<p>I started my race of getting into an Ivy League school two years ago, around the time my family decided to let me attend an expensive boarding school in the U.S.A. Somewhere along the road, I lost myself. I still do.</p>
<p>Now, I may sit here tying this calmly; tomorrow, I will freak out because I wasted all evening writing this confession instead of contemplating and optimizing my odds of being accepted.</p>
<p>Harvard has always been the first name that comes to mind. Why? Because everybody in my country knows it. And so I crave for getting into this elite school. But that is just the surface of how despicable I am.</p>
<p>Rather than a dream, Harvard became an obsession. I could not end a day without asking what I had accomplished to bring me closer to Cambridge, MA. Not satisfied with myself, I started to annoy those around me. The first victim was my compatriot in the boarding high school (“first” means that there would be a “second”, a “third,”...). I beleaguered him with a burning hunger for assurance and admiration. “A college discussion,” I called it, but what really happened was just me babbling about how great my SAT and GPA were and how he should have approach the college admission process. I was the mister who knew it all. Out of kindness, he listened attentively. But like a superstar condescending to his “fan”, I looked down on him. As a Harvard “prospective” student, I viewed his wish of going to Randolph College a mediocre and contemptuous choice. Little did I realize what a pathetic creature I was. We were both 17 years old, but he had a magnanimity far larger than mine. While I put all my bet into a hollow obsession, he carried out a pragmatic plan, silently and effectively. He eventually made it while I, an utter failure, struggle to even get into a “contemptuous” school as I once called. Before that letter of rejection comes, my friend, I own you an apology.</p>
<p>Rather than a dream, Harvard became a false pride (had it not shown already). Before leaving for America, I enjoyed my last campfire with my best friends. I was the center of that day. As a good student, I was expected to be something great. In my country, anyone who traveled abroad seemed to carry with him an aura of enlightenment. Now, imagine a person who would live and talk and live with the natives, you will realize what big of a deal studying abroad was for me and them. Although I knew full-well that Harvard was out-of-reach because I spent my time either taking extra courses to get ahead in class or dallying around with friends, I lied that I could possibly make it. Like a Willy Loman stubbornly hold on to his corrupted dream, I sold them and (laughingly) myself the idea of something impossible. Before that letter of rejection comes, I must get ready for a shameful debacle.</p>
<p>But the most corrupted part about my dream is that I cannot give it up, knowing that I will waste 75$ for a pending rejection. I can't refrain from applying. The uncertainty of college admission troubles me, but the most dreadful thing is the “What if” question. If I don't apply, ten years after, twenty years after, when I fail at being the great person I expected to be, I will ask my self that “What if I had a chance” question. Maybe, I really pay that 75$ fee to have an official statement that says: “Your chance of being accepted is now reduced to zero, find another path."</p>
<p>Anyway, please wish me luck to soon escape this nightmare.
Moral of the story: Don't be another me.</p>
<p>Here is the tl;dr: HS Senior complaining about his despicable self.</p>
<p>P/s: I'm sorry for grammatical mistakes and the wall of text.</p>