UCAStrated

Let me start by saying that I’m not a frightfully interesting person. I am in no way cultured, polished or well-informed. The summary of my life achievements is as follows: “My computer says I win 3% of the time at Solitaire.” My aims in life: “Leave home before the age of 35.” My hobbies: “Reading, man, it’s off the wall. Also, drawing cats who speak in broken Japanese.” My knowledge of current affairs: “Brian Cowen drinks too much.”

Now, if I’m having trouble condensing the reasons that I’m epic and you should let me onto your English course into 4,000 characters, there can be no hope for those who actually have something to say for themselves.

In case you were wondering, I’m talking about the UCAS Personal Statement. In case you were wondering even further, it has whipped me into submission, and not in the fun way. Personal Details and Education were child’s play. Choices, granted, were less so, but that’s sorted now. It’s the last hurdle  I’m having difficulty with – namely, the PS, aka that whore, that harlot, that dollymop, that lady of the night, that strumpet, that floozy, that nymph of the pavement, that ladybird, that woman no better than she should be. Thank you, Victorian literature, for providing me with more synonyms for ‘prostitute’ than I will ever need – at least, more than I hope I’ll ever need.

To return to the point, dear friends, I like the PS even less than it likes me. Now, I’m trying not to sound orotund or unwilling to accept the automated criticism of a character-counting script or anything, but my current draft was composed with a linguistic craft that can be likened only to ninjitsu. It’s almost feline in its elegance, its efficiency of phrase, its conviction of movement. It’s also 3,796 characters over the limit. Lesser souls might take this as a sign that they need to use their editorial judgement to decide what can go and what should stay. I, of course, take it as a personal affront. How can any university not want to know as much as humanly possible about the nonpareil that is me?

In all seriousness, though, the system has trampled me. I’m defeated. I’m UCAStrated. (Oho, my wordplay, it sparkles when it catches the light.)

In particular, talking about what I read has gotten me tying my intestines into knots. Should I go for a list of ten authors or a few sentences on three or four? Should I mention the books everyone’s read so that they know I’ve read them, too, or should I throw in ones they’ll be surprised I’ve even heard of? How many novelists should I mention in comparison to playwrights, poets, essayists, literary critics? So on, so forth. Lather, rinse, repeat. In my heart of hearts – bah, how hackneyed, but I hope you won’t be offended when I say that I’m saving my best writing for the PS right now – but anyway, as I was rather jarringly saying, in my heart of hearts, I know the answer is that no two applicants are the same and I should arrange it according to what’s important to me and that, above all, I should say what I like, and they might even find it more interesting and evidential of independent thought if what I like isn’t always what the critics like, and yada yada yada.

The best thing about the UCAS is that you can make a personal appeal. The worst thing about the UCAS is also that you can make a personal appeal. If they reject me, it won’t be on the basis of my coming 5 points short. I won’t be a mildly defective robot emerging from a production line and judged unfit. They’ll consider me as a human being; thus, they’ll reject me as a human being. All of me. All of my extra-curriculars and my opinions on the modernist movement and everything I considered worth putting down. The best of me, untainted by any irrelevant or unflattering information (and with 4,000 characters in which to sell myself, you can be sure of that much), that’ll be the basis of their rejection.

Which is much more demoralising. Which sucks.

All this is distracting me from the Leaving Cert. I’ve yet to decide whether this is a good thing, but I suspect not. I only study with a gun to my temple. Also, being something of a monomaniac, I can never distribute my energies wisely. It’s all concentrated on the UCAS form at present. “I . . . like a trade-wind, must now blow all one way,” and all that jazz.

Gah. Hungry. Time for sushi, methinks.