UCLA is Trying to Kill Me

Editor's Note: I originally wrote this on Tuesday night, but did not immediately post it because it made me sound so crazy. But then, I spoke to some other students at CCSF waiting to hear back from UCLA, and I decided that our stories should be told. We no longer have to suffer in silence. This blog is dedicated to my SPCH2 peeps.

Setting: My living room. The couch there is green. The carpet is beige, and of the wall-to-wall style.

Characters: Just Melanie. Striking eyes, voluminous hair, forlorn look shadowing her face like a veil of mystery.

Internal dialogue as follows:

So, UCLA said they would get back to me regarding their judgment of my character, I mean, admission decision, in late April. That is SO VAGUE. As far as I'm concerned, late April started on March 20th, so my neurotic ass has been checking their admission website at least once a day since then. Although, as it gets to be undeniably late April, I check it more often. Today I checked it four times, including once right now which you would think wouldn't make any sense because it's 11:11 PM and who the fuck admits a young girl from New York to college this late at night? Key words: You would think.

Those educated mofos sent me an email last week at 10:20 PM to ask me a question about my application. 10:20 PM. What the hell are they trying to do, kill me? It's like there is a bullet heading for my eye, and it could be filled with a really cool and refreshing contact lens solution or it could be filled with that acid that they used to burn Roger Rabbit and I have no idea what's in the bullet, and there is no way to tell, and it could come at any time, day or night. I would sleep with my eyes open, but that's dangerous when there is a bullet aimed at your eye.

Also, I'll bet they can see how many times I check that shit, and they were initially going to let me in, but now they're not and it's because they think I'm crazy and should just wash my teeth and go to sleep instead of obsessing over something I have zero control over. Yes, I said 'wash my teeth.' And I meant it.

An Open Letter to UC Berkeley

Hey there Berkeley,

Melanie here. I would take more time to introduce myself, but you already know everything about me. You know that I grew up in Connecticut and then moved to New York. You know that my GPA is a sparkly 3.8. You know that I love writing like fat kids love cake. You even know how much money I made last year. And you say nothing.

I gave you all this personal and private information - and more. I wrote you essays when I should have been studying. I filled out your supplements when the sun was shining and Dolores Park was calling my name. I've told all my friends about you already. Even my parents know about you. And, yet, you give me nothing.

Oh, sure, there were the impersonal form emails. Those few pleasantly mass-produced reminders. And of course the dream I harbor of being a student under your fine tutelage, but none of this is specific to me. Thousands of potential transfer students received those form emails. Those reminders have been seen by more eyes than that Paris Hilton hamburger commercial. And that dog that sleepwalks into walls. COMBINED. And almost every student at CCSF, ever, has had the dream of walking through your doors as a full-fledged student. I say 'almost' because some of them are just not smart enough to see you the way I do. Plus, they are kind of lazy.

How do you think this makes me feel? All I want is a little reciprocity. A little requited love. All my professors think we are made to be together. And most of my friends, too. And I know that some people think you are out-of-my-league, but you know what, I don't care what they say, because I know that you and I would make beautiful music together. But not real music. Like, figurative music. That was a metaphor and I used it because I am smart. You could definitely use me - and I don't say that to just anyone.

That's all for now. I just wanted to open the lines of communication. Again. Some people think I deserve better, but let's prove them wrong. Write to me. Tell me you want me. Tell me you need me. Hold me in your educationally esteemed arms and let me put you on my resume for the rest of my life.

Even if you just need to tell me to give it up, that you are not interested in a girl like me. Sure, I might cry. I might eat a gallon of ice cream. But that's OK because I live right near the best ice cream store in the world. And I have, like, a million friends on Facebook and in real life, so I'll be good. Just please say something, anything. I'm dying over here.

The ball's in your court.

Sincerely yours (if you want me),

Melanie Duve

PS And if you break up with me it's totally fine because SF State has been writing me love letters for months.

PPS I'm just playing, you know I love you.

PPPS But really. Other people want to tap this resource.