Story: We Producestoryweproduce.com
Story: We Produce launched its brand image. I collaborated on the processes of creating new positioning and the content development for the brand.
We created “Everything tells a Story”, one the categories of Story: We produce’s blog. The concept of “Everything tells a Story” is simple: any image, object or person may be the trigger of a story.
Storytelling with the intention of evoking strong emotions and generating personal connections to the brand and its mission.
Today someone made me question myself. They told me: If you enter a wrong captcha security word three times in a row, you must be a robot, but will never realise it as you eat too much meat.
Suspicion Number 1
I fake singing ‘Happy Birthday’ at people’s parties. I open my mouth and gesticulate while the others sing along. Today, at my boss’s birthday celebration in the office, I wondered what would happen if they all suddenly did like me and mouthed silently – for a few seconds no-one would sing and the silence would be unbearable.
Suspicion Number 2
I pretend to join in the toast, but really I don’t clink my glass with anybody. I simply move it around in a zig-zag formation.
Suspicion Number 3
Most nights, when I come home, I feel as though the only person that spoke to me all day was the microwave. And it doesn’t even speak, “Hello” just comes up on the little screen. And for me that’s enough to start a conversation. What’s more, it’s great at heating up meat.
Room for rent. Girl preferred
It’s a pleasant, luminous flat. And I’m hardly ever here.
I was born and raised in Costa Rica. My mother’s house is in San José, where my son lives too. It doesn’t worry me. I know that he’s well taken care of.
I arrived in Barcelona 8 years ago. My home here is my room, it’s where I feel at home. It holds my wardrobe with my clothes and the letters from my family. But I only sleep here once a week.
I work looking after an old man. I live with and help him from Tuesday to Sunday. I have a really spacious room in his house, where I sleep every night, but I’m just a guest.
I have one night a week off, usually on Mondays. It’s my favourite night of the week. Even though I’m really tired, I enjoy going home. It’s the only time when I sleep in my own bed.
I woke with an awful song in my head. I’m not sure whether it’s by Mónica Naranjo or Pastora but things in the office are starting to get worse. It makes no difference whether I’m in the bathroom, standing at the photocopier or in the lift; the chorus plays continuously inside me. It gets louder by the minute and it’s almost impossible to concentrate. Every phone-call I have to answer is like losing two days’ life – I have to answer while my soundtrack is playing, and I feel an uncontrollable desire to sing along while I’m speaking. I even get to the point where I think my mouse cursor is a fly trapped inside my screen.
Things get worse when my boss calls me into a meeting. Suddenly, I feel trapped by four walls. The boss, who is standing a metre away, looks as if he’s about to call-in to a radio programme to dedicate my song to his girlfriend – it’s now playing in stereo. He talks, pointing to various spreadsheets and I discover that we’re not alone. There’s him, the fly, my song and me. And the worst of it is that the fly is singing the same song, but a few bars behind. So once the chorus stops in my head, it starts to sing in a continuous loop. It’s impossible to concentrate!
This frenetic duet destroys my patience and in an attempt to stop the fly, I slap myself in the face. My boss looks at me in surprise, and all I manage to say, pointing to his report, is “Can you repeat that please?” As the song starts again.
I sent a message to Laura the other day: “Perfect, Let’s meet up this week. Thanks!” and my iPhone corrected it to: “Come on, just tell her you’re crazy about her”
I don’t know how long I stayed staring at the phone, unsure of what to do. In the end I deleted my message and wrote: “Laura, there’s something I have to tell you. It’s pretty urgent.” 5 minutes later she replied: “When shall we meet?” I replied: “I’ll e-mail you tomorrow to confirm the details. Take care.” And my iPhone corrected “Take care,” to “Lots of love.” I followed its instructions and pressed send.
That night, if someone had told me to, I’d have thrown the mobile out the window, but something told me I couldn’t leave things half-way so I decided to write to her and tell her I was in love with her. I wanted to start off by saying something like: “I have to thank you for being there when I need you,” “We’ve been friends for a long time,” or “I want to tell you about something that’s been troubling me.” But I immediately regretted it. Better to tell her in person. I deleted my e-mail. Immediately I received the computer alert: “Are you sure you want to delete this message?” Obviously I clicked “Yes”. But it was just the beginning of a battle between my “laptop” and me: “Are you sure you want to delete this message?” it continued, threateningly, no matter how often I pressed “Yes”. In the end I unplugged it.
Next day, as agreed, I sat down at the bar by the door to watch Laura’s arrival. She never came. After waiting 45 minutes, I concluded she’d stood me up. So I wrote a message: “Everything OK?” which my iPhone corrected to: “Come on man, tell her you won’t wait forever.” I hesitated for a minute. And that minute was fatal. The screen faded to black. And I was left looking at it with the same uncertainty with which I was staring at the entrance to the bar. That day confirmed something I’d been suspecting for a while. Everything I love either ignores me or runs out of battery.
The woman stood pensively for a few moments. I could see why. It was the fifth time that evening that she’d seen me in the restaurant bathroom.
I don’t have any problem in telling intimate secrets to complete strangers, and outside in the lounge where my husband, his partner, the partner’s wife and I were dining, I was bored. They had only just started on the entrée’s and I had already finished my ice-cream. So I decided to sit down on the marble table and tell the lady taking care of the bathroom exactly what I was doing with my make-up and party dress on, hair salon blow-dried, carrying a toothbrush.
I explained that chocolate replaces sex, sweeteners replace sugar and mint toothpaste substitutes paella. She smiled into the distance, as if she were thinking about something else, or a joke had occurred to her.
I carried on talking about an innovative method for losing weight. It’s not exactly good for slimming, but very effective for not eating your favourite dishes while remembering how they taste, which in the end means you lose weight without having to make any sacrifices. All you have to do is follow the instructions strictly. For example, if you have a coffee and croissant then brush your teeth with strawberry toothpaste, you can taste tiramisu. That way you can spend hours enjoying your tiramisu, without having eaten it. And the list goes on: yoghurt with cereal followed by extra-fluoride toothpaste produces an after-taste of paté on toast; roast chicken followed by normal toothpaste takes like Russian salad. There are numerous combinations and only one difficulty – on times like tonight, you’re out of tune with the other diners as, in order to taste green salad, I had to order vanilla and chocolate ice-cream then brush my teeth.
In the end, my husband’s partner’s wife interrupted us to inform me that they’d ordered the coffees and my tomato soup. I put my toothbrush away and bade my farewells to the woman in the bathroom. She gave me another strange look – shaking her head while blinking. I thought that maybe we were alike as I returned to the table with the impression that she’d understood exactly what I wanted to say, and switched my tomato soup for an espresso.