By now, I’m sure most of you have heard of me, the record-setting Instagram Egg that overthrew Kylie Jenner’s baby for the most-liked Instagram post of all time. In regards to my newfound fame, let me make something perfectly clear: I absolutely did NOT ask for this. I did not fucking want to be an “influencer.”
I have never wanted to be mentioned in the same breath as a Kardashian. I take one goddamned selfie and BOOM – it’s like the Internet snapped its fingers and suddenly I’m getting compared to the “Cash Me Outside” girl. Um, hello, I’m an unfertilized chicken egg. I’m a million times smarter than she is! And the fact that SHE is the one with a book deal really poaches my yolk.
I know in today’s fame-whorish culture, everyone assumes the life of an influencer is glamorous. But let me tell you something. It. Is. Not. My phone hasn’t stopped ringing with sales reps from probiotic tea companies. Lil’ Dicky wants me to do a “collab,” whatever that is. And I’ve spent the last four nights on a cocaine bender with Dan Bilzerian. It’s miserable. All he does is fire automatic weapons into the air while bragging about his “monster fuck-hog.” I’d rather be shoved back up into a sweaty chicken uterus than spend another five minutes with this guy.
And look, I’m just a humble egg from a locally-owned organic farm in the Midwest. As I was growing up, and my shell was crystallizing in my mom’s oviduct, I just wanted to become a writer. Live in a small apartment in the Village. Watch people from the window of a coffee shop while scribbling in my notebook. Or maybe join an NGO to help combat infant mortality in developing nations. Or, at the very least, die with dignity and become the egg part in the Egg McMuffin of some fat kid’s breakfast.
But I can’t even be a low-cholesterol protein alternative for the world.
Overnight celebrity status is like a disease. You wake up with it all of a sudden, wishing it would go away, but it clings to you like a virus. I don’t have thirty million “likes.” I have thirty million naggy little herpes blisters. Being an influencer is the world’s herpes.
But I suppose it is what it is. And just like herpes, there is no turning back. At this point, I can either Humpty Dumpty myself or head on over to Bilerzrian’s and rip fat rails of blow until I my social anxiety subsides and I finally come out of my shell.
