By Amanda Cornflake
Since I set foot on the cobblestone streets of University of Aberdeen, I have had one goal in mind: Get those b*tches talking. In a harrowing turn of events, I have not yet been able to accomplish this. Why have I not heard one rumour about me? I walk around alluringly all over campus. The most boring and, dare I say, ugly professors have cheating scandals and secret children. I mean I cannot go two steps without hearing about that one professor’s 600 affairs with every PhD student on this campus. I walk around mysteriously, I’m pretty, what more do I have to do? I’m such a hater, I should have more enemies than I do. Why is the university not running amuck with rumours and secrets about me? I’m at my wits end with ways to get people talking about me. I know other rumours exist. Like, oh, this guy had a threesome, that girl swallowed her IUD, blah blah blah. Why nothing about how I bit someone outside of Blackwell’s? Why nothing about the prolonged eye contact I shared with a guy in the library? It was legit so steamy, I thought we’d get arrested for public indecency.
My idiot flatmates are really weird and they don’t spill my secrets to others. I have to keep saying more and more egregious things to them and yet I’ve not seen one double take or heard one whisper while walking about the university. It’s getting hard to keep track at this point but I’m pretty sure I told them I was the one who got stuck in the Rice Cube lifts. Even if they didn’t believe me, you’d think they’d be spreading that I’m a compulsive liar. I live with such freaks.
This loser guy in my classes got hit by a motorbike and it’s all anyone can talk about. God, that’s not even interesting. Like, oh, poor Jeremiah loses one finger and he’s the talk of the town. No one even uses the pinky finger. What a loser. Why won’t they talk about how fat my ass looks in my new jeans? This is ridiculous. I mean I’ve literally made fun of people and put it in the newspaper and yet I haven’t gotten one measly piece of hate mail, no dead birds on my doorstep, nothing. I’m going around and telling people too, why has this not gotten around?
You might be thinking, ‘Amanda, don’t give up! There’s more you can do.’ And like yeah you idiot I’m fully aware. God, you’re so stupid. In my first year on a gray, damp day I hit a man with my car in cold blood. He was on the pavement going for a jog. I had to chase him for like 15 minutes, it was ridiculous. Anyways, I literally left him a note that I did it with my professional headshot to give to the authorities and still! Nothing! What’s a girl gotta do to get people talking in this place? I wasn’t even questioned by the police, which is frankly more worrying than anything. I think someone is trying to sabotage me. I bet it’s Jeremiah, that guy suuuucks. Hopefully the 80s rockstar-girlfriend vibe I’m going for this week will finally work. I think my smudged eyeliner will tell stories people could never keep to themselves. One can only hope.