My parents never loved me, so I became a campus brand rep instead
My birth was a traumatic one.
My dad tried to shove me back in. My mum tried squeezing her legs together. But I wiggled a toe through. Then a leg popped out. Eventually my entire disappointing self emerged from the vagina that would forever curse my name.
My formative years weren’t much better. Forced to sit on the climbing frame outside in the rain and snow whilst the other kids had their Lunchables on the blue gym mats inside. Occasionally my parents would abandon me at the weekend, leaving me only industrial grade pipe cleaners to build little farm animal sculptures. I did them all. Lamb, cow, rooster.
Secondary school was a nightmare. The other kids used to call me lumpen as I moved through the dirty corridors. Birds pecked on my window at night. My mother couldn’t look me in the eye when she called me a waste of good effluence.
But that all changed when I got accepted into Warwick. I decided to twat up. Stupid haircut, designer polo, sunglasses. I was living the middle class dream. I started calling all my friends nicknames which consisted exclusively of their surname with an -ey appended. And then it happened. I ascended into something greater than myself. I became a brand rep.
I stand outside the library, handing out flyers, above it all. Often I bite the hand that feeds me. I make jokes about the company paying me £9 an hour to chat to my friends. I tell passers by I probably wouldn’t use Spotify if they weren’t paying me. Do you know how thrilling it is to be above the capitalist machine whilst benefiting from it at the same time? Sometimes I dump all the flyers in the bin and tell Amazon I handed them out, just because I can.
My parents haven’t called for a while, but I don’t care. I don’t need them. I have a box of Amazon t-shirts in my wardrobe. I’ve got Yik Yak on speed dial. Copies of NME by the toilet I use for toilet paper.
I am a living god.