Do you remember me? How could you? You encounter so many people on a daily basis that it would be impossible for you remember them all. When we met over a year ago I had wild curly hair and a pained expression. My eyebrows were also much thicker back then. Recently I’ve discovered the benefits of weekly tweezing, but that’s a conversation for another day.
The reason I’m writing you is to let you know that I have no hard feelings despite what you did to me last year. I’m over it GRE, really and truly. It doesn’t matter to me that you drew wretched sobs out of my stony heart or that you forced me to cry in my car (alone) for over an hour. I no longer think of that fateful day when I sat down in that chair and you made me feel as though the evolutionary process had passed me by and I had the I.Q of primordial ooze. No, no, I don’t even recall how many sleepless nights (twenty) I laid awake in bed going over every question in my mind and praying to God that he would just let me slip into madness. That’s all in the past now.
I hope that when we meet tomorrow, GRE, we can meet as good friends. I will do my part to be cordial and civil and not bash your brains in with a sledgehammer like I daydreamed of doing so long ago. I pray that you will do the same and treat me as an equal rather than an insipid mongrel.
Oh GRE, why can’t we just get along? There’s really no need for the bad blood between us. True, I did obsess, study, prepare, and stress over you. True, I neglected my friends and family in order to go over word analogies and sentence completions. And yes, I did flash so many flashcards with math equations on them that I can no longer look at index cards without becoming violent, but really, I mean really, GRE, it’s all in the past. I’m sure you’ve changed. In fact, I’m sure of it; your website told me so.
Anyway, GRE, let’s promise to think of the past only as it brings us pleasure. Let’s promise to both do our best tomorrow and if we should shed tears (and you most definitely will because I’m going to strangle you with your own entrails once I’m done) let them be tears of joy.
Much love (and ire),