Apparently there is a colony of insects in the basement of my building that worships me as a God. As offerings, they bring me dead rats and paper bits from the wastebin dipped in sludge and fried in sugar. It’s problematic.
Slightly more exciting is the fact that these insects are apparently descended from intergalactic travellers from a tiny planet orbiting a star near Sirius. The native insectoids there worship me too. They beam me recordings of hymns and videos of passion plays and temple orgies conducted in my honour (the earth sect is considerably more straightlaced and very much into tales about the corridors and songs of the darkness in the basement and the light that shines from under my door).
So far this hasn’t affected the rest of my life in any positive way – if anything, the neighbours give me dirty looks regarding the rodent corpses. But whenever I feel a bit low, I remember my devotees and smile to myself.
I’m forty-five, still single, with hardly any friends, parents that hate me, and a job that’s never going to change or lead me anywhere in life. Considering all of this, it’s nice to be loved.