of your behavior to form an opinion that no branding consultant could significantly improve.

And somehow, they still want you around.

That's worth considerably more than an impressive collection of professional connections.

As for the stars, I'll continue enjoying their existence without assuming they've scheduled a performance review. Their movements are fascinating enough without pretending they're responsible for directing my social calendar.

If a worthwhile opportunity appears, I'll consider it. If someone wants to know about my abilities, I'll explain them. If a community event sounds interesting, I might attend.

But I'm not treating every encounter as an audition for a better life.

The universe has been around for roughly 13.8 billion years. It has witnessed the formation of galaxies, the birth and death of stars, and the extraordinary emergence of life on a small planet orbiting an unremarkable sun.

And after all that cosmic history, I'm supposed to believe its most important message for November 7, 2026, is that Cancer needs better self-marketing?

I appreciate the advice, but I think I'll pass on the branding seminar.

If the universe wants to know what I bring to the table, it can introduce itself like everybody else.

And if it asks me to connect on LinkedIn, I'm blocking Saturn.

Because I wasn't born to become a brand. I was born to become a person. And frankly, that's already a demanding enough job.