Who I Am: That Miserable Fucker
My name is Samuel Atkins. Some people call me Sam, but most people refer to me as, ‘that miserable fucker.’ With the social skills of a nine-year-old, and the hairline of a pensioner, my actual age, twenty-two, falls somewhere in between. I have strong opinions, which I’ll either keep to myself until I’m bitter (or at least more-so than usual), or I’ll write about them, in an attempt at redirecting people towards my way of thinking; if this doesn’t work, then hopefully it pisses them off enough for them to tell their friends.
I’m currently enrolled on a Creative and Professional Writing course, at Canterbury Christ Church University. I’d be lying if I said I’d always wanted to be a writer, and I doubt anyone would believe me if I said that I’d always wanted to study at the one-hundred and seventeenth best university (and falling in the rankings) in the UK. I applied in desperation, four days before the UCAS deadline, for a course that people make a mockery of, in something resembling a mid-life crisis. Ideally it will only be the ‘crisis’ part that has come this early: I have a number of plans for my late forties, that would be really hindered if I were to be dead.
I’ve always known that I have a way with words, although people remain undecided as to whether or not this is a positive thing. I detest poetry and playwriting, but my hugely inflated ego helps me to enjoy writing about myself, and my pessimistic and anxious personality has provided me with a negative enough outlook on life, that I feel increasingly comfortable when writing within the dystopian genre — if I write about the world as I see it currently, I’ll be hailed as a revolutionary when it inevitably comes true at some point in the future.
Aside from fifty thousand pounds worth of debt, potential lifelong unemployment and crippling social anxiety, I’m hoping to gain much from my time at CCCU. The ability to learn from experienced individuals, who have already proven themselves in their respective fields, was an opportunity that was hard to turn down. Three years spent studying under industry professionals and alongside teenage alcoholics, without the possibility of a graduate job, seemed like the only logical decision at the time of application. A friend of mine studied Film, Radio and Television, a degree equally as prestigious, and now he’s pushing trolleys for an incredibly reputable supermarket, so at least I know greatness can still be achieved, no matter which avenue I pursue.
I can joke all I like, but to get my dream job, I need to remain focused. In ten years’ time, I hope to be paid ridiculous sums of money to sit at home, avoiding writing my latest, best-selling novel, and procrastinating by walking a selection of my very expensive dogs. If that doesn’t work out, then I have some good contacts in the customer service industry, and perhaps a lifetime of servitude wouldn’t be so bad.
