Yes, life has been pretty terrible, hasn’t it? Your teachers all think your name is Wilfred Brummelhott, and so do your parents. Your cat would rather spend time in his litter box than sit on your lap. And when you sneeze, people don’t say “Bless You!” but “Go away please Wilfred”.
Luckily you are the finest poet in the entire country, and with your almost superhuman command of the English language, and every other one, come to think of it, you are a born leader – destined to walk tall among your peers, occasionally balancing your orange juice on their heads. Your skill with words would be legendary, your metaphors admired for centuries, your similes bringing smiles to these Isles.
Rotten luck though – your voice is so awful, so terribly reedy and wet, that people stuff hankies in their ears whenever you open your mouth.
Better luck next time round – maybe as a dung beetle?