CONFESSIONALS: All along, I was the closeted capitalist

What my friends don’t know won’t exploit them . . . yet

Marissa Ouyang

Hey, SFU. I’m going to start by saying that this is really hard for me to talk about. It’s something I’ve struggled with my entire life. But I’ve realized that you can’t just run away from your authentic self. Not even by running five different Instagrams, putting two of them on private, and filling the three others with a mix of resume-friendly content and intensely shirtless pics of your summer camping trip to Squamish.

So — nothing for it. I’m just going to say it.

I’m the closeted capitalist.

Wow, that feels good. Real good. Fuck. I feel liberated — something the rest of you suckers at this Hollywood cash cow of a university, sadly, will never understand. Not as long as you remain subjugated by our current, beautiful economic model.

It’s been hard to keep this under wraps. I lie awake at night, sweating at the chance that a roommate might find the copies of Wall Street Journal under my bed. When my friends see me hiking up Burnaby Mountain in full Patagonia gear, I claim I’m just ace at thrifting. I tell my classmates the vial of fluid on my gold chain necklace is something I bought at Granville Island to support local artists, but actually, it’s full of toxic chemical runoff from Silicon Valley’s ruthless tech production cycle.

But I’ve done it. I’ve fooled them all . . . My friends look into my eyes, and they miss the fantasies I entertain about employing them all to work several tiers below me at a fraudulent student-populated summer painting company. They follow me on Instagram accounts #2 and #4, but they don’t know about #1, the bio of which I just updated to “ENTREPRENEUR | FASHION | DM FOR BUSINESS INQUIRIES.”

The Mughal emperor, Shah Jahan, built his dead wife the Taj Mahal. I do it better; I build my ladies pyramid schemes. And I’ve gotten so good at it that I think I might, like . . . be 1% Egyptian or something. I’ve considered using to find out, but then the government might get my DNA, and I can only bribe the government so much to go harass other, poorer capitalists about their business instead of harassing me about mine.

So SFU . . . I’m sorry . . . but I just can’t relate to any of your struggles. I’m hotter, richer, and simply more beloved by God than you. And since capitalism’s inevitable, horrifying collapse isn’t coming any time within the next couple of years, it’s going to stay that way for as long as I’m stuck sitting beside you all in these oppressive liberal arts classes. I’ll be busy pretending to cry over our professor’s lecture on boring 16th-century British peasants who lost their farmlands to feudal lords and enclosures, when in truth, I shed my tears for your lack of faith in the gospel of the all-encompassing Kardashian empire.

Written by Zach Siddiqui, Humour Editor