So, you’ve decided to apply for grad school.
Let me be the first to say — I am so sorry.
I had such a hard time writing my letter of intent for grad school. Ask my friends, ask my boss — there were constant waterworks. Because writing about yourself is really hard. Especially when it feels like your whole future is on the line.
I am a very lucky bug. I got into my top school and my dream program, but not before plowing through a bog of very potent self-hatred. And, so, in case you are having similar issues or you are a darling and you like to read things I have written in a blind rage, I present to you, my Fake Letter of Intent.
I wrote it all in one breath. The first sentence was a true attempt at sounding like I knew what I was saying, and the rest is, well, how I really felt. I have only edited out the naughty words.
To Whom It May Concern:
I believe in accessibility. In my life, writing has been a big pain in the ass. I actually don’t even like writing – it’s always a chore. Except for when I write in my diary; i.e. Dear Diary, I have to write this stupid letter to grad schools trying to convince them that I am one awesome son of a [glitch]. What the [muck]? I should probably just send them a video of me lip-syncing Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On,” because everything I write is garbage (not “gar-badge,” but nice and French-like: “gar-baaagsh”).
I don’t know how to write as myself unless I am complaining. Like right now. Right now this is incredibly easy. Probably easier than baking, which has never been easy for me. I mean I guess it’s easier than competing for a gold medal in skiing. In lancing. In fencing. Easier than eating what I bake, that’s fo’ sho’. Why do I want to go to grad school anyway? So I can write more crap? So I get a piece of paper that somehow validates this crap? WHO AM I? Do I want to be in school when I know that someday I will be dead? I guess if it’s in California, that would make it beautiful. But then why not just get a job at the Jamba Juice on Manhattan Beach Boulevard? (Actually, odds are, they aren’t hiring, and even if they were, I have no previous knowledge of juice or of Jamba, so why the [pluck] would they hire me? Plan, ruined.)
Maybe I could get a job writing jingles. Do you have to be a “Masters of Professional Writing” to write jingles? Something about cat, something about litter, everyone is happy. Cat litter makes people happy. See, there’s a selling-point. I am a [trucking] genius. I am the J.K. Rowling of cat litter jingles. Well, that’s obviously crap (ha – cat crap – ha) because I, Christina Marie Wolfgram, cannot even seem to puke out a decent letter of intent.
What is my intent? Write some stuff, change some lives, marry rich, start a foundation for kids who want to write for [fits] and giggles, and then die by my pool. I mean, I guess I am willing to be adaptable with bits of that plan. Like the changing lives thing. I could just change a life. A life and a half. It doesn’t even have to be MY life (God, I am soooo selfless).
I should just give up and spend this time writing children’s books. I clearly have the voice for it: “Little James, the golden chipmunk, knew that if he just shook his tail and married rich, he could stop trying to write his mother[lucking] letter of intent and start the drug addiction that would someday lead to his glamorous death by a pool.” Phenomenal. I can’t believe I’m not famous already. NOT.
Maybe this would be easier if my head wasn’t a disaster. Seriously, what am I supposed to do when it feels like someone forgot to blow out the trick candles in my brain? It feels like all the hot wax is dripping into my cheeks. IS THAT CUTE? Shrug. I bet someone in the world thinks it’s cute. Which is gross. And I hope they stay the [buck] away from me. Whatever. Maybe I should stop worrying about the cute-factor of my migraines. Then maybe they will stop showing up to family gatherings.
This “letter” of so called “intent” is a waste of time. You can’t even fake print this in the school newspaper. Remember? Because you suck. Good move, Wolfgram. That was really spectacular. Maybe if you wrote on a more regular basis this wouldn’t be so much like having all of your eyelashes removed. What? Is that painful? Probably.
Let’s edit that. … (time travel) …. Maybe if you wrote on a more regular basis this wouldn’t be so much like the time you got a bikini wax. Yeah, still crying about that, aren’t you? Painful [clucking] memories. Jesus, you are a disgrace to the English Department. And America. America hates you. (Would that be so bad? Actually, yeah, remember when everyone hated on Sarah Palin? Don’t want to be on the wrong end of that.) Okay, so America doesn’t hate you. But America doesn’t even [chucking] know you exist. I mean, somewhere, I suppose there is a computer file with your name on it, but you know why? Because of that one speeding ticket you got. Fool! Okay, no more third person. Too weird. Word vomit word vomit word vomit. Psh, how moderno is this [knit]? ee cummings would be proud, not. Maybe if it was more like this:
Wow. That’s. Good job, you’re off to a [bell] of a start, there. Really slam-bang. American Idol should know about you. Okay, talking in third person again, that’s weird. Am I showing early signs of skyzophrenia? (Really spelled schizophrenia – woof.) Maybe all writers are a little schizo. Can I even call myself a writer? I mean, isn’t this the same as the very worst emo high school poetry? Also, why hasn’t there been an anthology for that? Maybe that’s what my career goal should be. To be the editor of the first edition of The Anthology of Emo High School Poetry. I JUST WANT TO ENTERTAIN PEOPLE. And write songs. About emo high school poetry. Yes, that’s the ticket. Hmm, you know what I am absolutely terrible with? Finishing. Anything. Races, homework, papers, paintings, stories, fake letters of intent. Pathetique. I guess the ending to this could be just as fake as my beginning.
I believe in … Nothing.
Wow, yeah, that pretty much sums it up, doesn’t it? If you are writing a letter of intent, here is my advice DO NOT GIVE UP! YOU CAN DO IT! YOU CAN FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS! YOU CAN WRITE ABOUT YOURSELF AND NOT SOUND LIKE YOU HAVE A FAKE NOBEL PRIZE STUCK UP YOUR BUTT!
I believe in you! Good [luck]!!!