There’s nothing quite like the rush of walking past a group of hopeful students and jealous parents, knowing I’m better than them because I go here and they don’t. I’m addicted to the feeling; sometimes I walk laps around them in full Columbia merch just to make sure they know I go here – that I’m not one of them. I exult in the way parents narrow their eyes at me, pretending to be annoyed while really wishing I was their child instead.
Yes, I still remember the feeling of being in one of those tour groups. Glaring at my competition. I used to be like you, I think to myself. Then, I ascended: some guy – maybe even Captain Bayonne – read my application and decided to admit me. And that makes me an objectively better person. I smirk.
There’s just one problem with this arrangement: it’s not enough. No, not nearly enough. How else am I meant to recover after taking a bad test? Where else am I meant to go when I’m feeling down? Back to Europe? I already did that this week. This is all I have. Well, this and a trust fund my dad gave me. And a building with my last name on it.
Dear Columbia Admissions, please increase the number of stressed-out highschoolers on campus with faux-enthusiastic parents who pretend to be engaged for the tour guides like they have any control over applications. I want to bump into at least six each time I go to class so I can smile knowingly at the groups huddled about – thriving on the knowledge that statistically, most of them will be rejected.
And to the few applicants who may be reading this piece? Have fun at NYU, fuckers. You’re not getting in.
