Generally speaking, I’m the less self-involved one in this friendship. If Gabriela is the talker, then I’m the engaged listener. The Oprah to her Meghan Markle. But tonight I can’t muster the energy to listen to her contemplate her feelings about Wes. I apologize for being distracted and promise to be a better friend tomorrow. When we end the call, I immediately open Gideon’s email, so I can properly feel bad for myself all over again.

I manage to get through the first paragraph, but the rest of his diatribe is harder to decipher through the tears that are rolling down my face and dampening my STRONG FEMALE CHARACTER T-shirt. He is brutally honest, but part of me wonders if he also enjoyed making me feel bad. He says that my essay is lazy and derivative and that it lacks sparkle. He says I’m clearly exploiting my grandmother’s death because nothing else with any consequence has happened to me, and it would be obvious to anyone with half a brain that I’m grasping at straws for anything remotely interesting to write about. He says I use too many commas and that I’m too earnest and saccharine. The worst part is, I don’t think he’s wrong.

I read the last part of his email.

Parisa, you’re clearly very bright, but there’s no blood on the page of this essay. I want blood. Harvard wants blood. YOU NEED TO CUT YOURSELF WIDE OPEN AND START OVER.

I politely thank him for taking the time to read my essay. I tell him that his critiques were spot on and that he’s given me a lot to ponder. P.S. By the time I’m done with my essay, it’s going to look like a grisly crime scene. Get it? Because of all the blood?