Admit it, you’re broke. Gambling on penny stocks to squeeze any dopamine from the dried-up sponge you call a brain has left you desperate for a quick buck. And sure, selling your Papa John’s gift cards for cash will save you temporarily, but loan sharks are not the biggest fans of cinnapie desserts. That 20% interest loan you got in Centennial Park to cover your Men’s Health dropshipping scheme is eventually going to catch up to you. Or your kneecaps. But don’t worry, they’re like kidneys: you only really need one.
So here you are, in your dorm with boxes of jumbo One-a-Day Men’s Health Multivitamins. It happens to the best of us. Your best solution is to profit off of (mildly tangy) freshman desperation and their chronic Adderall addiction. Yes, all of your past business ventures have left you financially and sexually bankrupt. But remember the three tenets those Instagram Gurus have told you: failure drives success, I’m single, and never pay your taxes.
The first step is to find your market. If you can find the kid on your floor who snorts Adderall before a game of 2K, he can buy enough vitamins to keep your business on life support. He might need the nutrients based on his diet of Red Baron microwave pizzas. However, your key point of success will be establishing client relations with the pre-meds.
Obviously, the midterm season will be the time to make your market play. Just wait outside the UCC for any pre-med student looking to save their GPA before that chem final. The best thing to do is set an exorbitantly high rate for your vitamins. Don’t worry, they won’t try to nickel and dime you over your pricing. They’ve got to stress about their three inevitable divorces after med school.
Sooner or later, you’ll have enough money to satisfy that growing mound of debt. Don’t worry about ethics. You’re an economics major, it’s what the market demands after all. That Stratton-Oakmont flag stares down at you every night reminding you what a real piece of shit you are. Slicked back hair, white jeans, champagne on New Year’s Eve. But who cares, you just made $7 so Millie can finish that paper on her nuanced opinions about the disastrous shortage of pickle-fined porpoises in the Boston harbor before tomorrow morning. There might come a day where your clients will realize they’ve been duped and storm your dorm looking for your head like the Jacobins. But fear not. The PR team (you) can solve this customer dissatisfaction by offering free pop-rocks that you claim are LSD. We can’t tell the difference, we’re Vandy students after all.