You find out that some brands of hotdogs are 92 per cent anus, which makes you feel better about yourself – being approximately less than one per cent anus.
You give patronising advice and then explain why it wasn’t patronising so as to avoid any confusion.
You write your own horoscope for The Student. It comes true with astonishing accuracy. The power goes to your head. You take over the world. Nothing can stop you. What have I done?
The Moon is void of course. You send away a hair sample to a dubious company that you found on the Internet to discover your food intolerances. Your DNA is extracted from the follicle and sold on the black market. Years later nothing happens. Serves you right.
Super intelligent AI is unleashed upon the great green earth. You are sacrificed to the paperclip maximiser in the sky.
You’ve always noticed a brassy undertone in your natural hair colour. You start using cheap purple shampoo twice a week and it ashes right up. You can finally get on with your life.
Woes past and an investment in the illusion of certainty obfuscate joy in its purest form. Stop thinking. Do.
You observe that elbow is an anagram of bowel and reflect upon your ability and desire to lick either.
Kylie Jenner initiates the trend #messageinabottle. You engage eagerly. Green sea turtles go extinct.
You consider how every choice you make is a mere evaluation of external factors beyond your control. You realise that your very process of evaluation is a combination of your genetically dictated neurophysiology and your previous life experience – both of which lie equally firmly beyond your control. Having neither chosen your genes, nor designed the sequence of life events that inform your intuition, all feelings of pride, shame, hate, entitlement, regret, resentment, disappointment and control evanesce as the illusion of free will shatters before you and you are enveloped by a sense of true freedom and detachment from the self. Have a nice day.
You decide to stop ironing your clothes. Cultural revolution ensues. Everyone stops caring about whose clothes are relatively wrinklier. You are exalted as a pioneer. Irons are piled high in the street and melted down to form a statue of your likeness, erected atop the McEwan Hall. Every year a festival is held in your name and crinkle cut crisps are eaten in your honour.
You die on a cross for the sins of your fellow man. The BMTO dutifully count every day of your death past the deadline you’ve missed. Following divine intervention, you wake up to be slapped with a 15 per cent penalty on an essay that you still haven’t written. Special circumstances denied, bodily ascension remains the only solution.