SHARVAN PETHE
The date is the 24th of April. The time, 7:10pm. A few minutes ago, my life changed.
This website went from being one carefully curated in the corner of my bedroom to one laid bare for the world to see.
A well timed Facebook post and Instagram story was all it really took. With such a high intensity, well thought out marketing campaign, there is no doubt that this website is about to explode. I'm about to ascend into the stratosphere of human fame.
There it is, the first like. A tiny burst of serotonin accompanies the buzzing of my phone. The first of many.
This must be how DJ Khaled feels.
I'm going to need to do one of those instagram posts with my stacks of money. I open my wallet. I've got a $5 note. I stack my debit card, credit card and a half filled St Pierre's loyalty card on top of it to provide a little more height. I'm not sure if DJ Khaled has thought about how to show off our success with the impending move to a fully cashless financial system. I'll have to get in touch with him.
Maybe I should start yelling my own name before each post? No that wouldn't work, I operate in a written medium, how would people know to yell it instead of just reading it in their normal tone? Should I bold it? I don't know.
But I'm sure the manager I hire will. I'll probably need a ghost writer too, nobody famous actually writes their own material. Especially not one with a schedule like mine. I've put in placeholders in my calendar for Oprah, Bill Gates and Gordon Ramsey. They'll want to talk.
I hear my mum call my name. She wants me to cut carrots for dinner. I tell her thats not how it works anymore. My people will contact her people. Maybe I can fit her in after my Ellen placeholder next week.
I shake my head ruefully. It's the sad price of fame. Everyone just wants a piece of you.
I queue "All I do is win" on my Spotify, set to repeat 23 times.
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