To the eight schools that waitlisted me:
UVA: You're basically the girl who can't really decide what she wants, but can't actually reject anyone at all. So you string people along and make them think they actually have a shot, when the truth is, your mind was already made up. See, you have a type. That type was born and bred close to you, and will be loyal to you and where you come from. I wrote you a love letter of a "Why UVA" that was outright desperate. Well, you cold-hearted bitch, I'm better than you, now. Good luck finding your law review editor a job so she doesn't have to hang out outside of ASW in a t-shirt about how she hasn't got one yet.
Duke: Swagger and bravado isn't a substitute for personality. I tried to figure out what you were all about, I really did. But the truth is, you just seem like Michigan's uglier sister with nicer weather. I kept forgetting I'd even asked you to let me in, and when your waitlist came in...SIX MONTHS after I applied...my only response was "finally!"
UCLA: Last time I was in Los Angeles, I got raped. Should I not have said that in my personal statement? Well, anyway, it must suck to constantly be overshadowed academically by a school in your own university system. You know, Berkeley? The school I'm going to be attending? That one.
Vanderbilt: By the numbers, I should have been in. Why didn't it work out between us? I was telling people in the fall that you were my #1 realistic choice, and it seemed like we could really have something. I have a weird thing for Southerners, having married two, and I love that we share so many interests, like education research. Our relationship could have been this multifaceted, dual degree thing, and I could have learned to like country music. Do I regret your waitlist? No. I only regret that I actually felt sad about it for a week. I just lacked self-confidence. I could do better...and I did.
University of Washington: From what I can see, if I had asked last year, you'd have welcomed me with open arms. But now you're caught up in all the status-conscious bullshit, the ratings and rankings. It's not me; it's you. You've changed. You yield protect now in a way that you never used to. I didn't care about your lower ranking. I didn't care about any of it. I loved you for who you were and you responded with a resounding "meh." Could it be seasonal affective disorder that's making you act this way? Get one of those special lamps. All that rain can't possibly be good for you.
University of Pennsylvania: Let's face it, I wouldn't have lived in Philly for all the money in the world. You must have figured it out somehow. Wait, let me guess: it's because I didn't send one of your mandatory supplementary essays. Or follow your page limits for the PS. Or because I sent you a diversity statement about my polygamous marriage and you're not into that. Something in me must have wanted very badly to reject you, and you couldn't even bring yourself to send me a straight-up rejection? Get some fucking courage, Penn.
Cornell University: You say you're an Ivy League school, but did you even notice when you were founded? I mean, really? You can't just show up on the scene a century later and pretend you're just as good. Ithaca might be "gorges," but you're just a callgirl for New York City law firms who run out of the classier Columbia and NYU grads. They may tell you they love you, but they're talking shit behind your back. When you figure it out, don't come crying to me, I'll be long gone.
University of Chicago: When I visited you last year, I fell in love. Head over heels madly in love, and in spite of the fact that we're so different -- I love public interest, you could care less about it; I have had sex, your student body...well, let's not talk about that -- I really thought we could make it work. I guess that's what first love is always like, that hazy feeling that nothing could be wrong. Your mid-century modern look, oh, I thought you were hot as hell. I could picture myself nestled in your library chairs for hours. Your waitlist was the first one that really stung. It wasn't just that it was a waitlist, it was that suddenly you wanted me to confess my love for you. You wanted me to bare my soul just so that you could make me wait in agony and maybe -- just maybe -- you'd reciprocate my affection instead of stomping on my heart. Well, I'm not going to play your games. I didn't even write back. We can both pretend that I wasn't ever really interested, but to tell you the truth, even though I see all your flaws now, some part of me still just wants you to say that you're sorry and that you love me after all.