He didn’t always want the spotlight, but everywhere he walked, he couldn't help but step into it.
A fourth-year vibe optimization major at UBC, Gottakeep Flexxon was always meant to be a star.
It all started back in the second grade, when Flexxon entered his elementary school’s annual talent show.
“I chose to perform, not because I had a talent to show off, but because I knew that once I got on that stage, my life would begin,” Flexxon told The Ubyssey.
“I didn’t show off a talent that day; I presented the audience with a glimpse into a superior way of being … a lifestyle,” he added.
Flexxon’s lifestyle, from this moment, would grow rapidly into internet stardom. Fame, since his early childhood successes, has followed Flexxon like a moth to a flame in the form of a successful career on various social media platforms, namely in the “aura-maxxing” and “aura-farming” content niches. Because of this, many students were confused and disappointed when Flexxon did not make an appearance at the recent aura-farming contest which took place in the Nest on Jan. 6.
I sat down with Flexxon to discuss his aura-farming career and why he failed to make a much-anticipated appearance at this significant cultural event.
Flexxon began our conversation by asserting, “to understand my choices, you first have to understand where it all started.”
Though I tried to direct our conversation to more immediate matters, Flexxon’s self-assured suaveness had me invested in what he referred to as his “aura-farming origin story.”
“It was my second grade talent show,” Flexxon began, describing how he had awkwardly stepped up on-stage and stumbled through a clumsy delivery of his favourite joke.
Voice cracking, he asked the crowd, “Why did the banana go to the hospital?”
Confused looks filled his onlooker’s faces, but without missing a beat, Flexxon finished with his punchline: “Because he wasn’t peeling well.”
...
Silent. Not a single laugh was uttered. Flexxon swears he could hear the heartbeats of everyone in the crowd as the weight of the awkward, tense, no-laugh atmosphere settled on his shoulders.
In this situation, most regular folks would want to curl up in the fetal position and have a nice little cry, but that would be negative aura. Flexxon, instead, did what only those destined to aura-maxx would do — he dropped the mic.
A screeching feedback sound ringing from the auditorium speakers, Flexxon once again held the attention of the crowd.
Without breaking eye contact, he moonwalked off that stage.
The crowd stood from their seats and erupted in applause. For what? Even they didn’t know. They could not begin to put what had transpired into words.
They may not have known the words for what had just occurred, but Flexxon did — the crowd just witnessed his first-ever aura-farm. From that day forward, Flexxon was never the same.
“I’ve been through the aura ringer — I’ve done my time, completed my sentence. If I were to compete in an aura-farming competition, I’d be disregarding how far I’ve come since I was a measly second grader. Such trivial displays of my aura prowess are beneath me, man,” Flexxon said.
In recent years, aura-farming has become a common practice, expedited by the rapidly growing mass of aura-related content flooding soul-sucking platforms such as Instagram and TikTok.
“These normies think they understand what it's like to be a true aura farmer, but they wouldn’t last a day in my shoes. When you’re at the top, all eyes are on you. Every moment of my life is watched; if I were to endure even one too many negative aura moments, my whole aura homeostasis would be thrown off,” said Flexxon.
“People think aura-farming is all about innate talent and aura-rich instinct, but it’s hard work. I had to hire an accountant just to keep track of my books — every positive aura moment is accounted for and this aura bank then allows for a certain amount of Ls I can take in a given year.”
Flexxon then whipped out an impressive-looking Excel spreadsheet, but when I asked for a copy he said that printing it would “ruin his mystique” and promptly continued his rant.
“Contrary to popular belief, I am mortal. Since coming to UBC, I’ve had to put extensive effort into maintaining my aura-ness. Last year, during finals season, I got the time mixed up for my SWAG 340 exam. I had to get from the Forestry building to Brock South in 10 minutes,” he said.
Flexxon, at that moment, paused for effect, staring into my eyes and quirking an immaculately-groomed brow.
“Could I have probably run with my backpack and made it there in time?”
I began to answer, but Flexxon put one finger to my lips and shushed me.
He proceeded, “Yes… I could have. But would that have been such a loss of Aura? 100 per cent — and that would be unacceptable. Instead, I walked across campus, biding my time, feeling the attention build with each step I took. I obviously can’t read minds, but I can feel the thoughts of passing students when their inferior auras interact with mine, which were along the lines of, ‘Wow, that guy is cool, he has so much aura with so little care.’”
Flexxon unfortunately did not pass SWAG 340.
“So it turns out if you're 20 minutes late for an exam, they don't always let you take it. I may have taken an F in my class, but at least I didn’t take an L in my social status,” Flexxon said.
After several more lengthy anecdotes, Flexxon finally spoke to his absence at the Jan. 6 aura-farming contest.
“Aura farming is my life. It is a hard life, though. Waking up every morning and having to be so nonchalant — when we live in such a chalant world — can be daunting, but I do it because it’s who I am. Not everyone needs to be an aura farmer … Not everyone should be an aura farmer,” he said.
“I felt that by going to [the aura-farming contest], I’d be inspiring the next generation of aura farmers, but I don’t think that's what the world needs.”
He continued, “We need people with enough urgency to run to their final exam when they’re late, people who don’t experience paralyzing fear when their headphones die causing their phone to blast their music out loud, people who will bike to class while holding an umbrella proudly overhead. If we were all aura farmers, there would be nothing to farm, and the world would fall apart. This is the cardinal law of swagriculture. So, no. I didn’t go and flex to my fellow university students that I am an aura god. I stayed home, knowing I don’t need a contest to prove my status, and maybe that’s the most aura move of them all.”
In fact, Flexxon would like to see fewer events like the Jan. 6 contest in the future and is actively working to destroy the careers of up-and-coming aura farmers. In recent months, Flexxon has become hyper-fixated on ensuring that there is no next generation of aura-farming. He wants the practice to “die with him.”
To accomplish this, Flexxon has assembled a team of 50 seventh graders to troll any content they see relating to aura-farming.
“It feels good to be praised for being cool, but it blows when someone calls you out for trying too hard. If I had received even a percentage of the hate that my team puts out, I would have ended my career when I still had the chance to leave the aura-farmer sphere. Once you’ve had this many eyes on you, though, you can't just quit. You have a legacy and it’s your job to maintain that. I’ve never had to try to be cool, and that's why I didn’t compete in the aura-farming competition. Unlike these normies I don’t need a ribbon to prove my aura. All I need is a small army of mean 13-year-olds with parents who don’t monitor their internet use to bully anyone who comes close to my level of stardom. I don’t need a contest to prove myself — that’s child's play, and to be honest, a major loss in aura.”
