Muse.

The truth is, all my As kind of look like they're screaming.
I have forty-one of them.
Forty-one.

Ever since--well, ever--I have sacrificed sleep, friends, time, happiness, family, sports, dates, sanity, and all other components of general well-being for 41 copies of the same stupid letter, a letter that will only ever appear on one specially ordered piece of paper from some musty Internet filing cabinet that claims to hold my academic worth. I can't even get a copy without paying the administration office. I can't hang my strings of As in my room or sew them into my clothes. No one but me will ever even see them except committees of skinny, bug-eyed "intellectuals" in coke-bottle glasses and Harris tweed, pouring each other scotch and soda in some smoky seminar room while pondering the merits of my collection. The man at the head of the table will pick up each of my tiny As in turn and weigh them in his hands, poking his fingers on their peaks to see if they're sharp enough to draw blood (the more painful, the better). And then, if I'm lucky, he'll let me pursue my chosen career, after we agree that his decision will leave me hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.