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. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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,


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