I gaze at my reflection in a silver spoon in Mackenzie Café, untangle a perfect curl from my mile-long natural lashes, and chuckle at a measly peasant boy who walks by me, completely unaware of my innate superiority.
“You see,” I coo at my spoon reflection, gently caressing her distorted figure in my makeshift mirror, “you are better than these fools. Because you are transferring to UBC. HAHAHAHAHA!”
People turn and look; I do not care, and I bat my eyelashes at all of them, scoffing indignantly. They will be stuck on this burning dumpster mountain forever, while I, I, will escape and find success at a far loftier institution.
Last semester was my fourth try applying for a transfer to the University of British Columbia. After much grovelling and begging, they’ve finally let me in, and now I know, as I’ve always suspected, that I am above grovelling and begging to anyone, duh. I spin around, taking in the whole room of people . . . Wow! Unbelievable, isn’t it, that I am the only person at SFU who knows how to apply for a transfer.
I kick my unfinished hash browns to the floor, and yell at some pathetic cockroach person to eat them. Of course she does not do it, because she respects me too much to subject me to such a horrible vision as someone eating FLOOR FOOD! I chuckle to myself again and point to my SFU hoodie, as I continue to stand on the table where I know I’ll be seen. I address the room, and this time everyone stops to look at me, adoration and admiration dripping from their eyeballs like tears.
I announce my important announcement: “Does anybody want my hoodie? I am donating it to charity, and THIS,” I gesture grandly around the room at all the students and at the beige walls, “is MY charity.” I point at a boy, who I suspect envies me the most. I peel my hoodie off like a king would undress and toss it at his head.
“I won’t be needing that anymore, you FOOL,” I wink saucily at the swine boy and tell him to take good care of the hoodie as I pull a paper out of my pocket to show the room my UBC acceptance letter.
“Behold!” I bellow, and thrust the scroll in the swine boy’s face. He squints and reads aloud:
“We regret to inform you . . .”
What did he say? Panic swells in me and I jerk the paper away from his silly face. I look at the letter again and cannot believe what I am seeing . . . “Rejection” . . . “tough decisions”. . . Do my eyes deceive me!?
I look at the boy and point pointedly. “YOU! BOY! Can you read?” He tells me he can. And I believe he might be right, because even a university like SFU would only accept students if they are at least mildly literate.
I look at the room and the eyes that gaze upon me. “Fellow peers . . .” I solemnly announce, “I have made a grave error. It turns out that I am just like all of you.” I walk around the room and gently caress each person’s face, like the nuns in Newsies. It’s time to accept who we truly are. We, the lowly worm people.
And I am the first to collapse to the ground and writhe in the dirt of the Mackenzie Café floor.
And I am happy.
