I'm still waiting for my letter...

"My letter"
It sounds good, doesn't it?

It's my letter!
...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.
~Bloody UCAS~
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.

I hugged him, and he seems ok.
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'!"
Why?
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?"
She's right.
When did that start?
25/02/05
The day I was paralysed.
Fuck that!
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.

The Oxford interview.

My analogy that compared "From the underground stain of a decayed Viking." to an unwanted stain of tea made them smile.
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.