Carl Jung

A note on the post:

This post originates from two distinct points of origins that somehow combined together to form some of megatrain of thought, whose bandwagon I could not resist but hopping on and playing the banjo. These origin points are: A) I remembered how awesome the song 99 Luftballons was, and so I decided to listen to it and I was like “Hey! Carl Jung was German! Well, actually, he was ethnically Swiss, but he was a German national, so that’s gotta count for something, right?” and B) I took the Meyer-Briggs personality test the other day, which is based on Jungian psychology, and decided that everyone should know that I’m an INFP, because that fact seems rather important for some reason.

The actual post part of the post

How come it always happens where I don’t get to the post part of the post until halfway through?…Never mind.

Anyways, as I stated earlier, I took the Meyer-Briggs Personality Indicator the other day and it turns out that I’m an INFP, which means that I can read minds and would make an extremely passionate and  fiery lover if I weren’t full of shit. Also, Princess Di was an INFP, which is cool, because if I understand English Hereditary Laws (which I certainly don’t) it means that I’ve won a free milkshake from the McDonald’s at 241 City Road, Islington, United Kingdom.

I’ll claim the milkshake later, but first I have to continue rambling on about stuff. Erm, where was I? Oh, yes…Princess Di…Milkshakes…aha! According to Wikipedia, the most reliable source in the world, William Shakespeare was also an INFP. Everybody loves William Shakespeare. He wrote Pulp Fiction.

And that, my friends, is the true meaning of whatever holiday is the next to appear in the Julian calendar.

~~La Stranezza

P.S. My finger nails are hot pink. My little sister (well, one of them…) painted them that colour yesterday and it really clashes with my skin tone. Now I look like an Italian man-whore. Has this ever happened to any of you? (Please comment below.)

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4 thoughts on “Carl Jung

  1. Re-reading this, I’ve realized that I’ve looked like an Italian whore before (not a man-whore, however; you’re on your own with that one). I was in almost the exact situation that you were. Except the colour was neon green.

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