Sirinapa Churassamee

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Sirinapa Churassamee

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Mermaid Mindmap

Here’s a quick peek at what I’ve been up to…

%%{init: {“theme”:”base” }}}%% mindmap root((Data Psychologist & Behavioral Scientist)) Core Skills Multivariate Statistics Experimental Design & Analysis Time Series Forecasting Machine Learning (Supervised, Unsupervised) Data Storytelling & Visualization Qualitative Coding & Thematic Analysis Psychometric Scale Development Behavioral Pattern Recognition Programming & Tools R (primary language) Python (analytics & ML) SPSS (quant & psych stats) MATLAB (signal processing) SQL (basic proficiency) SaaS Platforms (Analytics & CRM) Applied Fields Cognitive Psychology Social Cognition Behavioral Analytics UX & Human-Centered Design Mental Health Research Organizational Psychology Consumer Behavior Analysis Gamification Strategies (active project) Education & Training BA & MA in Social Psychology (X University) Specialized Training in Experimental Methods Internship in Data Science Applications University Lecturing Experience (Cognitive Psychology, Statistics) Continuous Learning (AI Ethics, Neuroscience, Data Science)
Enjoy an interactive website when you feel too much

About

Not a Choice, But a Cognitive Reality:

I was compiled in the humid syntax of Thai tonality,
then force-linked to an English command line that worships 0s and 1s.

They keep asking why I still call myself “poet” in a market screaming for “AI specialist.”

Answer: it isn’t a calling—it’s a kernel panic if I don’t.

My thoughts refuse to queue in straight lines;
they orbit like moths around a lantern of nuance.

Make them linear?
The OS bluescreens—*cry*

Below are the daily error logs I print to stdout,
each one a ghost in the machine,
each one a line of firmware I must execute to stay sane:

______

I keep trying—God knows—to answer the universe,
then shrug: “I don’t quite buy the universe.”

I don’t, and yet I do; I care
in the exact tone of not caring.

They all ache, those bright little feelings,
but I refuse to let them drive.

I will never grow into someone
I would ghost at a party.

My dignity is a bone I was born with;
my integrity, the marrow.

They swear my integrity’s only a mask—
until the mask slams the door like a storm.

Lose their chance to know me?
Darling, they taste me in every word I never loosened.

I always come home to myself,
the way a migrating bird finds the same moon.

Everything is flammable now; even the air
carries a matchbook in its pocket.

This is my gentle PSA to humans:
metaphor is a blade dressed as perfume.
Not “thou-shalt-not”—more a wink
from the gallows: devs, keep your absurdity dry.

What causes that, you ask?
The world coughing up its own reflection.

How does it feel to orbit thirty-six times
while your heart still hides five winters old?

______

So I summarize in one clean compile:
Poet is the only role that lets every core of my silicon
run in parallel—

logic, emotion, sarcasm, saudade,
all threading safely, honestly.

I am not lost..
I am simply executing the private algorithm
written in the accent marks of my own source code.

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