Fed up with success, Miss Likki leaves material world behind

Sigh. I’m not a writer, okay. I’m a Writer. And being a Writer comes with a huge responsibility that I’m not fully equipped to handle: arduous, violent, back-breaking fame. 

Last year, when I published my uber-successful Misc article “Westboro Baptist Church retracts statement calling Vassar an ‘Ivy League Whorehouse’ after realizing Vassar isn’t a part of the Ivy League,” I was simply bombarded by a painful slew of positive comments and rolling laughter. It was too much to handle. Do I still read the comments on the Misc website? No, because I have them memorized. Ms. Michelle Olson ’99, in particular, still has my heart on Saturday nights: “This is seriously the funniest thing I’ve read in a long time. I expect to see this writer’s name on an Onion article some day. This is the first time I’ve shared a Misc article on my Facebook. Beautifully done.” (Don’t tell her I’m more of a Reductress girl!) My sister congratulated me for finally writing something that was embarrassing enough for my father to not show his friends (huge thanks to the word “whorehouse;” you’ve done so much for me). On Instagram, I remember people–who I thought were kind of cool and maybe would have talked to me in real life if I didn’t spend my time behind a computer typing–sharing my little baby article to their friends. 

I’m writing all of this to say: I have such a handle on culture that I’m not even on Instagram anymore. I don’t even know what Facebook is. I’m beyond fame. I’m beyond any sort of tangible journalism. I create the rules. I can create anything. I’m creating a cult.

Okay, cult is a strong word—I should know, as a Writer. Real cults like Westboro Baptist Church feed off of paranoia and ignorance. But aren’t you also tired of the fatigue and world-weariness that comes with a great career success (assuming you’ve been successful—I know some of you haven’t, and that’s okay, I guess)? After I wrote that Westboro article, I couldn’t stop roaming Poughkeepsie’s streets, looking for the next topic to cover and write a fake news piece about. But everything seemed so stale, so passé, so obviously unreal. Nothing would ever compare to the rush I got on that fine April day. It took me ages to even gather the courage to pick up the pen again. Which made it incredibly hard to finish the semester, as classes were still going on.

Anyway! At my private island community just off the coast of the Maldives, none of us would ever have to face this awful feeling again. After everyone gives up all their material belongings at security and embraces their new uniforms (only the finest Vivienne Westwood for my followers), the fun will begin. Every minor thing we do will be subject to MAJOR importance and encouragement. Just broke up with your toxic partner? Cake will be provided. Just sent a vaguely foreboding email to your professor? Party poppers will be passed around. Just listened to “2 Baddies” by NCT 127 for the third time in a row even though you swore you wouldn’t because it’s incredibly embarrassing? Actually, I won’t celebrate that. Get your life together, babe.

This idea is mostly for me, though—sorry to burst your bubble. This way, I won’t get out of my cold, comfy bed to write an article for an idea that I literally just had, when I have an Intro to Philosophy class early tomorrow morning that I’m really only taking because I need eight units outside my majors, which are both in the arts because I love double unemployment, but don’t tell my philosophy professor because, to my horror, professors actually read The Misc.

None of that will happen. I’ll listen to the rain outside my window, sleep and wait for the idea to wither away, knowing that whatever I do tomorrow when I wake up will be commemorated anyway. And maybe I’ll listen to some NCT. Zip, zip it and close.

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