The Oxford rejection

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.


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