Things that should mean automatic rejection from grad school

(AKA Things that may or may not have actually happened while I worked in Admissions):

Abbreviating your city or street name on applications, or using a scrawl that more closely resembles satanic symbols than your own native language, so that I have to spend 10 minutes on Google Maps trying to figure out where the hell to send your application. But it doesn't matter, you're not getting in anyway. Might as well save the stamp for your porn magazine order form. They might actually be willing to look up your address.

Bringing parents to your admissions meetings and/or letting your parents do all the talking while you sit and look bored. So sorry all this talk about opportunities that are only available to a minuscule portion of the population bores you. Let's fix it by tossing you from a top floor window. At that point it's always classy to wish the parents better luck with their next child, or alternately, offer them pamphlets on sterilization.

Asking our admissions office to transfer you to the admissions department of another school. We are not an answering service, we are a business. If you call Lowe's and ask to be transferred to The Home Depot, they will likely come to your house and pin you to the fence with a staple gun. We are legally obligated to follow suit.

Sending form emails or letters in which you were too lazy to change the name of the school. I'm so glad you're excited to apply to the University of Illinois. I'm excited to put your application at the bottom of my bird's cage and watch him take a shit on your already abysmal GPA.

Bringing parents to the interview day. Most of us had the placenta severed about 45 seconds after birth. Having failed that, you continued on a path of failure that will inevitably end in a quiet death some place cold, damp and alone.

Submitting narrative grades. I'm sorry the current educational system is as deeply flawed as it is, I truly am. However, all your narrative grades prove is that you're a nice poo-baby who needs a ream of paper to describe to you not only that you truly are sub-average, but expound on the myriad ways in which you do not measure up.

Putting a fake phone number on your contact sheet. 1-234-456-7890? Really? Wow. Fortunately, I had nothing to call you about anyway, as you will not be getting in to grad school.

Applying to a Masters-level or Doctoral program when you do not have, and are not in the process of earning, a Bachelor's degree. I suppose you may not be able to see this particular red flag in the face of all the other red flags that are waving due to your impossibly ridiculous life, so I'll just give you a heads up on that one.

Rolling your eyes when asked to respond the writing sample prompt. Yes, you do have to give a writing sample. Yes, grammar and spelling do count. I would love to hear the rationale behind NOT taking into consideration grammar and spelling on a writing sample. It seems somewhat analogous to: "It's a urine sample, but don't worry! We're not looking for drugs or anything strange. We *really* just want a cup of your piss."

Submitting your application to a doctoral program 2 weeks before the start of the term and expecting to get in. Some people spend the better part of a year gathering their admissions materials, picking out schools, and making important decisions. But hey, we should shove them aside for you, a half-wit who woke up naked in someone else's basement, smoked a bowl and said "Fuck it, I'm going to grad school!" Makes perfect sense.

Bringing parents to your tour of the school. This could almost be forgiven unless (and this actually happened) you happen to be pregnant and your parent decides quell the upsurge of congratulations and smiles by somberly informing everyone that it is a "mixed baby." Perhaps the student in that case could be admitted, but only with the understanding that she should never speak to her parents again. It's what's best.

Having something stupid on your voicemail. Do NOT sing "Don't Worry, Be Happy" in your voicemail message. In fact, I would advise you to worry very much about the fact that your inability to produce even 30 seconds of appropriate utterances for a voicemail message may doom you to a life of waitressing at bad titty bars.

Repeatedly calling the admissions office to ask mundane questions that could either be answered by A) reading the materials you've already been sent or B) taking 30 seconds to stop talking, grow a pair and actually make a decision. I am not your mother. I will not make this decision for you. Even though she and I may share the same general loathing for your existence and a deep-seated shame that we occupy the same planet, we are not, in fact, the same person. Nut up.

Ringback tones. Your music sucks. Most people listen to those songs quietly, in a bathroom with the fan on so their friends--should they be so lucky--don't know they listen to music that sucks that bad. You choose to broadcast it over your phone. Interesting choice.

Arguing with an admissions counselor about whether you need letters of recommendation. You do. You may not be able to get them because of your rampant assholery, but that's a moot point. You're not getting in anyway.


Love always,
Admissions Work Study Student