The thin envelopes have all arrived and the tally is as follows: two rejections, one from the second choice, one from the third choice; and two waitlist offers, one from the first choice and one from the last choice. The gamble of admissions is perplexing to me — how is it that I was waitlisted at my first and last choices?

Without any solid answers, I find myself without a reliable plan for this coming September. At the very least, school would be my ticket out of a low-paying, dead-end job, and now I’m faced with the possibility of having to find something else. Despite all the flexibility it allows, this year at my job has been enough. But now? I’m trying my hardest not to lie in bed chewing at my cuticles and bemoaning the lack of direction in my life, but it’s hard to move past the questions. It’s even harder to get myself out of bed every morning, each day inching a little bit closer to, well, nothing I’m prepared for. I’m not good at being told “no,” nor am I good at visualizing a future that’s less than what I intended, less than perfect.