Says it all in the title.
Yesterday, after arriving home with my Nanna and her outrageous number of presents that she will unwrap and take back to Cheshire, the letter was waiting.
My "rejection letter."
Mum handed it to me and said she felt sick, I opened it, slowly, and saw the words, "we can no longer offer you a place."
Dad went "oh well."
Mum tapped my shoulder.
Nanna went and sat in the living room to wait for her cup of tea.
I pulled on my Green Day hoodie over my well thought out clothes and tights, went to the toilet, came out of the toilet and spent over 4 hours crying, raging and cyber bullying my friends, wondering what I could do to sort this in the two weeks of the year when the helpful world doesn't give a shit.
After hours of the same advice from helpless onlooking friends over facebook chat and nasty anonymous messages on tumblr, I went in the living room, played a game, and felt my tears rebuilding as Tamara Drew appeared on BBC 2 and I thought aloud, "It's pastoral."
Then there was the long chat with Mum...I'll explain later while I feel so free, after feeling trapped between the world of expectation and education.
Saturday, 24 December 2011
Says it all in the title.
Monday, 19 December 2011
It sounds good, doesn't it?
...that I have yet to receive...
If it's a rejection it will no longer be "my letter", it's much more likely to be named "The rejection" with a huge dried and unknown tear stain with a lot of swear words attached to it.
I'm in quite an odd position too...
My friend who I met down at the Oxford interview, yes, "The Oxford interview," received a rejection letter on Saturday. I still, have heard nothing. My friend from College, who attened "The Oxbridge Trip" renamed "3 day academic piss up" also received a rejection from Balliol this morning.
But I'm not...well I am. I'm more afraid of feeling ok and then when I'm rejected, feeling like shit.
It's turning into a "Billy Elliot" situation.
Every time I roll down my street or see someone in town I hear the words, "Heard anything from Oxford yet?"
I do the sheepish, thankful smile and say, "Not yet."
But then my heart sinks and floats at the same exact moment in time as they shout "Ahh you'll get in, they'll be mad not to have ya'!"
They wouldn't be mad either way.
I admit and believe that I "bloody well deserve" to get in, but If I don't, I'm just like the millions of others who've read the word "unfortunately" on "that letter" with a desire to punch a hole through their Mum's coffee table.
They've all, well, most have done alright in the end and I know I will. That's how I work; push me to the edge and I'll show you what I'm made of.
My Englsih teacher pointed that out the other day when I had my mini mental meltdown in a timed essay. My brain just shut down. Panic set in and the words, "stop pretending to be better than you are" were thumping through to my fringe.
I was tired.
My teacher told me to pull a "sicky" the following day but how could I? I'd miss out on more and then the feeling would get even worse and I would be even more likely to fail!
"Since when was Laura May socially conformed?"
When did that start?
The day I was paralysed.
Apparently applying to Oxford wellagainst all social conventions that I supposedly fit into (that's working class, northern and chatty) and it's made so many people, including myself, proud of my courage to tell and prove to certain teachers that I can do what I want and nothing can stop me.
It's only sceptics who come up with those stupid social sterotypes anyway...they can all go home!
I'll stop this worry.
I'll stop this stupid panic.
And I'll remember that even If I don't get to wonderful Wadham, I'll still have an awesome life.
Because I'm me, and that's what I do.
Monday, 12 December 2011
Well my invisible, imaginary friend. It appears to be that I am wrapped up in another, slightly bigger one.
Progress? That could be the case.
Lost in a world, trying to be remembered? Slight overdramatic.
Two days ago I was thinking of writing a post all about my angst and confusion at the fact that I don't feel that I am perceived to be attractive by members of the opposite of sex. However that would be self indulgent and will come at a later date.
On this rainy, two lessoned Monday morning my mind is feeling urged to type out on my HTC a few thoughts that I have about our obsession with the outside world that makes us appear to be so self obsessed.
I have a friend, a lovely friend. Let's refer to him as Mr Tall; privately educated in an all boys school up until the age of 16, clearly never spoken to a girl before he started our college for normal, yet clever kid and so adorably innocent. Until he met us.
Don't worry, we haven't demoralised him in anyway. Innocence has different meanings in different social.circles.
I've always seen him to be this unintended, overly nice individual who's underconfident due to obvious parental over-protection.
Underconfident and overly nice in my world, that is.
I can name 3 mundane things that I have influenced him, often unintentionally, to do for the first time:
Send a text message.
Venture out of college at lunch time.
I clearly remember (not much of the second one) these moments purely because of his reaction once these three situations had occurred:
Pure joy balanced with underlying confusion.
Do you ever feel that way too?
Possibly not so strongly or in those words, but maybe that's because you've got so used to that feeling that its turned into an accepted base to your emotions.
Somewhere deep inside that feeling bubbles, everytime I see a mention on Twitter, a reblog on tumblr or a comment on YouTube, be that good or bad.
Why the obsession?
Mr Tall never felt it before but now he's met me and he's getting a feel for it. I used to feel proud but now I'm wondering whether my kind enthusiasm and mission to bring Mr Tall into the real world was such a good idea after all.
Why do I check my facebook as soon as I wake up every morning?
Why do I feel unwanted if no one has reblogged my latest gif filled moment of life on tumblr?
I tell myself It's because I want to be connected with the world, something else, something bigger.
But if I was open and outspoken about these strange emotions, that I'm sure many of us feel, I would be immediately labelled as "self obsessed."
Well maybe I am.
Maybe I am self obsessed with my own world that everyone else is wrapped up in.
And it's my own unintentional vanity or contagious disease that is trying to pull Mr Tall, the lovely friend who everyone has, into the mix.
There's more to it.
I'll leave it there or else I'll be late.
Sunday, 11 December 2011
But did it impress them?
I enjoyed both of my interviews.
That's what I tell everyone and it's exactly how I feel.
I also enjoyed the waiting around that consisted of meeting and talking to complete strangers, eating biscuits, and attaining phone numbers of attractive academics who, in any other situation I feel wouldn't have looked at me twice.
But I was one of them.
I felt like I was one of them and I still feel that I am, one of them.
When I decided to apply to Wadham College. I had no intention of allowing my imagination to indulge into "Harry Potter world" and make the entire place seem magical.
On Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday last week; I did.
I quickly made friends out of anxiety and when a third year undergraduate shouted, "Applicants, follow me." My baggy school hoodie turned into an overgrown black cloak and my sonic screwdriver that I'd shoved into my bag for luck turned into a brand new wand, bought from Ollivanders of course.
My heart didn't sink when Dumbledore wasn't sat at the head table and I spilt gravy down my top. instead, it lifted itself into the realisation that this situation was real.
I'd done it. I'd fucking well done it!
Despite certain teachers telling me that I wasn't good enough and tears of post-summer self confusion, I had had made it to the interview stage for Oxford University and I was spilling gravy, talking with a thick northern accent, and feeling totally at home in a setting that many would see as only for the privileged.
There were no wankers and no polished off public school boys. Just people like me, who wanted to do well.
Everyone was so different and yet in so many ways the same.
The interviews siv out the tasty soup of possible students that is cooked up in the Okinaga room.
I still can't say it.
I didn't get drunk, which is a disappointment compared to the Oxbridge College trip, but hey ho I ate Ice Cream outside Christ Church in December and referred to the choir boys as "Orange people."
Everyone seemed to like me, I seemed to like everyone.
Let's just hope the letter I receive in two weeks time isn't a rejection.
If it is, I shall train myself to doublethink (newspeak term) and lose all memory of this wonderful experience.
It never existed.