Step 1: Dress as something obscure

You scoff at the Dal students dressed as Barbie and Ken. You’re nauseated by the Taylor Swifts, Supermans, and princesses. Even Tarantino characters are too run-of-the-mill for you. Your Halloween costume will be different—inspired. You will go as a side character in an A24 movie who only has 30 seconds of screen time. Or maybe the album cover of that band with 400 monthly listeners. Better yet, you’ll dress as a punny play on words from your latest Hegel reading. Few people will get it. This is just how you like it.

Step 2: Repeatedly explain (or—rather—avoid explaining) what you are dressed as

You attend a party. Probably a larger party with a mix of King’s and Dal students. Upon seeing you, everyone is confused. Your niche, weird little costume has successfully bamboozled the unsophisticated masses. You’ve succeeded at your goal—but this comes with a cost. You are asked constantly, all night, about your costume. Echoes of “Who are you?”, “Wait, I don’t get it,” and “What are you dressed as?” will play in your mind before you fall asleep. The confusion presents you with an opportunity.

Step 3: Complain loudly about this

Now, being pestered with questions, you can finally show off your superior knowledge in explaining your oblique costume. You sigh loudly. You roll your eyes. You make a spectacle of mocking others’ misunderstanding. “I can’t believe nobody gets it,” you say. You project your voice, trying to gain he attention of those around you. “It’s like, the best [character/movie/book/album/artist] of all time!” You subtly cock your neck to look around. Is anyone impressed by your superlative taste in media consumption? You relish complaining. No one gets you. You are soooo misunderstood.

Step 4: Find a buddy

No matter how esoteric you might be, there will always be someone even more esoteric. In your self-indulgent laments —someone’s ears pricked up at your reference. Someone got it. This person is dressed as something more enigmatic than you. This person might be another King’s student, or worse—a NSCAD student. They approach you. They compliment your costume. This is a hit to your ego, but you remain friendly.

Step 5: Wallflower

You strike up a conversation with your newfound friend. You two have a lot in common. You bond over your exclusive interests. You like the same weird, nonsense movies. The same underground bands. Complaining about pop-culture and hating the interests of everyone else brings the two of you together. Neither of you acknowledge that in order to complain about these things, you must have a working knowledge, and—at least, in part—actually care. Regardless, you have found another interesting individual in a room of uninteresting sheep. You cling to the walls of the party and shake your heads disapprovingly at the Supermans and Barbies actually having fun.

Step 6: Feel satisfied in your superior taste

You put your headphones on and walk home from the party. Your costume was unappreciated. Only one person got it. You barely talked to anyone else. You didn’t dance to the mainstream pop music, and you made fun of those who did. Smiling to yourself on the way home, you are content. It’s fun to be a pretentious killjoy.