Distinctly unlikable

My first semester of college almost didn't happen.
I had horrible drama my senior year of high school with my very racist counselor who made me believe he sent my transcript to UNLV, but lo and behold, he hadn't. I wasn't made aware until I took my chemistry placement exam and the lady at the registrar told me there was no record of me.
I got that shit fixed (after sending my transcript a total of three times to the damn school).

That was it as far as my whole application experience went.
My parents didn't give me permission to apply anywhere else. I would just sit at home and see school after school, packet after packet try to contact me.
I don't know why you even open those things, when we all know the only school you're going to is UNLV.
Yeah... but I just... wanted to see what Notre Dame had to say.
(I still use my Princeton postcard as a bookmark)
My friends would wonder why I needed my parent's approval, but come on, they're my parents... they were the ones who would ultimately pay for my tuition, housing, etc.

Well, now it's a different story.
I'm finally experiencing the whole jittery business that is the application process.
And it's fun!!
Ok... not really. My eyes are killing me and this bizarre sense of dread is overtaking me.
Worst of all, I'm actually shooting for UNLV. Like... I really want to go there.

I'm sure the moment I tell my friends and family they'll have a cow over it... that, or think I couldn't cut it for more "prestigious" schools. Would I like to go to Stanford? Yes, yes I would... but their CW program-- while stipend-- does not give you a degree at the end of the two years. It's... eh. Plus, the program doesn't take you abroad. UNLV does.
SO... hello UNLV.

What will I do if UNLV doesn't take me? I don't quite know. I might go crazy... I'm not sure (as if I have some sort of control over that bullshit). I might just get married to the first jackass that asks and let that be the end of my story. That seems like the more plausible outcome.

ANYWAY, this whole application thing requires me to go through all my old manuscripts. Most schools are asking for 25 pages of fiction, which usually means 2 stories for me.
I have... 21 manuscripts. I'm not sure if that's the final count, or if I have seven more missing somewhere. I don't remember if I took creative writing three or four times. If it was only three times, then yeah, all my stories are there. I just know that I once made a count of how many words I wrote, and the total came out to over 90k, really close to 91. A lot of words to go though, but I must... unless I want to start from scratch and write a new one (NOT gonna happen).

Going through the stories is making me both really happy and miserable at the same time... although sadness seems to be the governing sentiment.
I re-read what the professor wrote at the end of my stories and chose from that (poor man... I made him sad). The first manuscripts I've read are the ones he commented as "This one's very touching... but, the end made me really sad." You know that shit's a winner.
Some of these stories I have no recollection of ever writing, but others... while they have yet to make me cry, I've found myself frowning on various occasions.
Jesus... I have issues! And not too many people are fond of said issues. The one time I actually had more than one person (Kelley) read my shit, I came out of it a loser. Everyone hated my stuff.
Although I remember most comments made about my stories, the comment I remember most (besides one other guy in there who pissed me off because he said "I just couldn't get into it because of how many times you would say 'Got.' It was jarring at times," This coming from an imbecile who would say "like" at least EIGHT times in one sentence, I kid you not. I'd end class wondering how a pencil hadn't found its way into my ear) is Darcy's comment:
I don't really like... stories that are... sentimental.
Oh... Ok... (internally) So you didn't even read them? Oh no.
I wasn't sure what sucked more, that comment, or the fact that the rest of the class was tearing my shit up (figuratively speaking. I complained about this to my professor and he thought the jerks were literally ripping the pages apart. Imagine that. I would have burst into sobs had that actually occurred! First to hear Darcy say he didn't like them, then see the rest of class ripping up the pages? I would have jumped out the window-- thought that often ran through my mind, since class was on the top floor of the building. It's a weird thing of mine, I can't help but wonder shit like that when I look out windows of tall buildings. So... if I jumped out right here, would I survive? What if that tree caught my fall? God, it'd be so awesome if things worked out like in Super Mario... jumping from canopy to canopy. How fun. Ew, what would by body look like after falling to the precipice? Nasty).

All this makes me freak out. If I couldn't make two of the eight (or ten. I forget) people in class to dig my shit, what makes me think anyone will. You know?
While I have a distinctive voice, it's an entirely different thing to have an appealing voice.

Goddamn, I've managed to make myself sad. I better stop now.