Dear College X,

I think I’ve spent my entire life trying to impress you. I wanted you to see that I’m genuinely special, that I’m a real flesh and blood person with dreams and ambitions of my own. I have substance and character; I’m not some cardboard AP zombie with an impressive array of awards and leadership positions. Then again, when it comes to the admissions process, zombies do have killer weapons—maybe I’d be better off undead.

I always knew that winning your approval wouldn’t be easy. Every year, the numbers in the latest version of the Princeton Review spelled out my chances very clearly: next to nil. But I refused to be deterred; I was determined to prove myself to you. I sacrificed my time, my sleep, and my sanity because I thought that maybe, just maybe, it might make a difference. I stayed up late perfecting projects for classes I never wanted to take and completed countless hours of community service for programs I never wanted to join. To date, I’ve done everything short of parading across your campus with a giant “Look at Me!” sign, and I only drew the line there because that just reeks of desperation. The other stuff I’ve done is slightly more subtle. Just slightly.

You claim that my personal statement is the ideal opportunity for me to “express myself,” as though I could somehow streamline my entire personality into five hundred words (six hundred maximum). I must have revised my essay at least a hundred thousand times, struggling to find the perfect combination of wit, idiosyncrasy, and profound insight that would make your admissions officers laugh, or smile, or feel generally inclined to admit me. But for all I know, my reader will be the one person on the planet who finds my writing deeply offensive. What am I—unique or a total weirdo? Brilliant or just mentally disturbed? My identity is entirely up to your interpretation, and that frightens me more than I care to admit.

I used to have a plan for these past four years, a plan that I figured would put me on the right track if I stuck to it meticulously. Things didn’t quite work out that way, though. I’d like to explain the subpar grades that one semester, but I don’t think “I was falling apart” is the answer you’re looking for. And despite my many hours with the big blue book, my test scores are far from spectacular. I never thought I’d be embarrassed to send in a college application, but today, as I scan the lackluster stack of papers before me, I can’t help feeling horribly deficient.

But that’s only the vulnerable part of me speaking. From a rational perspective, I couldn’t give a damn. I realize that you know nothing about me—absolutely nothing. The only fragments of information you possess are stupid, trivial data like my lowest SAT subscore and the amount of money my folks make, empty stickers you can peel off without changing who I am underneath. They are no more a part of me than a hollow, meaningless shell. They do not define me.

Here’s what you don’t know: that I would die for my friends, that my favorite food is sushi, that I taught myself how to play the electric guitar. That I always eat the red Skittles first. That I have always valued loyalty and honesty above all else, that I still write letters out by hand, no matter how long they are. That my greatest strength and my greatest weakness is caring too much. That at first glance I may seem shy and aloof, but I’m really quite passionate once you get to know me.

And yet you expect me to transcribe myself into a few fill-in-the-blank pages. There’s so much more to me than that. I’m worth a novel, at least. Maybe even a series.

In the spring, I’ll camp out by my computer, compulsively refreshing my admissions status page every few minutes. I’ll wait for your notification with bated breath, both desperate and afraid to know the answer. And if it begins with “We regret to inform you…,” I might get choked up a little, maybe even cry—I admit that. Rejection hurts more than a slap to the face. No matter how impersonal its form, it’s like having the wind knocked out of you emotionally, like being told that you’ve been judged and, for whatever reason, deemed inadequate. Deep down though, I know that’s not true. It’s not that I don’t deserve you. You don’t deserve me.

So bring it on, College X. Whether I get my diploma from you or University ABC, I’ll do something amazing with my life and make you my supplement.

Sincerely,

Nuria Mathog

I love Thanksgiving, but giving thanks is difficult when I am so used to being negative. Cynicism—the current trend in thinking—has become a habit of mine, and after 364 days of incessant whining over every minute aspect of life, it is kind of tough to switch gears all of a sudden. Yes, yes—it would certainly be nice if I were grateful and optimistic all the time, but where is the fun in that?

Perhaps that is the reason for Thanksgiving’s popularity—the secret sense of enjoyment and liberation we get from shedding our roles as miserable, apathetic pessimists. The holiday gives us all an excuse to express those embarrassingly positive feelings bottled-up within.

Just for one day, it would not be awkward to thank my friends for providing me with a never-ending source of amusement and support. Each day, I listen to their complaints, laugh at their jokes, put up with their flaws, “borrow” food from them, commend them on their successes, and console them when they are disappointed—and they never fail to reciprocate.

Just for one day, it would not feel odd to confess how much I value the random and seemingly trivial items that make my life infinitely easier: eyeglasses, sweaters, air conditioners, cell phones, dictionaries, chairs, graphing calculators, toothpaste, my agenda, Facebook, three-ring binders, lunchboxes, Kleenex, and water bottles. I know that I have omitted many things, but I am certain that I am very grateful for them as well.

Just for one day, it would not be a cliché to admit that I am far more fortunate than many, many people around the world. Things that I normally take for granted—food, water, shelter, family, medicine, education—suddenly become treasured and unique in my eyes. For the duration of 24 hours, I force myself to view life from a broader perspective, remembering that despite my occasional petty bouts of sadness, I lead a much more comfortable life than most.

Just for one day, I can be grateful for my family, who has somehow found a way to live with me without descending into insanity or resorting to violence. My parents sponsor all of my activities, drive me to school, cook the food I eat, keep clean the house in which I live, and are my single source of unconditional affection and support.

Just for one day, it is okay to be thankful for being alive in general. Just for one day, I can appreciate the things that I have every other day of the year.

Don’t you worry—come tomorrow, I’ll be right back to complaining.