How to Be Immortal
I had never thought that there was a burning demand for a tutorial on fake immortality. I was wrong.
A confusing total of 86 co-authors had come together to create wikiHow’s article ‘How to Act Immortal’. It was a 16-step process filled with shrewd insights such as: “As a human, you are most definitely mortal.” It’s even illustrated.
The thing is, out of a staggering 354,000 readers, 69% of those who gave feedback had stated that this tutorial had “helped them”.
As vague as that was, I was hooked. Did this confusing and oddly niche tutorial help them to successfully fake immortality, or just to get to grips with their mortal condition? Was this for method actors and con-men, or was there really a community of counterfeit immortals?
I decided that the only reasonable way to find out was to follow this tutorial religiously and try to convince everyone I was immortal. This turned out to be easier said than done. After acquainting myself with the tutorial, I invited a couple of friends around to document their reactions. This is science.
Step 1: Dressing like an Immortal Being
Apparently this just involved dressing “somewhat modestly” and wearing brooches. I managed.
Step 2: Owning Very Expensive Old Clothes
I didn’t think this was within my budget.
Step 3: Having Secrets
Specifically, “many secrets”.
I threw around phrases like, “I only wish I could tell you…but alas, I cannot!” to see whether my friends were entranced by undying secrecy. They weren’t. They just responded with, “Okay?” and “I can respect that, I guess…” and “Did you honestly just use ‘alas’?”
Step 4: Lying
Specifically, lying about history. I felt as though getting a “wistful look in [my] eye when someone brings it up” was a bit too subtle, so I set a photo of Confucius as my phone’s wallpaper instead. When my friends inquired after ‘the eyebrow guy’ on my phone, I merely chuckled and remarked, “Ah, Confucius! What a lad!” But I did so wistfully.
The tutorial also has some tips for history class when you don’t know the answer to a question. They recommend politely mentioning “that you’d prefer not to talk about it”, or throwing in a jaunty quip about how history is written by the victors. I love the idea of failing history class because I’m ‘just not comfortable reliving those memories’. Unfortunately, I have already finished high school so these gems were wasted on me. Alas.
Step 5: Lying About Classical Musicians, Specifically
I was instructed to drop a few anecdotes about musicians from bygone eras. However, the tutorial warned me that “there’s a huge difference between dropping a ‘that one time Mozart…’ and a ‘that one time 'Wolfgang and I…’”
I still do not know what this difference is.
I did a little research to see whether ‘Wolfgang’ or ‘Mozart’ is more appropriate. Apparently the man was christened Johannes Chrysotomus Wolfgangus Theophilus Mozart.
I decided to compromise.
“Ha!” I chortled to my friends. “This conversation reminds me of that time that Wolfgangus and I had a…similar conversation.” (My improvisation skills were clearly lacking).
“You’re scaring me,” replied one of my friends.
Was this the desired outcome?
Step 6: Owning Decanters
Admittedly, this isn’t the key takeaway of Step 6, but unfortunately I don’t mix with whatever crowd “needs a stirrup cup as soon as they get out of their overcoats” so this section on etiquette felt rather redundant.
Either way, I didn’t feel like splurging on a decanter, as I did not know what one of those was. Google kindly informed me that it was a stoppered glass container for spirits. This seemed simple enough, but out of my price range.
Instead I opted for offering my friends a budget decanter, a.k.a. bottled water. My friends said thank you, so I suppose I can count it as a victory in etiquette and hospitality.
Step 7: Having an ‘British or French’ Accent
I can’t do a French accent. The obvious solution would then be to do a ‘British’ one, but I already have one of these (as do most of my friends and a lot of the other residents of Britain, where we live). However, Britain is a place of many, many dialects, so I figured that just doing one from a different region would count.
I tried switching to a (massacred) Glaswegian accent midway though the day, but my friends echoed the thoughts of my dying ego: “Please stop.”
Step 8: Reading Beowulf and Using Unique Old English Words
“He him ðæs lean forgeald,” said I.
“What?” replied my friends.
Step 9: Taxidermy
This was one of the suggestions in Step 9 to have a hobby that will “astonish people”. Also listed were side-saddle riding and tatting. Since I didn’t have a horse (to ride side-saddle, or to upholster posthumously). I decided to take up tatting.
I was surprised to find a few YouTube tutorials about tatting (a lace-based craft). After a few minutes I realised that it was possibly easier to acquire a horse than half of the tiny plastic implements needed to start tatting. I left it on my computer screen so my friends were under the illusion that I was a keen tatter (is that the correct usage?).
Their only response was: “Why?”
Step 10: Being Mature
I’m following a 16-step wikiHow tutorial to convince three grown adults that I am an immortal being. I decided to skip this step.
Step 11: Reading
I already do that.
Steps 12 and 13: Calligraphy and Letter Writing
When I see an avid reader with decent penmanship, my primary response is always to accuse them of immortality. The article agrees.
“Do you partake in calligraphy?” I asked my friends in an attempt to imply that I frequently did.
“Is this a serious question?” was the response. I couldn’t honestly say yes, so I left it.
Interestingly, in the drawing accompanying the calligraphy step, there is a letter that reads, in a beautifully penned font: YOU SLEPT WITH HIM. That’s all it says. The rest is half-obscured by a hand holding a pen (I can vaguely see "you forni–" and "fem"). I personally love this idea of sending accusations by post in the form of beautifully penned letters. Let’s bring this back.
Step 14: Enjoying Art
I just spent five minutes trying to decipher the rest of the letter in the YOU SLEPT WITH HIM illustration. This counts.
Step 15: Being Polite But Reserved
This step states that you must seem uninterested in serious attachments because “you’re only passing through”. I didn’t love the implication that the reason I was being suavely aloof was because I was going to outlive my mortal, decaying, future-corpse friends.
Step 16: Being Good With Animals (But Also Gastronomically)
Serving your pet rabbit as a meal is suggested here. After all, apparently “as long as the poor beasts don't suffer unnecessarily, it's all fair”.
I don’t have a rabbit, and if I did I wouldn’t cook and eat it. I felt as though I should skip this step because although I have a dog, I love her and I am therefore not willing to incorporate her into some cuisine.
Again, I decided to utilise the powers of suggestion here. I said to my friends (whilst lounging nonchalantly in my modest clothing and brooch), “Care for some dog?”
“Why did you word it like that?” a friend asked hesitantly. “That’s a really weird way to word that.”
“Because what I’m implying is that I have prepared a dog. Like, for eating.”
She said, “Have you?”
I paused. “No.”
My ruse had been busted.
The Results
The time had come to conclude my experiment. After twenty minutes of sham immortality, I finally gave in and let the veil of illusion fall. Here were my friends’ responses to finding out that my immortality had been a carefully orchestrated ruse.
Friend #1: “Wait, is that what you were doing? Implying that you were immortal? Why would you think that immortal beings have terrible Scottish accents and eat dogs?”
Friend #2: “Why? For what logical reason…?”
Friend #3: “I don’t think you seemed immortal per se. But I liked the bit where you said ‘Wolfgang’. That was good touch.”
So there you have it. If you want to be immortal, skip the Scottish accent and don’t threaten to eat a dog. Instead, heavily imply that you personally know Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. That’s all. Happy lying.
