06.07.01
Several people have asked me about the 'letter of doom'. Whyfor was I so melancholy and foreboding the other day?
The simple answer is that the letter of doom was a love note from Ms. Cynthia Seyfer, Assistant Director of Reasonable Academic Progress for the University of Iowa's Financial Aid Department, notifying me that "Federal regulations require that students receiving financial aid may only do so up through the following maximums, whichever occurs first: 180 semester hours earned, or 12 semesters enrolled."
Guess who has 110 hours, and has accumulated 12 semesters of attendance within the University's hallowed halls?
"Your earned hours/enrolled semesters meet or exceed these maximums. THERFORE, YOU ARE NOT ELIGIBLE FOR FINANCIAL AID."
This is the part where I broke down, cried for a while, and then cursed the financial aid system, and wished a plague to fall down upon the house of Ms. Cynthia Seyfer.
For, you see, all of my future plans hinge upon receiving financial aid next fall and spring, graduating, and then getting the fuck out of Iowa for parts undetermined.
The general plan involves me maxing out my financial aid, paying a great deal of my car loan off, paying for school, graduating from said school, using what little money is left over from the loans and whatever I have managed to save up to get away from Iowa City, and then have paid off my car completely by the time I have to repay all of my student loans, which I will be paying on until I die, meet and marry someone wealthy to assume my debts, and then live a happy and carefree life. In that order.
I'm sure that you, my loyal reader, can comprehend exactly how detrimental not receiving financial aid would be to this plan.
First of all, the car would become some sort of leech-like albatross around my neck, bleeding me dry every month until I either die, or 4 years has passed. Secondly, I would not graduate from college, which would mean that I would go bonkers and start killing people around me -- first and foremost the downstairs neighbors that play loud music and deface gardens. Thirdly, I would not be able to afford to leave Iowa City. I would have to work at the salon forever, the result of which being that I would go even yet still more bonkers, and see reason number two for the rest of that thought. Etc.
However, the one bright note in all of this cloud of despair is that there exists some sort of "Duration of Eligibility RAP" appeal form that I can fill out and send in to the RAP board, and it wouldn't exist if it didn't sometimes yield exemptions to the rules. Right?
So, I went to the appropriate section of the financial aid website and printed out the appropriate forms, contacted the undergraduate adviser for the art department, who is a friend btw, and made an appointment to consult with her about the appeal.
At the appointment, we set up a schedule that I could graduate with, filled out all of the forms necessary for the appeal, and discovered that I can not only get into the University's Honors Program, but that I will graduate from the University of Iowa with honors. Me, an honors student. Who'd have thought? Evelyn wrote a nice note on the form, saying that I was a good student and that I deserved this opportunity to finish my education. I am going to attach a brief letter with the paperwork detailing exactly how I plan to start killing the people of Iowa City should I not get financial aid, and that I am also applying to be an Honors Program student and will graduate with honors, oh, and that I really, really want a degree. And I have access to guns that aren't mine*.
OR something along those lines.
I am less upset today than I was previous to this date, if that makes anyone feel better, and almost feel optomistic.
I don't want to have to go off on a deranged homicidal gun spree, I just might have to do so. Blame the institution.
*Oh, good LORD, you know I'm kidding**. I know that joking about shooting people in this town is in poor taste, what with the Gang-Lu and Eric Shaw shootings still burning brightly in the memories of all the denizens of this teeny tiny burg.
**Okay, I do have access to guns that aren't mine, but I don't even know how to load them. I think we're all pretty safe. Besides, I'm more of a danger to myself than the public. I don't go around cutting off the knuckles of the public, or smashing in their kneecaps***.
***I reserve that pleasure for my own person.
