Editor’s Note: This article is purely satirical and fictitious. All attributions in this article are not genuine, and this story should be read in the context of pure entertainment only.

I’ve been an unremarkable individual since I was young. Really, no drive to innovate. Not an ounce of entrepreneurial spirit. A will as shakable as the palms that line the streets. And yet, I spent last weekend as an admit at Stanford University.

“What’s your secret!” I hear you cry. Dear reader, I, unlike the rest of my peers, know exactly what carried me through the admissions council, and it was entirely by my design.

Before you say it, I don’t have my name on any buildings — or my dad’s for that matter. For a commonplace guy from public school with two loving parents and a middle-class upbringing, there is only one path to Stanford: divorce.

I hatched my plan in sophomore year of high school when I realized that the college application process was more than meets the eye. It’s all about how you look holistically. I can be a mediocre student at any college I want as long as I have a great story for my mediocrity. Nothing tugs the heartstrings and excuses a B- in world history better than two Christmases.

By junior year, I had succeeded in convincing my parents to blame each other for my painful standard-ness. I knew I’d have an essay come next fall.

Right on cue, D-Day came and I could see myself in the arcades already. My grades suffered — rightfully under such dire circumstances — but I was sure to emphasize my resilience despite my terrible, unforeseen distress with the college experience as my only chance to recover among driven peers. Shame…

Welcome to Stanford’s Class of 2031!