Dear Amy,

Yes, that Amy. You with the hair. You know who I mean. I am Fonsworth T. Clydesdale, a spirit inhabiting what you might call the astral plane.

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I was also a Stanford admissions mistake, Stanford’s first admissions mistake, all the way back in the hale fall of 1891. I write to you because I have been made aware, in the most ethereal and indubitably spooky way possible, of course, that you are continuing my stained and tarnished legacy.

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A legacy of failure and idiocy.

Let me put this in terms even a non-ghost can understand: You are most categorically fucked. Everyone here is on a higher plane of intelligence than you; your shame and stupidity will follow you to the ends of the earth.

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Sometimes even under the earth, where the other ghosts will be mean bullies and make fun of your weird ear mole. Like a parasite, it infects your being.  I don’t wish to worry you, though, as life is short. And I should know, I died in a freak carnival accident at the ripe age of 26.

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Not to say that this will happen to you, of course. But you are a mistake.

Now, you may think that my counsel does not apply to you.

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But who better to advise a mistake than a mistake himself?  But I don’t judge, for it is not in the Ghost Code. I simply note that you are, as I once was, the turd that one must stamp out on the welcome mat before entering our hallowed halls of learning.

All the best in the coming four years.

The T stands for Trachim,

Yours in perpetuity,

Fonsworth

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