Letter in the mail.

First word read: WE. Doing good so far!

REGRET. Uh oh, not looking so well.
TO INFORM YOU. Eep.
THAT WE CANNOT OFFER YOU ADMISSION.

Crap.

I didn’t fall to my knees and scream at the sky a la Platoon like I thought I would’ve, but rather slumped back to my room and collapsed in bed. My eyes didn’t get wet until I started calling my friends and sisters and telling them. Sad stuff sucks.

So, I’m not getting the future that I envisioned. Yeah, I’m seriously bummed, but surviving to the point where I can write and talk about it and use the “bummed” instead of “spiralling into depression.”

Mike found out a week ago that he got in, and said that he’s probably not going to go since I’m not going. Mike should receive a million hugs.

The only thing that bugs me is that Mike and I sent in essentially the same artistic portolio (Switch), and the admissions person I talked to said that the main reason I didn’t get in was that my portolio wasn’t “competitive enough.” ‘Cept Mike got in with it, and I didn’t. That’s life for you.

What now for Charlie Tran? Well, it seems I have a buttload of free time on my hands. I guess I’ll be doing the community college racket for another year, but definitely no more Miramar if I have a choice. A boy has his limits.

I’m generally feeling better. Family helps a lot. Friends help a lot. And being able to say this helps a lot:

If the film world isn’t going to let me in through the front entrance, I’ll break in through the goddamn back door. I’ll still direct and write and shoot and edit and film with the rag-tag but ubertalented Rancho Pe?asquitos crew because that’s what we do. You fucking hear that, Hollywood? THIS IS NOT GOING TO STOP CHARLIE TRAN.

Heh, there goes my vow to never swear in this diary.