I think I am dying from disappointment.

I feel feverish. My body tingles and my head swirls, overcome with an irrational sense of vertigo. I hate NYU.

You hear me, you idiots? I hate you. How dare you recommend me for the GSP program? I am a writer, I belong in the College of Arts and Sciences! How could you have the audacity to place me with mumbling rejects?

I am inadequate. I am going to transform into a Jude the Obscure-esque wraith, pining for a university education while being seduced into an unhappy marriage coupled with social rejection. I shall die poor and alone, my talents wasted under the weight of cultural judgement.

I shall amount to nothing better than a pitiful drone, a craftsman, a faceless worker in a world as homogenous and unpitying as my own dwindling intellect.