Except the people at my university weren't starving for my stage presence. They didn't care at all.
I did two open mics in my student union coffee shop within the first month of college, and I was met with thunderous indifference. I had a very fragile sense of self at the time, and it was shattered. The nail in the coffin was walking through the English building and hearing a person say, "Hey, it's that comedian...," with the tone of voice of someone vomiting out of their fingers. I had told everyone in my dorm, when we went around and introduced ourselves at orientation, that I was a comic. And those two bad performances didn't take the label away from me, but they did add something to it: I had failed to mention that I was a bad comic.
After that, I rushed to make myself unique. I looked 12 until I was 20, so being the attractive guy was not an option. I was smart, but not the impressive kind of smart. I was the kind of smart that, if you knew nothing about computers, I could help you install Microsoft Word. Within two weeks of beginning college, I drunkenly shut my hand in a sliding window and had to be taken to the hospital, so being the fun alcoholic was nixed. And I was generally awkward, so my chances of being a guy that you'd ever want to hang out with at all were slim. So I picked movies, as I knew a little bit about them, and knowing who played that one guy in that one thing while you're chatting during a beer pong game makes you the most useless of demigods.
Aside from people who are actually good at beer pong.