I got my first grad school rejection letter from university yesterday, and in the ultimate my-life-is-a-series-of-metaphors move, the first thing I did after reading the email was clean out the litter box, because nothing else could so perfectly encapsulate that particular shit happens kind of moment. The second thing I did was post a tragically emotional, sympathy seeking Facebook status abut it, because at heart I’m still a 15 year old girl who just got dumped on Valentine’s day. Then I told my mum, who was in her room dancing to Grease music, went and made a cup of tea, had a mini temper tantrum in my room, played the ukulele sobbing, dried my face off, and got on my computer to write this blog post, because hot damn, I got things to do.

I think the worst part is that I work for a catering company, and I have to cater an event for the program I just got rejected from tomorrow by myself. It’s a ritzy wine reception. So I get to stand there serving wine to the people in the program I really wanted to be in while they gripe about literature and exams and Randian philosophy or whatever. Which, you have to admit, is pretty high up on the unfortunate coincidences list.

I double checked my four other schools because I’d so rather just get rejected all at once, but of course they haven’t made decisions yet. So I probably get to do the whole drawn out temper tantrum situation four more times. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

I don’t know. I got rejected last year from three different schools for graphic design, and I was upset, but not upset about it. I had already rationalized not getting in. I knew my portfolio wasn’t very good. I had thought it through.

This time though, in my heart-of-hearts, I was positive I was going to get into this university. So I kind feel like I just got hit in the face with a porcelain mug. It hurts pretty badly with the initial impact, and then you have to find all the sharp little pieces that got down your clothes and into your shoes, and every time you find one, you think, oh yeah, I got hit in the face with a mug. Man, I DID NOT see that one coming. 

Boo, internet. Booooooo.

Cassandra out.


  1. Pingback: The Mental Breakdown- Scarlett O’Hara’s Birthday. | her name was cassandra

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